Back in her apartment, a smile lingered on Chloe’s lips as she sashayed into the kitchen to load the food onto the empty shelf in the fridge.
That smile even lingered as she trailed up the stairs into the bedroom, slid out of her clothes, and into her psycho T-shirt.
And hours later, as she drifted off to sleep, thoughts of how a man like Dylan Hawke would make the ultimate hero in her book, kept her all aglow.
Until she sat up, heart racing, a sense of loom taking over the second Chloe realized she’d left something behind.
My manuscript! She could hear her heart thumping.
Yep. She remembered the unedited first chapter of her manuscript was left right on Dylan Hawke’s kitchen counter.
No biggie, she resolved. The manuscript could be retrieved in the morning.
No need to panic, right?
Right.
So long as he didn’t read it…
Because if—hypothetically speaking—he were to read it, he’d know by the very first sentence, Lovestruck in Fortune’s Bay could very well be a romance novel starring him.
Chapter 6
Dylan unlocked the doors to Destiny’s Brew the next morning, just as the Early Brew Crew approached, ready to get their coffee grind on.
Right on time.
It was this on-autopilot structured routine that kept his mind off things.
Wake up. Get to the coffee shop. Go home. Repeat.
He didn’t rally for anything or anyone making waves, shaking up said routine.
The captivating woman he shared dinner and conversation with the evening before was sure to be a spitfire wave maker, routine shaker. Now, more than ever, Dylan needed to dial in on his main objective to keep Chloe Davenport at bay.
Six months he’d successfully steered clear of members of the opposite sex. Even when Samantha tried to hook him up with her new best friend, Mia, who had visited Fortune’s Bay straight from Orlando, Florida.
God, was it hard to turn that sex kitten down.
Something in the low-lying depths of his gut made him reckon turning Chloe down would be that much harder. Thoughts he’d had about her after she’d left last night infiltrated his dreams as if he were caught up in a real-life adaptation of Inception. Then, there was the issue of her vanilla perfume. Lingering about his living room, that seductive fragrance harassed him like a relentless perfume spritzer at the local department store.
That’s what you get for inviting her in and asking her to stay for dinner.
Hmm. His conscience did fire off several warning shots. Only Dylan chose to dodge every single one of them. Pity.
“Hey, boss.” Samantha sneered, knowing the sound of the word boss irked her brother more than chalk scratching the surface of a blackboard.
“Hey, what?” He didn’t try to conceal that his twin got on his nerves most days. It was a sibling sort of thing. Samantha had been riding his coattails, like he was Batman and she Robin since the day they departed the comfortable confines of their mother’s womb twenty-seven years ago.
“Where’s Tamale?”
Dylan served up a hearty grunt and an equally hearty eye-roll.
Tamale was the name of the beloved Harley Davidson he purchased on a whim, soon after he found Dick and Cynthia all but dry-humping that day he stumbled upon their shenanigans. He had come back to Boston early from his monthly trip to Fortune’s Bay, walked into the studio, hoping to lend a helping hand to his partner, who was supposed to be working on a scheduled photoshoot.
Evidently, he’d been working on Cynthia instead.
“I walked here.” Dylan bent down, pulled a box of pastries out of the reach-in cooler, set the unopened box on the counter.
Samantha blew out a chuckle as she ripped the plastic off the box. “You? Walked?”
Dylan flashed a combination side-eye blink.
Stepping closer, skillfully balancing on tiptoes, Samantha placed the back of her hand against his forehead, her eyebrows snapped together. “You all right, there, bossman? You don’t seem flushed. Maybe a tad deranged? Leaving Tamale behind to walk…well, that’s so not you.”
His twin’s assertion was annoyingly spot on. Wait. Not the deranged claim.
Dylan had grown rather fond of his rides on Tamale, everywhere and anywhere in Fortune’s Bay; even the short one-mile stint to Destiny’s Brew was what dreams were made of.
Riding Tamale made him feel lax.
Chill. Calm.
