“Must be the writer in me.”
It seemed to take several long beats before they reached Tamale, Chloe’s stomach in knots as the realization she’d never been on a moving motorcycle, hit her like a tsunami.
She observed Dylan, taking in his chiseled features, as he scooped up a spare helmet out of the bike’s back compartment. Passing it to her, he asked, “Ever been on a motorcycle before?”
Play it off, girl. “Yeah.” The one-word reply wasn’t a boldfaced lie. Truth of the matter, she’d actually sat on a scooter back in college. It was something she contemplated buying to get around the large campus. Yet, no-risk-taking Chloe talked herself into buying an old, beat-up Volkswagen instead. “I almost bought a scooter when I went to UCLA.”
The look on Dylan’s face spoke louder than the words that accompanied it. Or rather the sniffy tone that accompanied the words. “Um, you do get that, a scooter is in no way like a motorcycle and sitting on a bike is not the same as—”
“Yes, I know,” she quickly interjected, fastening the helmet straps. After shoving her purse in the compartment she added, “That was a bad example. Anyway, let’s do this.”
Chloe tried her best not to be so obvious sizing him up as he mounted the Harley.
Burly. Sexy as all heck.
And once she was safely planted behind him, she could have sworn a smirk sprang to his mouth before commanding her to hold on tight. “I mean, that is if you don’t wanna fall off.”
“Is there ever a time when you’re not being sarcastic?”
“And what exactly makes you think I was being sarcastic?”
The way the corners of his eyes crinkled, along with the teasing quirk at the corner of his mouth, said enough. There was no denying, his smart-ass edginess had a way of making her heart plunge into her gut.
Tamale’s engine was fired up and throttled, then Dylan zipped onto Main Street, the sudden jolt causing Chloe to squeeze her arms around his shirt-covered six-pack.
Oh, my…
Visions of him wearing only a towel, swirled around in her head like a mini tornado. That close to him, inhaling subtle hints of cologne, leaning into his back, made her beam from the outside in. For a split second, she almost lost her mind; the desire to lift up his shirt, run her hands over those ripped abs, kiss the nape of his neck, came just as soon as it went.
Breathe, woman. It’s a ride home, not a trip down the freaking altar.
Chapter 12
It should have taken only ten minutes to get home; however, Dylan opted for the longer, much more scenic route—an attempt to prolong his time with Chloe. A right turn past Providence Square. A left past Sea Dog Pier. Then onto Ocean Blvd, riding alongside the water, the full moon’s light glimmering, dancing, cascading off the waves. With every turn, Chloe clung onto, leaned into him, that much tighter…and at her touch, every single one of Dylan’s nerve-endings tingled.
She was his first passenger aboard Tamale.
The first woman—in a long while—to make his heart skitter.
Dude, you’re only giving her a ride home, not taking her on a journey to happy-ever-after-ville. He let out an indulgent snicker at his own inner rebuttal as he rolled to a halt when they came to a stop sign.
“What’s so funny?”
“Life, Miss Davenport.”
Because six months ago, Dylan thought life, as he knew it, was over. The expectation to feel again had perished. And there he was, feeling, marveling, wondering, if the woman nestled behind him, her head resting against his shoulder blade, was the one he’d been destined for. As if everything that happened, leading up to this very moment, was meant to be.
“Can you believe I was just thinking the same thing?”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. I’m not one to take risks, like accepting a ride on a motorcycle.”
“Yet, here you are sitting on the back of my bike like a boss. So, how does it feel to be a bad-ass risk taker?”
When she propped her chin on his shoulder and murmured, “Exhilarating,” Dylan found himself gripping the handlebars tighter when he zoomed on, a sudden chill sweeping over his body as if he were some lovestruck fool. Falling for a woman a man barely met was highly unheard of.
