by Romes, Jan
Max grabbed a can of coffee and headed toward the checkout. Along the way, his cell phone rang. He groaned when he identified the caller. Not again. “Hello,” he said with little-to-no enthusiasm.
“How’s it going?” Marco sounded upbeat, but Max knew something was up. Too bad they weren’t on video chat so he could roll his eyes. “Freaking peachy,” he said, unable to curb his sudden black mood. “What are you going to do, call me every hour?”
Marco laughed. “Nah. Just wanted to give you a heads up that Jean just left my office. She’s starting to pace.”
They both knew when Jean Symmun paced she would have Marco bug him until the manuscript was on her desk. Max wanted to throw the can of coffee. “Shit.”
“I know, man, sorry. She’ll probably be back in here bright and early. What would you like me to tell her?”
To piss off. Max hated this stage of the game. Jean Symmun, the Editor-in-Chief, was a hyper woman who made life crazy from time to time. “Tell her to take two antacids and call me in three weeks.”
“Yeah, right. I want to keep my job. I’m going to tell her that you’re on the last chapter.” Before Max could balk, Marco hung up.
Max frowned at the cashier, frowned at the boy who put the can of coffee in a bag, and frowned at Libby when he climbed into the Jeep.
Libby smiled. When he didn’t respond with the same he noticed a slight dip between her brows like she was trying to determine what prompted his change in temperament. “You’ve got your coffee so writing will commence?”
“Yep.” He looked straight ahead.
“What chapter are you on?” Libby tapped the steering wheel with her thumb while she drove.
“Twenty.”
“How many chapters do your books normally have?”
“Thirty or so.” His answers were stiff and unfriendly.
From his peripheral he watched Libby gnaw her bottom lip. “What’s the book about?”
Max was in no mood to discuss the book or make small talk, and he was mentally thrashing himself for being a jerk. But it was necessary. Yeah right, August. Keep telling yourself that. The truth was that he shouldn’t have gotten friendly with her in the first place. Now that he had, he could tell Libby was interested. He noticed how her eyes sparkled when she looked at him and the soft quiver in her voice when she spoke. As much as it pained him to cut things off, he had to. He didn’t want to lead her on that something real could develop between them.
Instead of answering her question, he clammed up.
Silence took over.
Heavy, awkward silence.
Ten full minutes of mind-numbing silence.
The cabin came into view.
As soon as Libby put the vehicle in Park, Max was out of the Jeep. “Thanks for the ride.”
Chapter Five
Libby hadn’t been out of the cabin much in the past week and a half because Mother Nature decided to be a beast and pounded Celina with rain. It had been a test to see if she would go nuts being cooped up. She almost did. When the sun finally peeked out she couldn’t grab her coat fast enough. Halfway through the campground the temperamental weather-minx returned, covering the sun with dark clouds, plummeting the temperature at least ten degrees and kicking up the wind. Libby pulled up the collar of her coat and shoved her hands in her pockets.
It didn’t take long for the cold to chill her to the bone. Libby sighed with disappointment. She purposely stayed outside longer than she should have, hoping to bump into Max and Rory. She hadn’t seen Max since the day she hauled his butt home from town. She’d hoped he would ask her for a ride to pick up his car when it was finished, but it didn’t happen. The car was back in the driveway so the body shop must have dropped it off.
Libby tried to rationalize Max’s elusiveness to working on his novel, but she couldn’t muffle the insecurity that she’d done something to turn him off. Maybe she sucked at kissing and he didn’t want to risk having to do it again.
She touched her lips remembering his kiss. Unequivocally, it had been the best kiss ever, and she so wanted Max to make it happen a second time…or a hundred.
Argh! It was maddening being strung out over someone who didn’t give a rat’s ass that she was around.
Libby returned to the cabin and tried her best to get the creative cogs turning. Five minutes later she closed the lid on her laptop.
After making a cup of peppermint tea, she stretched out on the loveseat. She took a few sips of tea and waited for the mouth-tingling flavor of peppermint to do more than wake up her taste buds. If she was lucky it would be strong enough to penetrate the cotton blocking her ingenuity.