But the down-to-the-nitty-gritty truth was simple: he didn’t want to wake up the sultry neighbor he was trying to keep away from. Besides that, he wanted to avoid another scolding about the noise his bike made. Although, seeing Chloe in that T-shirt, her hair messy-hot, wouldn’t really be such a horrible thing.
On second thought, yes, it would be.
“The Early Brew Crew walks here every single day, Sam. Walking’s not exactly a new concept here in Fortune’s Bay.”
“So, you’re a walker now?” She stood with a wide grin, backside to the counter, arms folded, in full-on smart-ass mode.
“Sam, don’t. I’m not in the mood for—”
“Fun? Joking? Simple conversation? Jeez, bro,”—she jabbed her index finger in his chest—“I wish the old you would come back.” She snatched two muffins, one in each hand, brushed past Dylan, then placed the muffins in the bakery display.
“Sam I—”
“Look,” she interrupted before he could even muster up an apology. “I need to cut out of here early today. Liam and I have that thing at Wilde Pirate I’ve gotta prepare for.” She pushed past him again, this time avoiding eye contact.
One thing about his sister, she was an even-keeled girl. A roll-with-the-punches type who didn’t let anyone get to her. However, anybody who knew her understood that when she avoided eye contact, it wasn’t good.
Great job pissing your sister off.
Dylan’s crankiness toward her was in no way personal or intentional. Fact is, he’d been tossing cranky around like glitter. Everyone knows, once the wrath of glitter strikes, getting rid of that sparkle dust is downright impossible.
In all honesty, Dylan hadn’t been the same since he’d left Boston. Something inside of him was long gone. Broken. Stolen. Maybe simply forgotten.
“Sam,” he began, trailing behind as she stomped her way to the stockroom. He loathed the jerk he was morphing into and, if possible, he’d give himself the sucker punch he one-hundred percent deserved. “I’m sorry.” He grabbed her arm, halting her chance to slam the stockroom door in his face.
“It’s been six months, Dylan. Don’t you think you should be doing all you can to get over that b—”
“Shh”—his hand hovered over her mouth like a shield—“you know Destiny’s Brew is a cuss-free zone.”
“Bimbo, Dylan. I was gonna say bimbo, even though we both know Cynthia’s a certified ichbay.”
Samantha’s resorting to Pig Latin to describe his ex, brought out an easy laugh from the siblings, the hostility between them disappearing like a Snapchat photo.
Swaying on his feet, eyes glued to the industrial cement floor, Dylan shook his head. “You’re right. I should be over her by now—and I am, Sam. Really.” He looked up, the look of deep concern seeping from his sister’s eyes, was all consuming. “But I’m not over what she did to me. What they did to me. It’s changed my outlook on just about everything. Imagine if you’d found Liam in the arms of someone else.”
He had to go there to drive his point, even though he knew darn well Liam would never do anything to hurt Samantha. The guy, his brother-in-law of three years, literally worshipped the ground she walked, skipped, jogged, or line-danced on.
“I get it, Dylan. But I miss the real you.” She playfully nudged her shoulder against his—a move they’d both done growing up. “You know, the less grumpy old man, you.”
“Hey”—he raised both brows—“I may be grumpy, but I ain’t old…yet.”
She laughed, reaching up one of the stockroom s
helves to grab a bag of coffee beans. “Then can Liam and I expect you tonight at Wilde Pirate? Unwind, toss back a few beers?”
It was hard to ignore those doe-like eyes, her sweeping lashes used as bait to get what she wanted. A trick that worked on their dad, mom, Liam—and him. “Come on, Sam. You know I don’t do Karaoke.”
Karaoke wasn’t his thing. Unless he got to belt out and twerk to one of his favorites from the 90s.
“Please, Dylan? You know we’re trying to raise money for Liam’s class. He really wants to take the students to Disney World in June. We’re only six-hundred bucks shy of making dreams come true.”
Of course, when she put it forth in those irresistible terms, how could he say no? With district cutbacks, the school Liam taught at had reallocated funds for the annual six-grade graduation trip to Disney World. So, a group of teachers banded together, and organized a weekly Karaoke event at the popular pub, Wilde Pirate, to raise money for the annual trip. Twenty-five percent of the meals and drinks purchased on the teacher’s Karaoke night, went to the field-trip fund.
