Mr. August

by Romes, Jan

  Oh God, here she comes!

  The twenty-something woman breached the imaginary line separating their cabins and crouched to pet his dog. “He’s so cute. What’s his name?”

  “Rory,” he said abruptly. There was no easy way to tell her to get lost. “No offense, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get chummy with my dog.” Or with me.

  Hazel eyes snapped up to connect with his. Incredible hazel eyes. Freaking great hazel eyes.

  “Sorry, I-I,” she stammered, “I…”

  Max wanted to finish her sentence with “…am a bad driver.” He clamped his mouth so tight his teeth gnashed together.

  “I love dogs.” The woman stood up, took a half-step back, and put a hand on her chest. “I…wanted to apologize for almost hitting you earlier in town.” She surprised him by going off on a tangent of self-deprecation, calling herself careless, irresponsible, and saying she was darn lucky he didn’t call the police.

  Max bit into her with a hard stare. He watched her fidget and listened to her stumble over her words. He tried not to notice that she was pretty—in a wild child, kind of way. Her long eyelashes were thick with mascara and her eyelids were lined so they swooped at the end. He wasn’t fond of eye goop, but he had to admit, the dramatic look wasn’t bad. His attention moved to the hand that was splayed across her chest. No ring. Great chest. He sighed. Why was he taking note of anything about the woman? He wasn’t interested, nor did he want to be.

  He tried to tune back into the conversation but his eye caught the thin, black leather choker around her neck. He’d seen some thin leather bands at her wrists too. She looked like a free spirit, untamed and alternative, but there was softness in her voice and mannerisms. And dammit to hell and back, he found it all sexy, including the bizarre pink streaks in her hair. He started to smile, caught himself and went on a rant of self-deprecation too, silently. He’d left the city and relocated to the middle of nowhere to get away from a woman who made his life nuts and he didn’t need to get involved with another one who had the same potential. His speedy marriage and hasty divorce left a bitter taste in his mouth and he needed time away from his mistakes to get back on track. He had a novel to finish and the only way to get it done was to cut himself off from the rest of the world, especially women. “No harm, no foul,” he said, making sure he didn’t sound the least bit pleasant.

  The blonde thrust out her hand. “I’m Libby Griffin.”

  Shit. Now he had to touch her.

  Max narrowed his eyes. “Maxwell August,” he said tersely.

  She flinched and drew her hand back. Good. She needed to know he didn’t aim to be neighborly.

  “Well, Mr. August,” there was a trace of quiver in her voice, “I promise to keep my bumper off of you.” She turned on her heel and climbed into the Jeep.

  Chapter Two

  “I promise to keep my bumper off of you?” How lame was that? Maxwell August had thrown her off balance by staring. His cranky disposition didn’t help either. Argh! She hated that she’d stammered in front of him. The affliction only showed up when she was overtired or in an awkward situation, and that couldn’t have been more awkward.

  Libby pushed the grocery cart up and down the aisles, not really in tune with shopping. She blasted herself for not following Jiggs’ advice and leaving Maxwell alone. She tried to justify the contact with a need to apologize for scaring the bejesus out of him with her car, although nosiness more than anything made her cross the driveway.

  From a distance he’d looked like just some guy, but up close he was the Mr. August of her fantasy. Libby groaned again. He couldn’t just be mildly attractive, no. He had to be hot! H-O-T, hot! His closely-shaved beard was nothing to brag about, but his wavy, jet black hair was incredible. And his eyes… Wow! They were definitely brag-worthy: dreamboat-blue edged with a hint of stay-away.

  “Tea.” She was there to buy tea, not to think about the man next door. When she turned the corner and spied the assortment of tea sitting on the shelves, an “Ahhh” whooshed from her chest. She pondered the choices and decided on peppermint for when her brain was cloudy, apple-cinnamon to give her a burst of hello in the morning, black tea for when she needed to buckle down, and chamomile to soothe her into sleepiness after an exhausting day of genius with a pencil.

