Chloe shook the thoughts out of her head. Write, woman. The command was easier said than done, as if her creativity was dried up, burned out, finished. Pacing the floor, arms folded, Chloe tried with all her might to think of something to put on paper. Never had it been this difficult to come up with a storyline about two people meeting and falling in love.
Ugh.
God knows she’d had more inspiration in the last few days than the months she usually spent in a town gathering information. Perhaps her brain washed away with the storm. Or maybe…
Chloe let out a mirthful chuckle, grabbed her laptop, plopped onto the couch, and began typing, a plausible idea striking her like a cupid’s arrow. Bam.
And after hours of fingertips jamming the keyboard non-stop—Chloe Davenport finished the entire first draft of her novel as the sun began to rise.
You. Go. Girl.
Chapter 22
He wanted to give her space, time to write. But Dylan found himself missing Chloe, like a prisoner misses freedom. Not that he’d ever been in prison.
You are one lovestruck fool. There was no arguing that. And lucky for him, they’d be seeing each other later at dinner.
“I’m happy the storm didn’t cause the shop any harm.” Samantha stocked the bakery display at Destiny’s Brew alongside Dylan, who had been daydreaming until his sister’s voice brought him back.
“Yeah, me too.”
“Thanks for stopping by yesterday, getting it ready for business today.”
“No worries, I had some free time I wanted to kill.”
“How’s Chloe?” Samantha gleamed. “You’re really into her, I can tell.”
“She’s alright,” he said in a tone that would suggest coy was his middle name.
Samantha snorted. “Alright? Dude, please. First of all, she’s a knockout. Second of all, she’s humble and as sweet as pie. I, personally love her.”
“Okay, Okay. She is pretty damn spectacular.” He grinned. “But Chloe’s only in Fortune’s Bay to write her book.” Saying that reality aloud struck him like an atomic bomb, the outcome of which could result in some painful casualties.
A busier than normal day at Destiny’s Brew had Dylan occupied enough to help stabilize his brain, keep it from slipping into a Chloe coma, thinking of how good it felt to hold her close, the hundreds of kisses they’d shared. He couldn’t imagine how much he’d crumble inside the day she would have to hop on a plane back to San Francisco. Not when his feelings for her had grown full-bloom.
Now at home in his kitchen, music blasting in the background, Dylan shook his rump to the beat while he prepared spaghetti and meatballs. Expecting the blue-eyed beauty to knock on his door any minute, a sense of euphoria and nervousness crept up all at once. Speaking about her intentions for them going forward was on his agenda and frankly it had his stomach in knots.
The candlelit table was set, glasses filled with decadent red wine.
Tap. Tap. Tap. That rap on the door was music to his heart. Maybe even to his soul. He fumbled with the door’s locks, eager to let her in.
“Hi.” Chloe flashed that saucy lip curve Dylan swore he would never get enough of.
“Hey.” His eyes combed over her, sized up how alluring she looked even in jeans and a T-shirt. “I hope you like spaghetti and meatballs.”
“You bet I do,” he heard her say, as he led her to the table.
From the sparkle in her eyes, Chloe seemed intrigued by the candles, the food. “I was up all night writing and literally slept the entire day away,” she said, beaming at the food Dylan placed on her plate.
“And, did you make progress?” He sat across from her, sipped his wine.
“Completed the first draft.”
“Wait, are you being serious right now?” With her as sarcastic as he could be at times, it was hard to tell.
“Yep. Found my muse. Anyway, like I said, it’s only the first draft. I’ll spend the next few days rewriting before I get it off to Libby in San Francisco.”
San Francisco. Of course. “Congrats, I think that calls for a special toast.”
Dylan lifted his glass. “Here’s to finding your muse and getting it done.”
The two clinked glasses, ate dinner, and after clearing the dishes, cuddled up on the sofa in Dylan’s living room, each with a glass of wine in hand.
“So, three days working on perfecting the first draft, then what? You’re headed back to San Francisco?” Dylan played with Chloe’s sand-colored locks, twirling a strand around his finger. He asked the somewhat loaded question, unprepared for the response—whatever it may be. If she leaves, where do they stand?
