Clean? Now? “And afterwards, sit by the fire, enjoy another glass of wine while we listen to Mother Nature wreak havoc on us.”
It was a respectable recovery. Not romance-novel-hero worthy, but, nonetheless seemed to work. At least, according to how Chloe’s face lit up, the corners of her jewel-like eyes all cute and crinkled. “Sounds like a plan.”
They tidied up, poured leftover soup in a Tupperware bowl, set it in the fridge, then drifted into the living room, wineglasses in hand, where Dylan simply flicked a switch on the wall, igniting the electric fireplace.
Now close to 9 p.m., the wind, rain, thunder, and lightning, together played an instrumental role in the production of Tropical Storm Amelia. Fierce wind, baying like a lone wolf roaming the streets, lightning with its quick and sudden strobe-like flashes, rain hitting the house like pebbles, and thunder crackling, making them both jump as they sat beside each other on the sofa.
“It’ll pass soon. This stage of the storm. Then all we’ll hear is the steady trickle of rain.” Dylan spoke low, an effort to show he was calm, fearless of Amelia.
“I-I feel safe here, with you.” Chloe took a sip of wine, leaned back into the plush couch cushion.
Hearing that brought him excitement, knowing he provided a sense of security to her. In some ways, she provided a sense of security to him, along with a desire to get to know more about what made Chloe Davenport the woman she was today. “Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?”
She chuckled after swallowing a sip of wine, then placed the half-empty glass on the side table. “No, not at all. I wanted to be an investigative journalist. In fact, that was my major in college.”
Eyebrows raised as high as his curiosity, Dylan placed his almost empty glass on the table. “Seriously?”
“Yep. I looked up to, admired female investigative reporters, their drive, their commitment to a story. I thought for sure I’d end up working for a local paper, then gradually get my foot in the door, land a gig at CNN or something.”
“And, what happened? Clearly, there was a shift somewhere.”
“Well”—she let out a winded sigh, played with a lock of hair—“after college, I did end up landing a job with a small local paper, yet never snagged an investigative assignment. Instead, I was handed the task of discovering feel-good, pull-at your-heartstrings reports about people living in the community. Without realizing it, I found myself drawn to seeking out stories about residents who serendipitously met and fell in love.”
Dylan leaned back, ignoring the sound of rain slapping against the windows, encouraging her to continue on, eager to learn more.
Chloe sat yoga-style, grabbed a small throw pillow, and set it on her lap. “A few years into it, I was feeling bored, unfulfilled. So I quit and went on a month-long trip with my mom to Sag Harbor—my mom is a travel agent and with that comes a few perks. Anyway, the investigative reporter in me gathered a ton of info, particularly about the owners of the quaint bed and breakfast we stayed at. I journaled every single detail and ended up writing a manuscript based on how they met and fell in love, right there in Sag Harbor.”
“Lovestruck in Sag Harbor?” Dylan picked up his glass, took a sip of wine.
Chloe smiled. “Not at first. I queried a ton of agents, editors, only to be turned down. Then, about a year later, Walter introduced me to his best friend’s wife, who happened to be an editor for a publishing company seeking new authors. Libby—she’s my editor—fell in love with my manuscript and when she submitted it, JBM—my publisher—wanted a three-book series.”
“Three books?”
“Yep. Unfortunately, I only had the one. When I explained my background in journalism and how the Sag Harbor story came to be, they began sending me to small coastal towns. And, after twelve months, I had two more beautifully written manuscripts submitted.”
It was engrossing to him, learning about how she got her start as this successful writer. He could see, by the glitter, the elation in her eyes, writing was a thrill ride—driven by everyday, ordinary people who found love.
“Lovestruck. Who came up with the series name?”
Chloe tucked her hair behind her ears, smiled with her eyes. “My mom. She was describing how it felt when she met my dad. And when I heard her say lovestruck, I knew it was an excellent fit for my series. Subsequently, Lovestruck in Sag Harbor, Lovestruck in Spring Lake, Lovestruck in Bar Harbor, also known as the first three books in the series, were born.”
