Life Unwritten

by T. I. Lowe

  Roselyn’s actual assistant rushes over in a tizzy and pulls Maxine away, mumbling something about an emergency, but not before my spunky agent mouths, BEHAVE in my direction.

  “Why don’t you join me?” Adrian pats the space beside him.

  There’s no way I can sit or I’ll be stuck there the rest of the night until someone rescues me. Nope. Gonna keep on standing. Playing it off, I pat the top of the railing. “Or you could just mosey over here and join me.”

  Adrian chuckles again, seemingly amused by everything I do, as he stands and maneuvers to my side. He leans beside me and scans the crowd. “So, tell me what you think about the new book.”

  My tender shoulder offers a stiff shrug. “It’s okay.”

  “Just okay?” The man is now smirking at me.

  Does he know who I really am? No way, could he?

  “What do you think about it?” Leaning closer, I whisper, “You can be honest. I won’t tell Roselyn.”

  His gaze shifts from me to Roselyn and then back to me. “Loved it. If Janet Evanovich and James Patterson had a literary love child, this book would be it. All of the books so far would be, if I’m honest.”

  “Wow. That’s quite a compliment.” There’s no holding my own smile back.

  “What I would give for a glimpse inside that creative brain…” Adrian shakes his head and takes a sip of the tea a server just handed him. The condensation on the jar looks good enough to lick.

  I look away with hopes of ignoring my overwhelming thirst and begin rambling. “The majority of the reading world loves a good mystery. They love to get lost in the suspense, but not so deep that they can’t find their way out of the book. And real life is so stressful nowadays that they’re dying for a genuine laugh. My favorite part is that these characters are dynamic and can be complicated, but never take themselves too seriously.”

  “That’s what I like as well.” Adrian takes my hand again and leans close. “I’m glad you are on our team, Miss Blume. It’s time you stop allowing them to tell you who to be.”

  Frozen in disbelief, I can do nothing but watch him walk away.

  How does he know who I am?

  Chapter Two

  How does Adrian Wild know who I am?

  The frustrating question plagues me all the way home from the book release party. No way would Maxine tell and chance ruining her golden ticket. Someone has ratted me out. I don’t know whether to be hurt by someone’s disloyalty or to be grateful to them. I’m leaning toward grateful. It’s time.

  Change… More changes need to be made. Shoot, my cholesterol is in check, my heart isn’t swimming in a vat of fat anymore, and my butt fits properly in a single-digit pair of jeans. But is my life really healthier? Jury is still out on that one. The problem is there’s a darkness residing in my bones so debilitating that some days I’m unable to make it out of bed. And that shouts at me that more change is needed.

  With no answer on how to fix any of that, I brush it to the side and focus on the light shining from my den as I park the car in the driveway. It’s a tradition of sorts for the last five years and I’m comforted in it continuing tonight. Knowing he’s in my house waiting to celebrate or console or whatever I need from him, causes a stinging in my eyes. I blink several times to rid the emotions begging to bubble out and head inside.

  Soft music wafts to the foyer in greeting as I close the front door behind me. Kicking off my shoes, I limp to the den where the devastatingly handsome man sits, one leg resting on the opposite knee and an arm slung in casual grace over the back of the overstuffed sofa.

  “Congrats, darlin’.” Jack raises the crystal flute in his hand toward me. His voice as smooth and refreshing as the sparkling liquid in that glass promises to be.

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  His dark eyes assess my stilted gait as I step closer. “What’s up with that? You look like you got the raw end of the deal against a bull at a rodeo.”

  “Leave it to you to go vulgar at the first opportunity presented.” I snatch the flute out of his hand and down it in one satisfying gulp before handing it back for a refill. The tickling heat spreads down my throat and settles deep inside. “Keep ‘em coming. I’ve gotta catch up.” A grunt escapes me as I ease down onto the couch.

  “Did you fall flat on your sweet little behind tonight?”

  He’s still holding the empty glass, so I point to the chilled bottle of champagne on the coffee table. “I went to that stupid body boot camp this morning. Sorry to disappoint, but no embarrassing follies tonight or any bull fights.”

  “Dang… I was ready for the details.” Jack refills the flute and hands it over like the gentleman he was raised to be, but normally doesn’t practice.