Chloe blinked up at him, her lips pouting. “Yes, I would have to go back to San Francisco. I’d like to speak with Libby in person about my manuscript, especially since I’ve deviated from their request of adding a sexier vibe to the story.”
There went his bubble of pure freaking joy. Pop. Throat clenched, it was a miracle Dylan was able to dish out any words. “You’re ahead of schedule now; maybe you can come back to Fortune’s Bay, work on another project? I mean, seeing how the place has been rented for three whole months and all.”
Man, you’re totally sounding desperate.
“True, it was paid for in advance. However this isn’t the first time I’ve finished before a lease term was up. JBM usually just sends out an amendment to the contract, tells the property owner to keep the funds already paid. And in regards to another project”—her pause seemed as long as it takes to ferment wine—“I’m not certain I’ll be signing on with JBM for anything else. Lovestruck in Fortune’s Bay is the last in the ten book series, and after they basically told me not to be me anymore, I’m ready to move on.”
Dylan admired her resolve. Admired the fact she didn’t let the publisher bully her around. “So, what does that mean? Surely you won’t give up writing; it’s your passion.”
She shifted on the couch, placed her hand on his chest, gnawed on her lower lip. “Speaking of passion, I’m dying to see the pictures you took on our after-the-storm outing.”
For all he knew, Chloe could’ve very well inflicted that subject change on purpose. But he was willing to let it slide, move the conversation onto something less difficult. He grabbed her glass, placed both his and hers on the table.
“Let’s go upstairs, I’ve printed them all up for you to see.”
Up in the room where all of his photos were stored, Dylan showed Chloe the pics he took during their outing the day before. They were all printed and neatly laid out on the hardwood floor. He hadn’t yet decided which ones were keepers.
“What do you think?” he asked Chloe, who was on her knees, hands over her jaw-dropped mouth, surveying each and every photo.
“Oh, my gosh, Dylan, they’re magnificent.” She grabbed a hold of his hand, dragging him down on the floor beside her. “You took so many. And so many of me.”
He nudged her shoulder, held her hand. “You, Chloe Davenport, are my muse. You helped me rediscover my passion.”
Absolute desire radiated between them when Chloe inched close, cupped his face with her hands, drew a line along his lips with her thumb. Man, how this woman made his heart thump, his body throb, from one simple touch. The kiss that followed, sparked a low groan out of him, then a whisper, when he broke away and said, “I must admit, it was a little difficult to sleep without you last night. You’re more than welcome to stay here tonight, sleep with me again.”
Forehead against his, she gave a lopsided grin. “I-uh didn’t bring my pjs or my toothbrush.”
“I have a T-shirt you can slip into, an extra toothbrush.”
“Okay”—she ran her fingers through his hair, licked her lips—“but for the record, I didn’t shave my legs.”
“I said sleep, Miss Davenport. Not a lust-filled night of passionate lovemaking.”
If he were lucky, they’d have plenty of time for making love in the future.
Chapter 23
For Chloe, the next
several days seemed to go by faster than an Energizer bunny on a caffeine fix. Her days were filled with rewrites, on top of rewrites, as she claimed her own little table and chair on the outdoor patio at Destiny’s Brew. It was tranquil there, with ocean waves lapping against the sand, flocks of seagulls with their distinctive caw, and the occasional glimpse of dolphins leaping out from the crystal-blue sea as if to offer her a warm hello. Fortune’s Bay was beautiful. Calm. Serene. Possibly the best place on earth.