Lovestruck. It was a word he’d seldom heard, but one that could easily be used to define the feelings swirling, churning, building inside him as he looked at her.
“Enough about me. Tell me about you. Your love of photography.”
It was a tender subject for Dylan, like a bruise left unhealed. “I loved it. As in past tense.” He picked up his glass, took the last sip, placed it back down.“I’m looking for a new hobby.” He served a head-tilt-smirky-mouth duo. “Thinking about taking up painting.”
Chloe reached over and placed her hand on his knee, the subtle touch sending an electric current through his body. “Tell me how you started taking pictures?”
The inquiry took him back many, many years. Memories of good times that drew up a bemused expression across his face. “I was about eight years old when my parents bought me my first camera for Christmas. God, how I was crazy about that thing, strap draped around my neck like 1990s bling, taking it everywhere I went, snapping pics of everything imaginable. A caterpillar clinging to a leaf, water flowing in a brook, neighborhood pets, collectable cars, the moon and stars contrasted by the midnight-blue sky.”
Chloe lifted her glass, its rim barely brushing her lips. “Your whole face ignited as you spoke about your first camera.”
Dylan shrugged, dipped his head. “Yeah, well it was a great time in my life. That camera brought me a flurry of emotion; I was fascinated by the ability to capture something during a single moment in time. It seems they gave me a new camera every year for Christmas after that. I practiced, took tons of photos, sharpened my skills. In high school, snapped pictures for the school newspaper, for the yearbook, and in college, studied photography as an art, honing my talent, my craft, that much more.”
Lightning flashed; its zigzag bolts could be seen through the opening of the window blinds. Thunder followed, the rolling boom shocking their atmosphere.
Chloe straightened, as she looked toward the window before shifting her gaze to Dylan. “Maybe we should turn in. I’d love time to get a few words in before the night is over.”
“Sure.” He shot up from the couch, retrieved her glass, then his. “Just let me put these away first.”
After leading the way up the stairs, Dylan escorted Chloe to her room, saddened the evening they were sharing was coming to an end. Damn storm. But it was the storm that brought them there together, the storm that enabled that almost-kiss.
Stopping at her door, Chloe stood, back against it, staring up at Dylan, long lashes fluttering with every blink. “Thanks for dinner, it was amazing. And thanks for the conversation. I always enjoy—”
He kissed her.
Lips pressed against lips, his thumb caressing her cheek, warmth spreading throughout his entire body. Breathless. Dreamy. Worth the wait.
A kiss that made his burned-out notions about love, flicker to life.
Chapter 19
Wow.
The only word that rose to mind as Chloe leaned against the door inside her bedroom, a whimsical, warm sensation in her chest. That kiss, albeit short, was a divine ending to what felt like a date with Dylan. Okay, a double date, since Samantha and Liam were present for some of it.
Heart beating a mile a minute, Chloe danced over to the bed, plopped down, and embraced one of the fluffy pillows. She didn’t bother to turn on a light since the lightning was giving off enough illumination. Pure elation moved through her as she recounted their evening. Every word, every detail, yearning for more. The entire day, into the night, was filled with muc
h-needed inspiration. The coffee shop. The time spent running errands with Dylan. Witnessing the loving interaction between Samantha and Liam. The storm.
That kiss…
You need to write.
After she showered, brushed her teeth, and slipped into pajama pants and a T-shirt, Chloe retrieved her laptop out of its bag, positioned pillows to a just-right position, then climbed into bed and typed. She ignored the elements of the storm passing through as she allowed her fingertips to tap dance across the keyboard, meaningful words flowing onto the page, something she hadn’t been able to do for days, weeks, months.
Hours passed—at least two—before she began to feel sleepy and for some odd reason…lonely; the realization she’d never really had anyone even when she had someone, surfaced. Sure, Walter was her boyfriend for five years, but he never did anything that made her feel like he was. Nothing romantic. Not even hand holding. And, when they were intimate, he took off soon after, leaving her to sleep alone.