“Okay, I’ll go. But don’t expect me to get up on stage and sing.”
Samantha jumped up and down, a grin parting her lips as she approached Dylan. “Thank you so much, brother dear!” She stepped on tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek. “Party starts at 5 p.m. Liam posted fliers all over town about the event, hoping to be able to raise the rest of the money tonight.”
Now that Dylan thought about it, going to a Karaoke Party would keep him away from home, which would be a smart move.
Because the more time he spent away from there, the less chance he’d run into the woman who, even now, had been floating around his mind like a never-ending daydream.
Chapter 7
“Please tell me you’re making progress.”
Chloe lay in bed, eyes closed, phone propped to her ear. It was way too early for this many questions.
Through a stifled yawn she mumbled, “What?”
“Lovestruck, Chloe. You are making progress, right?”
Forcing her eyes open, Chloe tried to focus on the digital clock through sleepy-eyed blurriness.
7:30 a.m. Way to go, Chloe.
The night before, she’d devised this amazing plan to wake up at 5:30 a.m., listen for Dylan’s loud motorcycle, then dart outside, beg him to give her the manuscript she’d left sitting on his counter.
Ingenious.
If, that is, she had carried out said plan.
“Hello? Chloe are you there?”
More questions.
“Uh…I’m here.” She kicked the covers off her body and sat up at the edge of the bed. “What was your question again?” She was stalling, not really in the mood to have this or any conversation.
“Are you okay, Chloe?”
Am I okay?
Cue the sarcasm…
“Sure. Everything’s just fine. And regarding your question, yes, I am making progress.”
Sort of.
Peering out the window behind her bed, she spotted Dylan’s motorcycle.
“He’s still here!” The excitement in her charged through the phone.
“What? Who’s still here? Or there? Or wherever?” Libby was probably as puzzled as she sounded.
Feeling as though she were too stoked to carry on with questions she didn’t care to elaborate on, Chloe said, “Libby, can I call you later? I’ll have a full update then. Promise,” she added, ending the call before Libby had the chance to respond.
Tossing her phone onto the bed, Chloe dashed out of her bedroom and barreled down the stairs.
Knock on his door and ask for your manuscript. She kept reciting her mission statement until she was facing Dylan’s front door.
Knock woman.
And after three knocks, no answer.
Crap.
Perhaps it was his day off; he was sleeping in?
Defeated, Chloe dragged herself back inside, sulked her way back upstairs into the bedroom, then buried herself under the covers where she felt like she could stay forever.
The humiliation of Dylan reading the words written on the first pages of Project Sizzle, was equivalent to someone reading secrets in her diary.
Not that she kept a diary.
There was a high possibility she’d never be able to face him again. Which was a crying shame because if truth be told, Chloe Davenport would give anything to see Dylan’s handsome face again.
Some hours later, while munching on apple pie muffins, Chloe reprinted the first pages of Project Sizzle. It may have seemed odd to some, but to her it was important to complete the edits needed before she could comfortably move on to writing the next few chapters. It was the way she operated: one or two chapters at a time. Ironically, tackling one chapter at a time before moving on to the next was also, incidentally, how she lived life. Transitions to the next phase were done slowly, methodically, with utmost certainty. She hated admitting being envious of those who lived life by the seat of their pants—wishing someday she too could refer to herself as a risk taker. Go skydiving. Bungee jumping. Write sexier scenes in her novels. Heck...she had to begin the journey to more risqué somewhere, right?
Realizing she hadn’t returned Libby’s call, Chloe reached for her cell phone, pressed Libby’s number on speed dial, and placed her instinctual eye-roll in check. It wasn’t like she loathed her editor. In fact, over the years, the two had truly become best of friends, often hanging out together in their hometown of San Francisco, California. Yet, over the last year, the two seemed to have grown somewhat apart. Libby seemed to have shifted gears, become less interested in Chloe on a personal level. Perhaps it was also because her husband Ted went to college with Walter, which was how the women connected, ultimately launching Chloe’s writing career.