She drummed her fingers on the handle of the cup.
Took a few more sips.
Ran her fingers around the rim of the glass.
Downed the remaining tea.
And cursed.
The only way to rev up her imagination was to go back to basics—a number two pencil, a pouch of colored pencils, and the feel of paper under her fingertips. She had to put her nose to the grindstone and just start drawing.
Libby opened the sketchpad. Visions of a halter-type dress in cornflower blue with pearlescent buttons surrounding a teardrop peek hole at the bust rushed in. She hurried to put it on paper before it rushed back out. In the middle of the pattern, she lost interest and dropped the pad and pencils beside the sofa.
This restlessness was for the birds. She knew what it would take to fix it, but she wasn’t ready to make the first move. Max had shut her out, not the other way around. She grabbed a fashion magazine from her tote. If the article and pictures dedicated to Paris Fashion Week didn’t help, she was in big trouble. She paged through the magazine like a junkie in need of a fix. A small sound of pleasure came of its own volition at the sight of models clothed in flowing dresses, some in leopard and zebra prints, sunflower patterns, and shoes with gold studding.
The joy was short-lived.
A feral groan came from somewhere close to her soul. In a heartbeat she was in her coat, standing on the deck and staring in the direction of Max’s cabin.
****
It was the damndest thing—words flowed out of him like someone turned a valve. Libby’s reference to stalking was exactly what his novel needed. Since then, he was on fire. Of course the stalking bit made a mess of his outline, but sometimes a writer had to stray from the original plan to make things click. Thanks to Libby he was not only clicking, he was painting the story with an efficiency that blew him away.
Max slurped the last drop of coffee from his cup and shot the empty pot a look of longing. He needed another jolt of caffeine to stay awake. A coffee IV would be nice. He yawned so hard he almost fell out of the chair. Instead of going to bed last night, he’d pulled an all-nighter; something he hadn’t done since college. He was almost finished with another chapter. Soon he would nap. Neither would happen until he refilled his cup and gave his body a good stretch. All the sitting over the last several days made his butt numb and locked up his back.
Rory jumped up from the rug in front of the sink where he’d been snoozing and scratched at the sliding doors.
“I know. You need to go out.” Max slid the doors open. A gust of cold air hit him in the chest, making him shiver. He’d wanted to go out earlier but he was afraid the fresh air would’ve been too big of a disruption and he’d have a hard time coming back inside. Now it was too late. The skies had darkened, making it seem like dusk instead of two o’clock in the afternoon and the wind had picked up enough to sway the treetops. Goodbye, autumn. Hello, fringe of winter.
Rory scampered outside without the leash. When Max didn’t leash him, the dog knew to take care of business and come right back. He sniffed the nearest tree and sprinkled the bark to mark his territory. He did the same to three more trees before looking back at Max and then sprinting off toward the lakefront.
Max grabbed his jacket from the back of the loveseat and the leash from the counter. “Come back here.” He repeated the comma
nd several times, but it didn’t look as though Rory was going to surrender his freedom, and maintained his trek toward the lake. “You little shit!” It was hard to be a writing recluse when you had a dog. Maybe he’d let Libby have the miniature mongrel after all.
Nah. Rory was his buddy, even if he was a pain. Without him, it would get damned lonely in that cabin. Straight away he thought about Libby being alone too. After reading that hurtful post he decided she’d come to Celina to regroup. A potent thought made him stop in his tracks—he and Libby weren’t that different. They both had the rug pulled out from under them. Although right now, it didn’t matter how alike they were, he had a dog to catch and a book to finish.
A series of yips snapped Libby from her daze and a slow smile spread across her face. Rory was outside which meant so was his owner. Her heart did a weird flip in her chest.
A gaggle of geese waddled along the shore and Rory’s small feet were running as fast they could go to join them. Libby didn’t know much about geese but they outnumbered him twenty to one and she had a feeling a furry intrusion wouldn’t go well. She looked for Max and found him heavy footing it after his dog.
As predicted, the geese were in no mood for company. They relocated to another part of the lake instead of standing their ground.