  Libby hurried to the aisle that held boxes of mac and cheese. Life was so much better with a pot of tea and a plate of mac and cheese. She put ten boxes in the cart and added two more for good measure.

  On the way to the dairy case, an end cap with dog biscuits made her skid to a halt. A box of biscuits for small breed dogs miraculously found its way into her cart.

  A few more things and she could head back to the cabin—a gallon of milk to keep her bones strong, mozzarella cheese sticks for mindless-snacking, and orange juice just because. Libby couldn’t decide which juice to buy. She read the side of the carton for the juice that claimed to have fifty-percent less sugar. She swung around to add it to her cart and bumped into something solid. A chest. Her eyes fixed on a Carhartt label. She swallowed hard at the knowledge that Maxwell August had been wearing that same kind of jacket. What were the chances? Inch by inch, her gaze drifted up. It took a few seconds for her brain to sort out the details—dark hair, beard, unmistakable blue eyes. You’ve got to be kidding!

  “Watch what you’re doing.” Mr. August still looked like he wanted to bite her head off.

  Libby squared her shoulders. “I was here first.” He’d shooed her away twenty minutes ago and was trying to do it again in the grocery. She matched him frown for frown.

  “Maybe so, but you can’t stand there for ten minutes reading the side of the carton.”

  “I can take as long as I need.” She’d only been there a minute or two. Clearly the man had no concept of time.

  “You’re holding everyone up.”

  Libby looked around. There was no one else waiting for her to move. She took a half-step away from the juice and motioned for him to go at it.

  “Seriously?” He crossed his arms at his chest.

  How much room did he need? Libby stayed exactly where she was and they engaged in a childish game of who would blink first. In the span of those few seconds, her subconscious filtered more information. Actually, it poked her hard enough to make her the first to blink. While this guy was a giant pain, he had a voice that was part gravel, part silk. She’d missed it when they spoke at the cabin, now it was all she could focus on; well, that and his scent. Libby tried not to breathe him in. His musky fragrance floated in front of her nose until she had no choice but to take a few whiffs.

  A momentary look of amusement raced across his features, like he knew she was taking stock of him. A low growl formed in the pit of Libby’s stomach and she was close to hitting him with her cart. “Are you stalking me?” Oh my God, she didn’t say that, did she?

  Maxwell narrowed his eyes so tight they almost closed. “You wish.”

  Libby was stunned by her off-the-wall question, even more shocked with his reply. She wheeled the cart away.

  ****

  Max was instantly pissed. The woman all but runs him over with her vehicle, hogs the damned juice, and accuses him of stalking her. He cussed his way to the canned goods. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear Libby was a plant. And the only one who would put her there was his ex-wife, Shari. She’d messed with him more than any one person should be allowed to, and was obviously still doing it via a loon named Libby.

  Dredging up the memory of his ex made him scowl deeper. They hadn’t quite reached love status when the devil woman tricked him into marriage by saying she was pregnant. They’d always used protection but nothing was a hundred percent. He had to think of the child, so they got married right away. He hoped the love would come later. It didn’t. As soon as they returned from the honeymoon, Shari confessed that she must’ve miscalculated her monthly gift because she wasn’t pregnant. She shrugged off the error as “what’s done is done”. Right. There was no error, j
ust duplicity. To make matters worse, she flat-out told him he had to change a few things. While they were dating she said she loved who he was—someone who spent long hours in front of a computer writing books, a man who couldn’t wait to have kids and buy a dog, a guy who drove his grandpa’s 1978 Chevrolet Caprice station wagon as a way to stay connected to the man who inspired him to write in the first place. Once the wedding ring was firmly in place, she thought it was unhealthy to be parked in front of a computer all day and hinted that he should get a real job. Translation: he was in the way. She also declared their home off-limits to pets. No dogs, cats or goldfish. Since he made a ton of money, she made it clear she would have no problem spending it. After all, the wife of a well-known author should have the best clothes, shoes, purses, etc. And in no way would she tolerate that metal heap he called a car. Grr. Shari was a material girl who wanted a perfect home, perfect things, and a perfect husband. To her dismay, he was as imperfect as they came.

