by Ash Harlow
I wasn’t sure what to do. I couldn’t hang around in his house uninvited. I scoured the benchtop for a scrap of paper to leave him a note, discovering what appeared to be my list, crumpled beside a stack of books.
I flattened it out, not caring about being snoopy this time. He’d crossed most of the things off, including the encounter with an apex predator. I never had been sure whether that alluded to the shark or Stone himself. I wondered if he’d marked off the list when he’d arrived home, or at some stage over the weekend.
There was another note, this one addressed to me. He must have got Sarah’s call and ensured he wasn’t about when I turned up.
Poppins, I was angry and stupid on Sunday. You don’t have to worry about your job. I’ll finish the book. Come back on the due date and I’ll give it to you, but you have to swear not to read it. I guess Buster is yours—I bought him for you, but I think he has to live here until you’re living somewhere big enough to have him. Sorry.
I don’t know what the apology was for—Stone keeping Buster, Stone’s bad behavior and anger, or something else I’d yet to come across. As I tucked the note away in my pocket, I noticed a third scrap of paper.
Stone’s own wish list.
It was quite different to mine, old, well-handled, burred creases where it had been folded and unfolded many times. In places, it was impossible to read some of the things he’d crossed out, but I could make out ‘publish a book’ and ‘fuck a former Disney actress’ both crossed off as two of his life accomplishments. There was only one thing left undone on Stone’s list.
Fall in love.
My heart broke a little more when I read that. If this was his attempt at an explanation, it didn’t make me feel any better. In fact, I felt worse. I hurt for myself and the feelings I’d let run rampant for him, because they were honest and heartfelt. More, though, I hated the fact that he’d never fallen in love.
I replaced the list on the counter and left the house with his note in my pocket. I was expected by Sarah to stay in Springston until I had the book. My accommodation with Mason and June was paid up for the month, so I decided I’d use the time to explore the area.
I didn’t need Stone’s list of adrenalin-inducing adventures to make my life complete. That had been a wild couple of weeks I’d never forget. Now I could spend my time exploring upstate New York. The little cottage at the back of the Myers’ was quiet, the view pretty. I could work between excursions, setting up my website and networking online with other authors. Perhaps I’d find someone who needed help while I was doing that.
As I walked along the road, I noticed the apprehension and hurt I’d carried for the past few days ease a little. June was in the front yard weeding her pretty flower garden, and she greeted me like an old friend.
“I’m glad you’re back, Katrina. I gather that boy down the road is behaving badly. Again.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “He has a lot to deal with, you know—Lily, his writing. I’m just going to hang out here for a bit, if that’s okay with you and Mason.”
“My husband will be as pleased to have you back as I am.”
“I met Rip,” I told her.
“I hope the boy was polite. He gets a little full of himself at times, but he has a good heart.”
“He was very kind.”
“He took you to meet his sharks, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did.”
“The only thing that makes that boy happy is being out on the ocean. Although their friendship is close, sometimes I think Stone and Rip are bad for each other. Neither knows how to settle down.”
“I guess that’s normal, for a parent to want their son settled.”
“I’m waiting for grandchildren, Katrina. And there won’t be any coming our way so long as Rip’s spending his life underwater.”
I went around to the cottage, wondering what it would have been like to have been raised by a mother like June. No wonder Stone liked her so much.
The little cottage felt as though it had missed me. I adored it up here, the views, the peace, and the friendly people more relaxed than New York. And if I did miss the city, it was only a short train ride away. I curled up on the sofa with my laptop, and although the idea that my fantasy relationship with Stone becoming reality would have made all of this near perfect, I was determined to be content with how things were at the moment.
I opened my email, noting the bulging inbox, and quickly scanned for Stone’s name. A bubble of optimism continued to bounce about in my head, hoping that he would have a change of heart.
Not tonight.
The first email told me I was officially dropped from FaithLit and that they’d changed their passwords to their online accounts. Obviously, they foresaw a danger of me jumping onto their social media and posting dick pics.
I cleared through more mail, noting that meeting Stone had been a turning point in my life and I’d found a new road to travel. One where I could discover who I really was without the influence of my mother. It was okay, I realized, to have made an error of judgment with Stone because that had opened my eyes to new opportunities. I wasn’t even certain I wanted a permanent place at CJM because that wasn’t exactly the most pleasant work environment.
I became a regular down at the local coffee shop. I’d call in mid-morning, grab a latte, and have a chat with the regulars. Twice, I saw Stone drive past in his beaten up jeep with Buster, who seemed to have doubled in size, sitting like a prince in the passenger seat, being chauffeured around town. They never stopped, even though it was the place Stone had bought us coffee on our way to the airfield for our ballooning trip.
My heart soared and fell in on itself at the sight of him.
I visited local museums, farmers’ markets, and picked berries and fruit, most of which I gave to June. She, in turn, made fabulous pies and puddings. She asked me if I wanted to take a peach and raspberry cobbler up to Stone’s house for him, but I declined.
“I promised to stay away,” I explained.
“You forget that Stone doesn’t know what’s good for him and makes requests because he thinks they are the right thing for you.”