Wind whipped the window shutters open and closed, the sound making Chloe want to bury herself under the covers until morning. Pushing her laptop aside, she leaned over to the bedside table and yanked on the lamp’s chain to turn off the light. Ten minutes went by as she lay still, thoughts racing through her mind. And before long, Chloe had an idea, an inclination, a need to do something out of her ordinary. She sprang out of bed, a pillow in hand, and slipped her feet into a pair of fuzzy, purple slippers she found buried in the bottom of her suitcase. Then, she calmly opened her door and crept a few steps over to the room next door. Through quickened breaths, Chloe stood frozen, ear pressed to the door.
She internally asked herself…
Girl, what are you doing?
Then internally replied…
What does it look like? Proving, internal dialogue doesn’t only happen in her books.
Tap. Tap. Tap. She knocked, softly.
And when a shirtless Dylan swung the door open, outfitted in a pair of pajama pants, she took a deep breath and said, “Can we sleep together?” By the look on Dylan’s face, Chloe realized she probably should have phrased it differently.
“It was that kiss, wasn’t it? Got you craving more?”
Chloe smacked him across his glorious naked chest with the pillow. “No. Well, the kiss was good, but no. And I didn’t mean sleep together. I meant sleep together.”
“Yeah, but like in the same bed, though? You and me?” He stroked the stubble on his chin, folded his arms, leaned up against the doorframe. It was clear he enjoyed seeing her all flustered. “Miss Davenport, I like to at least know a bit more about a woman before we hop into bed.”
She wasn’t really in the mood for playful banter. Not when she barely caught the courage to be this vulnerable. There goes taking risks. “Forget I was ever here.”
She turned, took three steps, was almost to her door when he called out, “Twenty questions.”
Chloe paused, pivoted to face him, chin up. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s the quickest way for us to get to learn more about each other. Then we can sleep together without feeling guilty in the morning.”
Chloe shrugged. “Ten. Twenty can take all night.”
“Ten it is.”
As Dylan stepped aside for her to enter his room, Chloe gave him a side-eye once-over as she pranced past him. “Can you please put on a shirt? This”—she hovered her palm over his abs—“is quite distracting.”
“You thinking of abble pie again?”
She giggled. “Shut up.”
Once his shirt was on, so was their game of Ten Questions. “Okay, here are the rules,” Chloe began. “Ask and answer the question. Toss the pillow. Got it?”
“Fair enough. Since you’ve got the pillow, I take it you’re going to toss out the first question and answer?”
“Yep. Why don't you stand over there.” Chloe pointed to one side of the queen-size bed as she moved to the other. And when he was in position she said, “Ready?”
He stood, hands out, prepared to catch. “Go for it.”
“Favorite color? Mine is purple.” She tossed him the pillow.
“Blue. Favorite flavor ice cream? Rocky Road.” He tossed her the pillow.
As the two continued their playful, seemingly made-up game of, toss-the-pillow-ten-questions, they discovered things about the other person: their preference for cats or dogs—both preferred dogs; their favorite movie genre, which to no surprise, Chloe’s was romance, while his was action and adventure; then onto their favorite food, Chloe naming her favorite—pizza with olives.
“My fave is tamales.”
The pillow fell to the floor as Chloe held her belly and chuckled. “Is that why you named your bike, Tamale?”
“Yeah, and what’s so wrong with that?”
She bent over, lifted the pillow off the floor. “Oh, nothing really. But it’s a good thing your favorite food isn’t something like asparagus, pumpernickel bread, or crab cakes.”
Dylan’s retort was a mere head tilt accompanied by an over-dramatic eye-roll.
They carried on, learning even more.
“Do you believe in Santa Claus? I do.” She smiled as he caught the pillow.
“I believe in the concept. Hope. Faith. Who do you call on for advice? As for me, I usually call my mom and sometimes ask any member of the Early Brew Crew.”
She nearly missed, but still caught the pillow. “My mom, hands down. Unless it’s advice about money, then I call my dad. Ever want to get married? Have kids?”
“Yes and yes.” He narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t answer.”
Chloe stared at the ceiling, bit on her lower lip. “I’ve dreamt of getting married and starting a family since I was nine or ten.”