  Max laughed without humor. She lied about everything. But the mess he’d found himself in was his fault. He let the idea of becoming a dad jade his judgment.

  A month after they said “I do”, he grew the beard because she hated facial hair and he bought a dog. Six months later, he was minus a wife and living in a cabin trying to put his life back together. He’d become the sole owner of Rory and the station wagon—that now had a huge dent in the back. And he was still sporting the beard.

  ****

  Libby loaded the groceries in the back of the Jeep. From the corner of her eye she spied the cute little Yorkie jumping around the backseat of a car two spaces over. She checked the entrance of the store. No sign of Maxwell. She ripped open the box of dog biscuits and stealthily made her way to the sweet dog. “Hi there, Rory,” she said, fitting her fingers through the part of the window left open to give him some fresh air.

  Rory licked her fingers and Libby’s heart melted. She showed him the biscuits and he turned in a circle of excitement. “Don’t tell your grouchy owner that I’m getting chummy with you. It’ll be our secret.” She dropped the first biscuit in. Libby kept an eye peeled for Max. The sound of the automatic doors sliding open made her drop the second biscuit through the window. “I have to go, but I’ll see you soon.” The familiar head of dark hair coming toward her made Libby bob and weave to her vehicle.

  Libby fastened the seatbelt and cranked up the radio. She pulled out of the parking space at just the right moment so Maxwell would have to cross in front of her.

  He rolled his eyes.

  “You’d better watch out,” Libby said. Curiously, the comment was aimed more at her than him.

  The trip back to the cabin took ten minutes, but it was long enough for her to rehash the events of the past twelve hours. Since leaving Columbus she’d gone from a teary-eyed fashion designer to a half-wit who threatened her neighbor with her Jeep.

  Chapter Three

  Libby woke to the sound of rain pelting the bedroom window and the wind howling through the treetops. She hadn’t thought to turn on the fireplace before going to bed last night and the cabin was downright chilly. She snuggled deeper into the blankets. Maybe she’d stay there all day. There was no hurry to start sketching; she had five months.

  Out of the clear blue, her thoughts were about Maxwell. “No way.” She yanked the covers back. She would not waste time thinking about him. Libby threw her legs over the side of the bed and trudged down the stairs. She filled the teapot with water and put it on to boil, before turning on the fireplace.

  A quick rummage through the kitchen cabinets produced boxes of macaroni and cheese. Not exactly breakfast food, but she only had herself to please.

  Libby scooted the recliner in front of the sliding doors to watch the droplets of rain trail down the glass. She perched in the chair with her legs tucked under her and took a sip of steaming hot tea, followed by a blissful bite of cheesy macaroni. The wind had settled and if the rain stopped she’d go for a walk around the campground for a breath of fresh air and to stretch her legs. If it didn’t, she’d get her first taste of solitary confinement. That thought made her search for her cell phone. She glanced at the small wooden clock sitting on the mantel. Right about now, Steph would be up to her elbows in Coco Puffs and toast, and would most likely welcome a text from Libby to keep her sane. Before Libby started the text message, her phone chirped with one from Steph.

  Steph: I need wine.

  Libby: It’s seven o’clock in the morning.

  Steph: What’s your point? LOL. The kids are bickering over whose glass has more milk.

  Libby: I miss them.

  She grinned. Steph’s kids were mini-tornadoes who broke things, spilled things, and caused as much mayhem as they could fit into a day. But they gave great hugs and she loved them dearly.

  Steph: They miss you too. So do I. But enough of the gooey love stuff. Do you have anything fabulous you want me to look at?

  Of course I do, but he’s probably still sleeping. Libby jerked at the thought. Where in the heck did that come from? In no way, shape or form was she interested in Maxwell August. Yes, he was attractive but he had the disposition of a badger.

  Libby: I have a few things you might like. Will send them later in an email.

  The next hour was a flurry of text messages back and forth, but they carefully avoided any discussion of Slayte Designs. Eventually the subject would come up. Steph obviously was giving Libby some breathing room, and Libby was grateful.