Ahem…
Not in Fortune’s Bay. The true love story about how his Uncle Stan and Aunt Katie met during a Spring Break mishap, thirty years ago, was now top of his mind. A story so cliché, it could’ve only happened in a town known for stringing couples together in a destiny-style fashion. The two had come to Fortune’s Bay for a week of fun with a group of college friends—Stan with two of his buddies and Katie with two BFFs. Even back then, the Bay had been a prime destination spot for Spring Breakers, lured in by its ambience.
Katie and her friends answered an ad to rent a cozy two-bedroom overlooking the water.
Stan and his friends replied to an ad posted in their dorms for a two-bedroom party pad on the beach.
Unfortunately, the property manager placed two different ads for the same cottage, subsequently renting to both groups of friends. Naturally, since it was Spring Break and all, every other place in Fortune’s Bay was booked. The groups of friends had no choice but to share the house—guys in one room, girls in the other. By the end of the week, they were all couples—Marge and Mitch, Hillary and Dan—AKA the Early Brew Crew, and Stanley and Katheryn—AKA Uncle Stan and Aunt Katie. After college, the couples tied the knot, then moved to Fortune’s Bay. When word got around that beachside cottages would be torn down to make room for new businesses, Stan and Katie got a loan to purchase the cottage they stayed at that Spring Break, and it became a little coffee shop called Destiny’s Brew.
Turning the corner onto Buccaneer Lane, Dylan slowed his roll as he approached home. “Here we are, safe and sound.”
“Thanks for the ride.” Although the engine was now turned off, and the bike was parked, Chloe clung onto Dylan’s midsection as if she were holding on for dear life.
“You all right, Miss Davenport?” he asked, removing his helmet.
“Oh, yes. I-I suppose I can let go now.” She let out a soft chuckle as she unwrapped her arms from around his waist. “Um, Dylan?”
“Yes?” He eased off of Tamale, and held out a hand to help her step off and onto the sidewalk.
“Do you think we can do this again sometime?”
A smile touched Dylan’s lips as they stood facing one another under the moonlight, a salty ocean breeze moving between them. He took in Chloe’s angelic beauty, unable to take his eyes off her, mesmerized by every detail. The seemingly permanent twinkle in her eyes. The single freckle garnishing the tip of her nose. The fullest set of lips.
This should have been the moment seized with a kiss.
Not yet.
Dylan closed the minuscule space separating them, as he helped unfasten her helmet. “Of course we can do this again some time. I’d be honored.”
Honored to kiss, hold, even watch the sun rise and slowly fall with you.
He shook those thoughts out of his head, unable to place his finger on exactly what it was about her that pulled him in. Everything.
“Maybe you can be my personal Fortune’s Bay tour guide?” She looked down, at first, then blinked up at him, long lashes framing those hypnotic-blue eyes.
“Sounds like a great idea,” he said, placing her helmet back in its compartment and handing over her purse. “Now, let’s get inside. I believe I owe you a manuscript.”
Chapter 13
It had to be butterflies. The excitement that fluttered in the pit of Chloe’s stomach. Not to mention the sense of euphoria that inflamed her from head to toe.
Dylan Hawke is making me blush. She felt her cheeks grow warm, recounting their ride home. It was the perfect setting for her first time on a motorcycle—the triple-scoop-of-a-yummy-hot-driver of said motorcycle, was just as perfect.
Get it together, Chloe Davenport, you’re acting like a heroine in your Lovestruck series.
And p
erhaps she was, since in most romance-driven novels, the heroine often falls for the hero faster than what happens in real life. Allegedly.
Chloe couldn’t help but write stories about falling fast, believing in her heart, love happens whether we’re seeking it or not, providing us little control of what’s meant to be. True, her main characters often fall as soon as their heartthrob hero appears in the story, basically breathing; but—who cares? Her books were a means to an escape. A one-way trip to falling in love. Just the reader, the heroine, and the hero.
Tapping her fingers on her jean-covered thighs, Chloe sat on the couch in Dylan’s living room, waiting for him to retrieve her manuscript from off the kitchen counter. She wasn’t expecting to ever see it again since he won the karaoke contest.