Her words made me feel uncomfortable. Was Stone hurting? I doubted it because he was accustomed to drive-by relationships, and I didn’t want to humiliate myself by turning up if I wasn’t wanted.
Sarah emailed and told me to stay on top of Stone’s social media. I had masses of photos on my phone, so I posted one each day, every reminder a voodoo pin to my heart.
As the weeks passed, I kept up a regular phone call to Mom. She battled with me and tried every tactic to put me off working for Stone, but I countered them, telling her she had no right to try to control my life. When she was at her worst, I ended the call. I’d reached a peculiar state of calm. Perhaps it was the magical ingredient June claimed was in the Springston water. Or maybe it was the fact I was finally taking control of my life. If I thought of something I wanted to do, I went right ahead and did it. I gave Mom reports about my excursions, and eventually, she learned to say, ‘how nice’, even if she still needed to work on adding a genuine note to her voice.
I gained two clients, authors who wrote in the same genre as Stone. They weren’t as crazy, though. In fact, they were completely professional and easy to work with. I had fun Skyping with them, working through strategies for promotion, and engaging with their readers. They paid quickly, too, and soon, I was in the unusual position of having spare cash after paying rent.
The only fly in the ointment was the fact that I’d still had no contact from Stone. I hoped after a week, he might have calmed down or needed to contact me. I missed our chats about his book, being the sounding board for the ideas he was throwing around and being teased.
More, I missed his kiss and curling up with him and Buster on the sofa while we ate popcorn and watched movies.
I missed making love with him. Oh, boy, I missed the sex.
But most of all, I missed him, because inside the bad boy was a go
od person who’d shown me how to step away from the expectations of others and be brave enough to take charge of my life.
Then, the day before the deadline, an email dropped into my inbox after dinner. Subject line: Book 7.
Katrina,
Attached is Book 7. Our work is done. I figured I’d leave it to you to send to Sarah, seeing as you were hired to get the book out of me.
Good job. I don’t know what magic you weaved, but it worked!
You read the note where I asked you to swear not to read the manuscript. Since I got no argument from you, I believe you’ll keep your end of the bargain. I went ahead and finished the story. Remember, no reading. Send the attachment to Sarah.
Buster sends a lick, a tennis ball, and four muddy paws.
Thank you, Stone
The disappointment I felt shocked me. I saw that although I could put my hand on my heart and declare that I had stepped away from the storm in my life that was Stone and had gone out and done things on my own, those events were only fillers until the date I expected to return to Stone’s house and pick up the manuscript. I’d counted the days and ignored the real reason I had done that.
I’d been excited by the idea that I would see him again, talk to him, throw the ball for Buster, and maybe find some sort of friendship within my awkwardness.
Who was I kidding? I’d probably have followed him straight to the bedroom.
He’d cut me off at the pass, delivering the book by email, thus canceling any reason I might have had for turning up on his doorstep. Why had I ignored the fact that Stone had built his life on not getting involved with women, the king of the one-night stand?
All the hurt and anger rose in me. I double-clicked the file and hit the print icon, walking to the fridge and pouring myself a glass of wine as the printer whirred and the pages stacked up.
He could determine my silence with regard to the note however he wished, but my promise not to read his book was never implied. I gathered up the first block of paper while the printer continued to work and settled in with my wine and a deep curiosity as to who I would read about. Lily? A fictional character?
Lily was right there. First chapter, plain for everyone to see. I almost tossed the pages aside. It would do me no good to read about Steele and Faux-Lily getting their happily ever after. I knocked back my wine and pushed on through the second chapter.
I was hooked. A maturity had come to his writing that wasn’t evident in his earlier books, as if he really did care about these characters. It could have been because Steele had started to shift away from his manwhore ways. Faux-Lily had merely been the prologue, the setup to the real story. Steele’s heart had become involved, and Mary, the new character, was not like any of the girls he’d written about before.
She was conservative and self-effacing, starting out a bit of a doormat, though as the story progressed, she found her courage to speak up.
“Fuck me, Mary, you’ve finally grown some balls.” Steele mentions after an outburst where she tears a strip off him.
I snorted. It was the sort of thing Stone would say, and like me, Mary (because she was being feisty at this point in the story) blew the whole thing off with the classic Betty White quote. Mary didn’t need balls because she had a vagina, and that thing could take a pounding.
Of course, Mary blushed, and I felt my cheeks go hot in sympathy.
I read to the end in one sitting, not even topping up my wine after the first glass because I became so deeply engrossed in the story. My feelings were bittersweet. It could just as easily have been about Stone and me, except Stone had never fallen in love, and I was in a dangerous, tired and emotional state where I’d probably projected myself into the book through a sense of deep longing and the massive crush that threatened to resurface if I let my thoughts run wild.
My eyes felt gritty, my teeth desperate for a brush, and just before dawn, I dragged myself to bed. In the morning, I’d send the manuscript to Sarah. I was certain she’d be pleased because in my gut, this book felt like a winner.