  Steph: Meet anyone yet?

  Libby made a face. She and Steph didn’t lie to each other, no matter what.

  Libby: The guy in the next cabin is a real piece of work. Thinks he can shove me out of the way at the grocery to get juice. But he has the cutest dog.

  The next fifteen minutes was text-interrogation. Steph was a bloodhound whose investigative instincts could put most reporters to shame. By the time the cross-examination was over, she knew what Max looked like, every word he’d said, and how he and Libby met.

  Steph: He sounds yummy.

  Libby had no idea how Steph came to that conclusion since she’d used words like scraggly, scruffy, shabby, and messy. Actually, he wasn’t scraggly, scruffy, shabby, or messy. And dammit, he was yummy.

  Libby: Not.

  Steph: Take a picture of him with your cell phone and send it to me.

  Libby: Yeah, that won’t happen.

  Steph: Don’t be a wuss. LOL. Have to go. The kids are throwing cereal at each other. May the fashion-gods be with you. Love ya.

  Libby laughed. Someone had to lead the way to her day. It might as well be the fashion-gods. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and went to her happy place—the runways in Milan, Paris, and New York. She’d been to all three and hoped someday to have her designs clothe the models that graced the catwalks. Before it could happen she had to develop a business plan and create some mindboggling garments.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, she opened her eyes, grabbed her sketchpad and smiled wickedly. “Thanks, Steph.”

  Libby drew with a vengeance. A sheer, black corset-style top with leather lacing up the front appeared on the page. From there, came a black diaphanous shirt, with a semi-sheer camisole underneath. She complemented the look with a hip-hugging black leather mini-skirt and a thin leather choker bejeweled with a clear rhinestone in the center. She added fishnet stockings and four-inch ankle-strap stilettos. Too wanton. She nixed the fishnet stockings. Depending on how the ensemble was worn, the fashion statement could be: “If this doesn’t catch his eye, nothing will” or “I know it’s a bit risqué, but sometimes a girl has to mix things up”. Libby giggled.

  By noon, she had an array of delectable sheer garments with a hint of leather and a smidgen of lace. Libby stopped long enough to pour a glass of juice and grab a couple of cheese sticks. Between nibbles of cheese, she let the creative gnome living inside her head run wild with camouflage—heavy with stretchy black lace, light on the camo. The theme of her drawings seemed to navigate t
o naughty-with-discretion in certain places. Her ideas involved proud-to-show cleavage designs with lace-covered midriffs, confident hip-hugging pants and skirts, and a selection of equally delicious garments for plus-sized gals.

  Libby stretched her neck from side to side to work out a kink. Her left hand was tight from overuse and her butt was getting flat from all the sitting. Minimal discomfort for such an amazing day.

  The rain was long gone and the sun was on its way down. If she hurried she could get a short walk in before dark.

  Into a chartreuse slicker and pair of waterproof half-boots, Libby was out the door in thirty seconds flat.

  ****

  Rory put his paws on Max’s legs and wagged his tail, both signs that if he didn’t go outside soon he’d pee all over the place. “Okay, boy. I need a break too. My eyes are starting to cross.” Max closed his laptop with a sigh. His fingers were dying to burn up the keyboard but his muse wouldn’t cooperate. He drank coffee like it was going out of style, which usually got his thoughts revved to high gear. Not today. Hours of frustration clawed him from the inside out and a few times during the day he’d contemplated throwing his laptop into the lake.

  Max blamed this current bout of writer’s block on his editor, Marco, who called to remind him that the book was due in a month. Well no shit. He was painfully aware of the looming deadline. He didn’t need Marco to point it out. He dropped the f-bomb and Rory hid behind the loveseat.

  Max grabbed his coat and Rory’s leash, and hoped like hell he wouldn’t run into Libby. He was already distracted to the point he couldn’t write. Bumping into her would only make things worse. “Stalking her? Who does she think she is, Kim Kardashian?” The only one he’d even think of stalking—not in a creepy way—was Kim.