A pause lingered in the air for a beat as they stood, across from each other, the bed in between, his brown eyes charismatically dancing with hers. Chloe was wondering what he was thinking and was about to ask when he said, “Okay, I believe we’re down to the last few questions. But we may have lost count.”
“Right. Let’s go with three more. We’d better make them good.”
He smirked. “How do you make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”
The pillow once again collapsed to the floor as she set her hands on her hips. “Uh…with peanut butter and jelly.” Her tone had duh infused all over it.
He shook his head, chortled. “No, how do you make it? Do you spread the peanut butter evenly across both slices of bread or…”
“Absolutely not. Peanut butter goes on one slice, jelly on the other.” She folded her arms in defense of that answer.
“So”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“you basically massacre the heck out of what could be a lip-smacking sandwich. It’s peanut butter on both pieces of bread, then a smooth layer of jelly. Otherwise the bread gets soggy. No one likes soggy bread.”
Hmm. Even Chloe had to admit, albeit to herself, Dylan had a valid point. There was nothing worse than soggy bread.
“My bread doesn't get soggy. In fact, the way I make it, the ingredients are evenly distributed so there’s no flavor imbalance.”
Flavor imbalance? Chloe wondered why she felt the need to go head-to-head about the right and wrong way to make a classic sandwich as if she were a defender and he a prosecutor on a throwback episode of Law and Order..
Dylan wiggled his brows. “Okay. Let’s have a showdown. You make it your way. I’ll make it my way, thus proving it’s better.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’ll only prove my way is better.”
They trotted downstairs and into the kitchen where Dylan placed a loaf of wheat bread, peanut butter, grape jelly, and two butter knives on the counter. “All right Miss Davenport, you make your version of soggy bread hell, and I’ll make PBandJ the correct way. Trust me, you’ll take one bite of mine, and arrive to the same conclusion.” “No, you’ll take a bite of mine, and admit you’re wrong—because it won’t be soggy. Unless, of course you’re the type of guy who refuses to admit he’s
wrong, like Fonzie from Happy Days.”
He looked at her, expressionless, and Chloe had to hold back the bubble of giggles in her throat.
“I’ve never had to admit it, because I’m never wrong.”
The showdown, as Dylan put it, began with them each removing two slices of bread from the loaf; he spread peanut butter on two slices, while she spread it on one. Then, he jammed a knife in the jar of jelly, pulled out a glob of the grape, jiggly stuff, lathered on a thin layer. Chloe, on the other hand, insisted on using a spoon to scoop out the mound of jelly she spread evenly across a naked—Dylan’s word choice—slice of bread.
They both cut their sandwiches in half, Chloe slicing on an angle to form a triangle, while he cut clear down the middle.
“Taste it.” Dylan held his sandwich down to Chloe’s mouth.
She held hers up to his. “We must partake at the same time.”
They took simultaneous bites and Chloe imagined they probably looked like a Bride and Groom feeding one another PBandJ-flavored wedding cake.
She chewed…
He chewed…
“Okay, Miss Davenport, your bread isn’t soggy.”
Chloe still had a mouthful. “Yours is good, but has way too much peanut butter. It’s sticking to the roof of my mouth.”
“It’s a PBandJ sandwich, peanut butter being the star ingredient, so it has to have more.”
“And how do you figure it’s the star ingredient?”
“No one calls it a Jelly and Peanut Butter sandwich.”
Even though his point was indeed a valid one, Chloe wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss or smack the look of satisfaction off Dylan Hawke’s face. “Whatever, Mr. Know It All. You gonna admit I was right and you were wrong about the soggy bread thing?”
She watched the all-too-sexy grin frame his face, a sportive, coltish-like gleam in his eyes. “I’m going to say, for the first time in my life, I was…incorrect.”
I knew it. Chloe charged forward, mouth hung open, ready to give him a playful sock on the shoulder.
But Dylan gently anchored his hands around her wrists, pulled her into his breathing sphere, then slowly positioned his hands around her waist. “Wrong,” he murmured. “I was wrong. And you, Miss Davenport, are the only person who’s heard me utter that foul, vile word.”
Lovestruck in Fortune's Bay: A Fortune's Bay Novella Page 10