Max almost had his hands on Rory when he switched directions, zigzagging away from his master and hopping on and off the rocks that lined the shore.
Libby giggled when Max threatened Rory with no treats for a month if he didn’t get off those rocks this second. In a small way she was tickled that Rory was being obstinate. At the same time, those rocks didn’t look too stable. One false move and that cute pile of fur would be in the lake. She contemplated calling him to see if he’d come running. Max might not want her help. After all, the day they met he said he’d appreciate it if she didn’t get chummy with his dog. A lot had come and gone since then and she wasn’t sure that still applied.
Alarm coursed through Libby when the rock Rory pranced on wobbled under his tiny weight. She was down the deck steps and halfway to the lake in two seconds flat. Max lunged forward to get the taunting mongrel. The little dog jumped out of the way and the rocks gave way.
Rory didn’t end up in the lake—Max did.
Libby got to the scene at breakneck speed. “Oh God, Max!” She offered her hand but he waved it away. Adrenaline pummeled her insides. The lake was ice cold and if he didn’t get out of there ASAP he would be in big trouble. “Please, let me help you.”
“Get back, Libby, it’s not safe.” Max swam to another spot and tried to pull himself out. The rocks he grabbed let loose too, sending him underwater.
“Noooo.” Libby was about to dive in when Max surfaced, teeth clattering, his eyes wide with alarm. “Give me your hand, dammit,” she said with more fear than authority.
To her surprise, he didn’t argue.
With all her strength, she pulled and fell backwards onto the ground. The effort was enough to heave Max out of the water but his chest hit the rocks.
Libby sprang up. “Are you hurt?”
Max didn’t respond to the question, probably because he was shaking so hard it was difficult to do anything else. His lips were a light shade of purple and his skin, a milky tint of gray. Libby’s pulse thudded in her chest and at her temples. With the cold air and blustery wind hitting him, she had to do something fast before hypothermia took a hold of him. Libby put her arms under Max’s shoulders for leverage, which put his face in her chest. There was no time to adjust him. She took a deep breath and tugged with all her might. They both sailed backwards. Max landed smack dab on top of her. Under different circumstances, she would’ve blushed from her scalp to her toes. As it was, she didn’t have time to dwell on the familiarity of their bodies touching everywhere. She rolled him to the side, took his forearms and brought him to his feet. With his arm draped across her shoulder she hurried them to her cabin. Rory followed close behind.
Libby monitored Max’s vital signs while removing his dripping wet jacket, wondering if a call to 9-1-1 was needed. His breathing seemed okay, although his body was being racked by shivers and he was still the color of ash. She spoke gently, but in a rush. “We have to get you out of those clothes.” He didn’t resist and seemed incapable of helping.
She pulled off his sneakers and tried to unbutton his chambray shirt. After fighting with the first two buttons, Libby took a hold of the front and pulled it apart, buttons went flying. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
She dropped to her knees to unsnap his jeans. She slid down the zipper and tried to work the wet denim from his hips but the soggy fabric seemed to stick to his body. Libby tugged hard but the jeans stayed in place. If the darned things didn’t move soon, she was going to cut the blasted things off. One last effort paid off. The jeans came down around his ankles and she was face to face with the front of his boxers. Libby jumped up like a coiled spring. Wet or not, those were staying on.
A hard tremor shook Max’s muscled frame. Tears welled in Libby’s eyes. She had to get him warmed up. “I’ll be right back.” Libby tore up the stairs to the loft. In one fluid yank, she had the comforter, fuzzy blanket, flat and fitted sheets off the bed. She was down the stairs just as quick.
Libby wrapped Max in a cocoon of bedding, pushed the loveseat as close to the fireplace as she could and guided him onto it. She raced to dial the thermostat to the highest setting.
Rory whimpered like he knew he’d caused this. Libby scratched him behind the ears. “He’ll be okay, boy.” At least she hoped he would be. She placed Rory on Max’s lap. “You two get warm. I’ll make some tea.” Libby shivered, realizing that she was soaked to the gills too.