Yet, her time in Fortune’s Bay had been full of the unexpected…
“Harper Stone had no doubt the hottie perched on top of the Harley, parked on the street facing her bedroom window, was the man of her dreams.” Dylan let out a chortle as he entered the living room, manuscript in hand.
Chloe wanted to die, silently praying the ground would open up and swallow her, and the couch she was sitting on. He’s reading it. He’s actually reading it.
Cheeks flaming from utter embarrassment, she shot up from the couch, dashed over to him, and snatched Project Sizzle out of his hands. “I can’t believe you read that,” she snapped, heartbeat thundering in her ears.
Sure, while they were at Wilde Pirate, Dylan jokingly said he would read it. Yet, she didn’t think he’d really do it.
“That’s about me. The guy on the Harley.”
Chloe wanted to smack the smug look off his face. “No, it’s not.” Liar.
Dylan’s mouth eased into an amusement-laced grin. “Uh, yeah it is. And if I’m the ‘Hottie on the Harley’, does that make you the Harper Stone of the story?”
Maybe. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She brushed past him, headed for the door, eager to flee.
And just as she was about to open it, Dylan reached over her shoulder, his palm propped against the door. “Chloe, wait,” he muttered.
Reluctantly, she spun to face him, her back against the door, too embarrassed to raise a chin up to meet his gaze—even though she could feel his eyes blazing down on her. Don’t look at him, girl. Chloe would do her best to obey that inner-commandment as she stood so, so close to him, barely able to breathe, heart threatening to leap right out of her chest. If she passed out, would he give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?
Dylan lifted her chin with his fingertip, his touch soft and welcoming. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Their eyes met and Chloe’s breaths quickened at the sight of him licking his lips.
“Apology accepted,” she managed to say, wishing he’d move in a few more inches, claim her mouth with his own. “I just have this crazy demand from my editor and I need to write something sexy. Seeing you on Tamale yesterday, gave me inspiration for Harper and Dax’s story. I knew if you read it, you’d assume it was about you.”
Dylan removed his finger from her chin, his other hand from off the door, and backed up a few feet, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. “Oh. Well, I’m glad I was able to inspire you, at least. I still think it’s about me.” He winked and the two let out an easy laugh.
“I should probably get going.”
“Or you can stay for a bit, have some—”
“Coffee. I’d love a cup of coffee,” she said, eyes widened.
“Sounds good. Follow me into the kitchen.”
Dylan eased onto the stool at the center island, next to Chloe, as she sipped on the newly brewed cup of coffee he gave her.
“I really should be writing.”
“And what’s the hold up? I mean, other than the fact you’re here drinking coffee with me.”
Chloe loved the way he smiled with his eyes. Fresh. Alluring. With a mesmerizing, hypnotic appeal. “It’s my editor—my publishers, actually. They say my readers want me to write sexier books.”
Dylan’s left eyebrow wiggled up as he swallowed his sip of coffee. “And by sexier you mean?”
“Sex, Dylan. They want my characters to have sex.” The mere thought brought a dash of heat to the back of her neck, made her palms sweat.
“They aren’t having it, already?”
“Well, no. My novels are on the sweet side.”
“Meaning…?”
“Have you ever watched a Hallmark movie?”
He shot her a quizzical glare that almost spelled out the words, yeah, right.
“Never mind. You see, sweet means, they only kiss.”
“So, let me get this straight. Two people meet. Fall in love. And only kiss?”
Chloe blinked. His tone made it sound as if the concept were implausible. “Until they get married.” Duh.
“Then there’s sex?” His eyes glinted with hope.
“It’s implied.”
“Meaning…?”
“It’s off the page. Left for the reader’s imagination. Everyone knows what happens between the bride and the groom after the wedding. There’s no need to fill in the details.”
A long beat passed, both seeming to sink into their own thoughts, as they sipped on coffee.
“Chloe, in your real-life experience, do couples wait until they’re married before they sleep together?”