Nonetheless, Chloe’s perpetual eye-roll? It had Project Sizzle written all over it, of course.
“Hey there, stranger. I was just about to call you again. I’m assuming you’ve been holed up in the cave?”
Ah, isn’t she hilarious?
Although there were a couple of times when Chloe thought she should throw herself into that writer’s cave, lock it up, and swallow the damn key. With only twelve weeks left until deadline, she wanted to hide somewhere, never to be found.
Swallowing the lump of shame sawing at her throat, Chloe regurgitated the ugly-truth admission. “Not quite, Libby. I’ve only written one chapter and have yet to review it before I can comfortably move on to the next.” Eyes squeezed shut for a few seconds, willing any welled-up tears to stay put, she hated herself right then. Never in her entire writing career had she fallen so far behind.
Hold it together, girl.
Libby cleared her throat and Chloe envisioned the sour look of worry—or perhaps it would be a look of disappointment—cascading across her editor friend’s face. “For some odd reason, I was under the impression you had almost half of the gosh-darn thing written.”
May as well scratch the look of worry or disappointment she’d envisioned. Anger was a more accurate surmise. And this was evident by the Southern drawl-laced tone creeping through the phone. A Virginia native, Libby’s almost-extinct Southern accent always seemed to surface when she was angry.
Or hangry—an afterthought that had Chloe silently pleading the woman on the other end of the phone wasn’t pissed off, but only skipped her morning bowl of Cocoa Krispies.
Biting her lower lip, she managed to spill out yet another admission, this one far uglier than the previous. “No,”—she paused, sucked in a deep breath—“I’ve only begun—yesterday.”
Perhaps she should have confessed to having writer’s block sooner.
As in months ago...
“What the heck, woman? Just what on God’s green earth have you been doing?”
At this point, it was hard to believe Libby ever left the state of Virginia at the age of six. That timbre blaring through the phone had Chloe thinking she was thrust into an episode of Southern Charm.
“We
ll, I’ve been stuck, Libby.” Banking on the fact Libby was—at some point in their lives—her friend and confidant, she didn’t feel the need to elaborate beyond that.
“Ah, Chloe. Is this about Walter?”
Yes.
No.
Well, yes and no. The ugliest truth admission of all—this one divulged only to herself. “Kind of,” Chloe murmured.
“You have got to get over it.”
It was an accurate word choice. Because almost everyone knew Walter, on his own, wasn’t what was hard for Chloe to get over. Being single was the it she found hard getting used to. And not being able to find anyone interesting enough to go to the next level with. Her circle of prospects included bankers, lawyers, doctors, pilots, writers, politicians—and they all reminded her of Walter.
Bland.
So, after her five-year relationship oops, she’d all but exhausted her efforts to find anyone else who may be compatible. The act of dating became a chore. A part-time job she despised. Frustrated, Chloe became a bona fide believer in opposites attract. Her opposite was a risk taker, someone unafraid to lead her to the edge.
Like a man who rides a motorcycle? The smile on her lips came and went almost as fast as that thought did.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m getting over it. Anyway, have no fear. I’m off to a fun and surprisingly sexy start.”
True, she was off to a sexy start...surprisingly. The very start—she’d prayed at least forty-eight times, that day alone—her motorcycle-riding neighbor hadn’t set eyes on.
“Hmm,” Chloe could hear Libby’s click of her tongue, followed by a, “that’s quite interesting.” Skepticism so abrupt it could have crashed through the phone like a wrecking ball.
“Libby, I’m serious.” She walked into the kitchen, twisted off a cap on a bottle of water, chugged it as if it were the magical, nerve-calming nectar she could use right about now.
“Look, sweetheart, I’m gonna give you a week to submit at least twenty-five percent of that novel. It doesn’t have to be immaculate, Chloe. Just something to show me you’re working on it. I mean, we all know that book isn’t gonna write itself.”
Lovestruck in Fortune's Bay: A Fortune's Bay Novella Page 4