Parking herself at the coffee shop allowed her and Dylan a chance to hang out whenever he wasn’t busy, and morning chats with the Early Brew Crew kept her in laugh-out-loud stitches. Their antics, stories, energy, and personal regard for one another brought its own tranquility. One that would make anyone appreciate love, life, and friendship. Likewise, Samantha kept her engaged, as she found getting to know one of her dedicated fans to be rewarding, humbling. During the evening hours she spent more time with Dylan—mainly at his place—the two sharing fresh snippets about themselves, their hopes, dreams, even their fears. And nights…well, Chloe stayed with Dylan, holed up in his arms, the most tranquil of spots in Fortune’s Bay thus far—no sex, just a special brew of sleep and swoon-worthy make-out sessions that made her body sizzle. Did she want more? Oh, yes. Howbeit, more than anything, she wanted to bask in these sugar-sweet moments. Giving in to the passion radiating between them—how her flesh tingled when his lips trailed down her neck—would be too great a risk, one she simply wasn’t ready to take. The lackluster experience with Walter left her semi-broken, reserved, cautious.
“I hate that you’re leaving in less than eight hours.” Dylan nibbled on her ear, kissed the nape of her neck as he held her. It was the kind of stuff dreams were made of—every hour, minute, second with him.
Chloe breathed in a sigh, squeezed her eyes shut. “I know, me too. But I really need to do this.”
This, was hop on a plane back home to San Francisco, meet with Libby, and deliver the breaking news: she didn’t comply with the publisher’s outrageous demand to heat things up in her manuscript. And why would she? The story written was, in her opinion, the best of all ten—heartfelt, real.
The next morning, Dylan loaded the trunk of Chloe’s rented Prius with the two suitcases that accompanied her to Fortune’s Bay. She could tell he was sad about her departure; not by the way he appeared, because as best she could, Chloe avoided even a tiny glimpse of his face. But she heard the sadness in his voice, the cracked spoken word, “Goodbye,” through an I never want to let you go embrace. The kind that lingers on and on until the demands of the time crunch she had left to catch that plane, pulled them apart.
Hand in hand, he escorted Chloe to the driver’s side door, opened it, then lifted her chin, forcing their gazes to lock. “Promise to text me when you land?”
She saw the welled-up emotion in his heady dark-browns, then flicked her gaze heavenward, forcing back tears. Do. Not. Cry. “Promise,” Chloe murmured, as she reached into her purse and, pulled out a thick packet of papers bound together by a black binder clip. “This is for you, Dylan. Promise me you won’t begin to read it until you know my plane has already taken off.”
His expression softened. “Is this a copy of your manuscript?”
She nodded, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’ll take you a few days to get through it, but you have to call or text me when you’ve read it all. Let me know what you think.”
“I’m gonna miss you like crazy, Miss Davenport. I sincerely hope you come back here…come back to me.” He kissed her, long and sweet.
“Me too, Dylan Hawke. Me too.”
Ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to welcome you aboard flight 2367 to San Francisco, California…
The inflight announcement induced an anxiety-packed pitter-patter of Chloe’s heart. Saying goodbye to Dylan brought an uneasy sense of regret. And as the Boeing 747 took flight, stored-up tears, like a mudslide of mascara, trickled down her cheeks.
It would be over four hours later, when the plane’s wheels touched the runway at San Francisco International Airport. Chloe managed to sleep the entire flight, shutting out all thoughts of Dylan, Samantha and Liam, The Early Brew Crew, and all of Fortune’s Bay.
I want to go back. Of course she wanted to go back, yet as discussed with Dylan over the past few days, Chloe needed time to think about what her next steps in life would be. What direction she wanted to take her writing career, since all she’d known was safety under the umbrella of her publisher. She appreciated that Dylan didn’t push, giving her space to figure it all out. God, was he something. A gift from above.
After retrieving her suitcases from Baggage Claim, Chloe caught an Uber straight to Libby’s downtown office. The sooner she got their meeting over with, the better.
“You didn’t go home first?” Libby scanned over the two suitcases Chloe wheeled into her office when she finally arrived.
“No, I came right over.” Chloe spilled into the oversized seat in front of Libby’s mahogany-colored desk, blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, then rested her elbow on the arm of the chair.
Libby pulled her dark-rimmed, colored eyeglasses off, sank the tip of the glasses’ temple between her teeth. “You know you could have emailed me the manuscript. Why you insisted on handing it to me in person is beyond me.”