With that, my time in Springston was over. All I had to do was return the house keys to Stone and make my final trip to the railway station.
My time as Poppins had come to an end.
24
Stone
Katrina had taken the note, and I hoped it had given her some sort of solace. It haunted me daily, knowing she was down the road with Mason and June, but even more, it drove me to work. I wrote through the demarcation of day and night, night and day, only breaking to work out in the gym, walk and play with Buster, and take an hour or two to sleep when I was truly exhausted. Then I’d wake and go at it again. When I asked about Katrina’s future, Sarah warned me it depended on my getting them the book.
She suspected something had gone down between Katrina and me, and it was a typical bitch move to dangle her future prospects in front of me as a carrot. Or was it the stick? Whatever, I’d made up my mind to write the fucking book because I owed it to Katrina not to fuck up her life any more than I had.
Part of me wanted to sabotage that. Did Katrina honestly want to work at CJM? Sarah was an excellent agent, the exact person you wanted on your side when it came to negotiations, and I never regretted a single dollar of the percentage she took, but she’d eat Katrina alive.
Katrina deserved better than that.
I emailed her the completed manuscript. Asking her not to read it was like suggesting somebody not think of a purple elephant. The minute you say it, you know the big creature’s there, ridiculously colored and dominating their mind.
In the fridge was a bottle of Cristal I’d intended to crack with Katrina when my work was finished. I poured myself a whiskey instead, downed it, then called Buster. I could walk for the first time in weeks without having to take two characters out with me, listen to their conversations, and examine their feelings or slap them around the head when they were behaving like dicks.
I shoved two tennis balls in my pockets, and Buster and I headed for the river. Half an hour later, we’d worked our way slowly along the bank until I stood where I could see Katrina’s cottage. For a moment, she moved in front of the window, and I willed her to look my way. I don’t know how long I stood there, but I never saw her again.
With the delivery of the manuscript, I presumed she’d head back to NYC and I’d get control of my social media. In a few months, I’d have the book edits back and the flurry would begin again—leaked snippets, teasers, the cover reveal—hopefully, this time, without anything contentious taking place.
I walked Buster back to the house and went online to book a holiday. I needed a tropical island and the company of others drifting in a similar holiday mindset, there to forget about their normal lives and have a good time.
Fiji looked good. So did Samoa and Rarotonga. Places I’d never been, and hopefully, populated with people who’d never heard of Stone Logan.
The next morning kicked off with a professional and impersonal email from Katrina. She congratulated me on finishing the book and said she’d forwarded it on to Sarah. There was no mention of her having read it, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. She also said she was returning home and that she had some things to drop off, which she’d do around four on her way to the station, if that suited me.
I closed the email, experiencing a rush I hadn’t felt for some time. Finishing the book had left me unexpectedly flat, but the idea of seeing Katrina one more time felt dangerous.
I paced, thinking about letting Katrina in the house, offering her a glass of champagne, and fucking her bent over the kitchen counter. Not cool. I thought about Fiji, reimagining the isolated tropical beach I’d seen on the travel booking website so that it was covered in naked, well-tanned beauties. That didn’t work. I emptied the beach and left just Katrina there, lying on a lounger and wearing a tiny bikini.
Wham, instant arousal.
This wasn’t working. My ideas were entirely self-centered. My cock told me to get her into the house, talk
her out of her clothes, have crazy goodbye-sex and deliver her to the next train back to NYC. I wasn’t that asshole anymore. If Katrina had any sense, she’d slap me down for even suggesting it. If she went with the idea, I’d have led her on to expect a future together.
I had to make myself as unappealing to her as possible, but I had to do that without hurting her any more than I had, so arranging to have some half-clothed girl here when she arrived didn’t cut it for a solution.
Immersing myself in work meant I’d been able to block out everything but the story, but now my time was free, and Katrina constantly invaded my thoughts. I wanted to be selfish and have her until I’d worked her out of my system, but I cared for her. I didn’t want to hurt her more in a month or two when I finally ended it, when the way she blushed, the way she did cute stuff with Buster, hell, the way she simply existed, no longer gave me that surge.
I needed the surge. I lived for the surge, and I’d wither up and die without it. Or I’d become a nasty fuck, worse than my parents, if I got stuck in a situation that bored me. Then I’d turn deliberately antagonistic to get the different surge, the baiting and fighting, just so that I could feel.
I opened the fridge, eyed the Cristal, and pulled out a beer. Katrina would be here in three hours. Probably in exactly three hours because she was reliable like that.
It should have bored me, that routine she stuck to, but instead, it had settled me, brought about some calm so that my needs for a buzz weren’t so insistent. I hadn’t finished the book because of some strict routine I’d stuck to. I’d merely written until I was ready to drop, in which case, I slept for a couple of hours, or until Buster needed a walk, or until my ass was so numb I needed to hit the gym to get my blood circulating again.
That wasn’t dedication to a routine. That was madness.
I finished a second beer, checked the clock, and poured myself a whiskey. What the hell, I had a reason to celebrate. I could hit the bottle for a day, then make a decision between Fiji and Rarotonga.