“Perhaps they should.” Period. Enough said. The thought of The Ex sprang to mind. She should have held out for the man of her dreams, instead of losing herself to drab Walter five years ago. And thanks to that experience, Chloe was sure she’d never hop into bed with someone, until she was married to him.
“Right. But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“To your point, no, they don’t usually wait. However, that’s the beauty of fictional romance. Readers get lost in a world where—”
“Things are unrealistic?”
“Desired,” Chloe quickly clarified with an eye-roll. “A lady longs to meet the man of her dreams, get wooed, fall madly in love, walk down the aisle, then live an amazing happily-ever-after, drama-free, life.”
“Without sex? Because nowhere in the desired world you just eloquently described, is the mention of a fantastic, toe-curling time, between the sheets.”
Because I’ve never had that. “Again, the intimate moments are all implied.” Chloe’s bottom lip quivered; this was not the conversation she planned to have with Dylan.
“However, your readers want less implication and more information.”
“I can’t give them that.”
He slid her a look. Not one of pity, exactly. More like a look of concern. “Why not?”
“I-I have to go.” Chloe hopped off the stool, grabbed her purse. There was no way she would share information about her pathetic love life to a guy she dreamt of kissing the night before—that’s right, even in her dreams, nothing escalated beyond first base.
Dylan reached out, tapped her arm. “Chloe, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Please, stay.”
His touch was warm, soothing, and petrifying, all at the same time.
How does he do that to me? Chloe placed her purse on the counter, eased back onto the stool, and uttered, “I can’t give readers the detailed love scenes they want because I haven’t had much experience myself.” After chugging her lukewarm coffee to soothe the lump in her throat, she met Dylan’s shocked gaze, then asked. “Can I have some wine?”
Chapter 14
Saying he was shocked, would have been an understatement. To blow it off, Dylan honored Chloe’s request for wine, even poured himself a glass. Then the two decided to move to the living room, parking their buns on the couch by the fireplace. More than ever, Dylan wanted to know about the woman seated only inches away from him, intrigued by her every move. The way she sat, one leg tucked under the other. The way she twirled a strand of hair around her index finger. The way she inhaled the scent of wine before taking a sip, as if to allow all of her senses to savor it.
“If the wine doesn’t warm us up, the flames should in a few minutes. It’s not usually cool enough to use the fireplace this time of year.”
“Thanks for being so sweet and hospitable, Dylan. And I’m sorry for being so blunt earlier. I usually don’t share the lackluster details of my love life.” Her eyes were much softer, relaxed, compared to the hard, narrowed glare she dished when they were in the kitchen.
“Don’t let it hold you back from writing what your characters deserve. What your readers deserve, if it’s that they’re truly hungry for.”
“And how can I write what I don’t know? I mean, Walter—he’s my ex-boyfriend, by the way—he and I never really had more than ten minutes of intimate moments during the few times we slept together. In fact, we never actually slept together. He often left soon after, citing he had work to do back at his house.”
Jerk. Why would any man disregard a woman as breathtaking as Chloe? All night, Dylan had been wondering how her lips would feel, taste like, meshed with his. If he had a chance, he wouldn’t waste a single minute with her. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long were you together?”
“Five years, up until we split up just over a year ago. We’d met during my second year in college. He was my first real boyfriend. My first and only lover.”
“With all due respect, it sounds like he wasn’t much of a lover. Or a boyfriend, for that matter.”
He gleamed internally when a smile moved across her face before she took a swig of wine. “I do believe you’re correct. Hence my dilemma.”
“Why did you finally break up? Besides the obvious, of course.”
“Walter began sending me email invites to schedule our monthly dates. That, of all the things, was my tipping point.” She took in a deep breath, raked her fingers through her hair. “It was pretty evident we, as a couple, weren’t going anywhere. Our interests weren’t the same. Our love life a complete dud. I felt as though time was being thrown away. I could either be unhappy with a guy who didn’t seem to care about me. Or be happy all on my own. I chose happy.”
Lovestruck in Fortune's Bay: A Fortune's Bay Novella Page 7