“What I have to say, needs to be said in person. You know how sensitive subject matters are best discussed face to face?” She sat up straight in her seat, mouth drawn up in a hard line.
“Sensitive subject matter?” Libby’s brows knitted.
Removing the manuscript from out of her purse, hands slightly shaking, Chloe set it on Libby’s desk. Insert the new and improved risk-taking Chloe Davenport, please. “Here it is, Lovestruck in Fortune’s Bay, all shiny and new. However, there is something missing.”
“Oh?”
Chloe calmly explained she could not—would not—add anything extra to her story, because it simply didn’t fit. “I’m sorry, Libby, but I don’t believe the results of that so-called poll, and besides all of that, I had to stay true to myself. When you read it, I think you’ll agree, it doesn’t need it.”
Chloe observed the expression—the blatant narrowing of her wide-set eyes—of the woman who was at one time, a close friend. She was beautiful, same small-framed build as her, only taller, a face with the high cheekbones meant for magazine covers. “JBM may not like this, but I’ll give it a read through, tell you what I think. However, I will say this, if you cannot kick the heat level up a notch or two going forward, they likely won’t sign you on for another deal.”
It should have made her blood boil, yet instead, the declaration was music to Chloe’s ears, a weight lifted off her shoulders. “That’s fine, really. I have other plans.” Still-yet-to-be-determined plans, is what she left out.
Libby agreed to get in touch within the next few days, after she’d read the manuscript, to let her know of any necessary revisions. “I’ll have the car service drive you home.”
“Great, and thanks so much for everything,” Chloe said, hugging Libby before she stepped out, suitcases in tow. She knew in her gut, this was goodbye.
The next few days charged by, and Chloe passed the time exchanging occasional text messages with Dylan, resting, and taking in the sights of San Francisco. She’d always loved it there: the hills, the proximity to the water, the never-ending breeze, the culture, and of course, the food. It had been her home after college, first renting an apartment in the Mission District, then finally, after the generous advance JBM gave her, she was able to rent a spacious, furnished one-bedroom home in affluent Pacific Heights. The panoramic views of the Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Palace of Fine Arts, and the Presidio, a park that once served as a military fort, all worth the pretty penny she forked out each month to the landlord. Still, no San Francisco glory was worth anything, if she had to enjoy it all alone. She found herself missing Fortune’s Bay. Missing Dylan.
The call from Libby came wh
ile Chloe was sitting at her kitchen table, sipping on a cup of Destiny’s Brew signature blend. Dylan had given her a bag to take home since she was hooked on the stuff—even in the afternoon. “Libby, so glad you called. I was beginning to think—”
“It’s your best work ever, Chloe. I-I’m at a loss of words, actually.” Chloe could hear the sniffles coming from her editor.
“Libby, are you crying?”
“No, it’s my damn allergies. However, you’re absolutely right; there’s no need to add heat—the story of the budding romance stands up all on its own. And you owe me at least one last—”
“I know, I know. I should have told you it wasn’t quite finished. But I’ll meet the deadline, promise.”
“Will we be able to keep the names the same? If so, JBM will have them all sign a confidentiality agreement. It will be a first, you know, but a good way to end the series. A real-life love story. That, my dear, will be the tagline.”
Chloe smiled, a sense of relief flowing through her veins. “I’m happy you like it. I’ll be in touch.”
Hours later, as Chloe was about to turn in for the night, her phone rang; Hot Motorcycle Guy popping up on display induced a snicker. Dylan programmed his name in her phone like that, and she left it as is, since it was indeed true.
“Hey.” She flushed, internally embarrassed the sound of his voice brought heat to her cheeks.
“Hi.” His voice was soft, relaxed. With the time difference between them, it was nearly 11 p.m. in Fortune’s Bay. “I, uh just finished reading your manuscript.”
Chloe sat up in bed, hand to her chest, heart feeling lighter than ever. She was only able to clear her throat—audible words failed to surface. Please. Please say you love it.
“It’s a beautiful story, Chloe, about us, Abble Pie and all.”
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