Max was deathly quiet and he appeared confused. Hypothermia was a body’s inability to warm itself. And some of the symptoms were shivering and disorientation. Shit. Shit. Shit. She kept her eyes glued to him while filling a kettle with water.
While waiting for the water to boil she knelt in front of Max. “I know you’re not in the mood to talk, but you have to.” If he didn’t, she was calling the emergency squad. She moved a lock of damp hair from his forehead. “This sucks, doesn’t it?”
His lips quivered, a clear sign he was still cold to the bone. He managed a weak, “U-Understatement.”
Libby remembered reading an article a while back about hypothermia, but the information was now tucked away in the archives of her brain. Think. She puffed out a breath of air. There was something in the piece about re-warming a person with body-to-body warmth. Ugh! Was she going to have to get naked and lay against Max to warm him? Yes. Yes she was. She swore without making a sound.
Libby stood up, tossed her coat on the counter and began to peel away layers of damp clothing. Her lacy boy-cut underwear was only slightly damp so she left them on. She stood before Max with her arms splayed across her breasts, probably blushing in places that weren’t prone to blushing.
Max’s blue eyes rounded with surprise. Hers had to be the size of silver dollars.
“Drastic circumstances call for drastic measures.” Libby lifted the blankets and snuggled against him.
Max drew away liked she’d stuck him with a red-hot poker. “Not necessary,” he said quite succinctly despite his clattering teeth. “I’ll be fine.” He sneezed and huddled deeper into the blankets.
Libby burned with mortification. “You let me step out of my clothes and burrow under the covers.”
Uncertainty etched his expression. “I didn’t know what you were doing.”
The whistle of the teapot cut into the awkwardness.
Libby’s emotions were raw. She wanted to clobber him, hug him, and cry at the same time. “Regardless, y-you could have stopped me.” Libby started to stammer and the heat of embarrassment warmed her right away. She slid out of the covers feeling like a giant fool. The teapot continued its annoying call for attention. She stomped to the stove, turned off the burner and fled to the loft, taking the steps three at a time.
As much as she hated to admit it, Max was right. She hadn’t told him what she was up to. For all he knew, she was a nut job or someone who would take advantage of the situation. Libby pulled on a pair of ragged jeans and a white turtleneck sweater, and topped it with an Ohio State hoodie.
She had to coax herself to go back downstairs.
She made two cups of tea and tried to carry them to the lamp table without spilling them, but her hands shook so bad tea sloshed over the sides. Tears burned behind her eyes that had nothing to do with the pain from scalding hot tea. She would not cry. She’d already stripped in front of Max; she sure as hell didn’t want to cry in front of him too.
Libby handed him a cup without looking at him. “It has antioxidants to keep you from getting sick.”
“Libby,” Max started to say, but Libby put her palm up to stop him. She’d been an idiot and couldn’t bear to hear him confirm it or try to smooth things over.
She had to get the heck out of the cabin so she could screw her head back on straight. She needed a fresh start from her fresh start. No more whining about losing her job. No more trying to befriend or entice Maxwell August, which she’d unwittingly had been trying to do since she arrived in Celina. More importantly, no more clothes removal for any reason. If he fell in the lake again, he was on his own.
Libby gathered Max’s clothes and coat and tossed them in the dryer.
Still without meeting his eyes, she moved toward the door. “I-I’m going into town. Your clothes should be dry in about fifteen minutes. Your coat will take a lot longer.” She held up his soggy sneakers. “I’ll make a pit stop at your cabin to get you some different shoes.” Before he could alter the plan, she left.
****
It felt weird being in Max’s cabin. First order of business, she cranked up the heat to the fireplace so it would be toasty warm when he came home and placed the wet shoes in front of it. Libby traipsed to the loft and located a pair of black boots sitting by the suitcase Max had propped against the wall. Beside the boots was a stack of hard cover books with the name Zeb August emblazoned on the front. She grabbed one of the books and flipped it over. On the back jacket was a picture of Max, beardless and smiling. Max was Zeb August? Libby’s breath caught in her lungs. When he said he was a writer, she never dreamed he was award-winning author Zeb August. He was known the world over—writing royalty. She sank down on his bed.