  This time I use a little restraint and only take a generous sip while looking around the cozy beachside cottage that’s comfortably dressed in a shabby chic style. Pride places a faint smile on my lips, reminding me how ghost writing hasn’t been such a bad end of a stick. Maybe the stay-in-the-shadows plan should continue.

  I raise my glass toward the teak bookshelf by the fireplace. It holds the testament of my success, seven NYT bestsellers, before draining the glass. There went my restraint…

  “Whoa there, darlin’.”

  “Don’t whoa me. I need some liquid lubrication for my sore joints and bruised ego.” I’m cringing before finishing the sentence, knowing he’s about to put me in my overindulging place.

  A grimace dances along his handsome features as he pushes a hand through his perfectly tousled brown hair. “You know this is a celebratory toast. Be of little wine, young lady.”

  “Oh, great day, now you’re going to go all spiritual on me.” I roll my eyes.

  “If you’re looking for a remedy, I can offer you some TLC.” He puckers his lips and leans my way, but I quickly place a hand over his face to shove him away. The sucker licks my palm in retaliation.

  “Eww. Gross, Jack! I’d knock you with a pillow if I could lift the dang thing.” Another grunt escapes me when I try raising my legs onto the coffee table. My feet remain on the floor, so I give up the notion and slump further into the cushions of the couch.

  “I thought you were just going to count that obscene class fee as a loss and move on.” He slumps beside me.

  “You know how stubborn I am. I figured if the jerk wouldn’t reimburse me, he’d at least be stuck dealing with me for the next two months.”

  Jack’s laughter bounces around the room. It’s as rich and soothing as the two drinks I’ve had, but also leaves me wanting more as always.

  “At least you’re getting out of the house. I’m proud of you.”

  “You’re proud I’m taking a class to be vindictive?” I snort.

  “Did you show up and act like a brat?” His perfectly groomed eyebrows hitch up.

  I shake my empty glass and he obliges by picking up the bottle. “That was the plan, but Sergeant Jerk didn’t give me a chance to misbehave. And now I’m so sore, I was scared to have a drink at the party for fear a potty break would end up in a fire department rescue.”

  The bottle hovers over my glass as Jack’s brows now pinch together. Knowing what’s coming, I try snatching it from his grasp, but he’s quicker and pulls it just out of reach.

  “Do we seriously need to have this talk again?”

  “Jack—”

  “You’re not that overweight woman anymore. And, sweetheart, you’ve never been rescue squad heavy.” He sighs heavily and shakes his head. “I really wish you saw your true self.”

  “Easier said than done,” I whisper, wondering how different my life would have been had he not left me. I brush those sore thoughts away and go for self-demeaning. “My outfits hide a lot of imperfections.”

  His features transform from concern to raucous challenge instantly. “Take that dress off and let me be the one to decide that.” His hand starts to tease the hem of the dress, but I slap it away. “I’ve seen you naked before. No need in being shy about it now.”


  “Knock it off. We were all of three years old at the time,” I remind him. Jack opens his mouth to obviously deliver something inappropriate, but I quickly add, “Just pour the drink already!”

  I’m beyond relieved when he lets the subject go and finally delivers a small refill. Clinking the bottle to my glass, he joins me in a drink. The bubbling liquid leaves a heady warmth in its wake as I snuggle closer to my best friend.

  Our history is a simple one. Kids who lived next door to each other and seemed to always end up in the same class throughout elementary school. But that’s where the simplicity veered off. We are both from old-money southern families who are blessed in abundant wealth and burdened with scandalous history. The scandals were as old as the money, but the Calloway Family had had enough by the time Jack and I were nine. They left Savannah, Georgia and moved clear across the country to Portland, Oregon the day after Jack’s tenth birthday. What a cruel gift that was. Suddenly, my best friend was gone with only loneliness to keep me company in my family’s grand Georgian mansion.

  Jack filled the holes formed from the neglect of my parents and the isolation that came with my life of privilege. Without him, I became lost for well over a decade.

  I lean my head against his shoulder and inhale his subtle cologne. The familiar hints of eucalyptus and mint make me smile. “I missed you.”

  “Three whole days without me had to be pure misery,” he teases, not knowing my thoughts are lingering in the past.

  With my best friend gone, food became my go-to to combat the dark solitude surrounding me. Luckily, he found his way back to me after college. Jack was the one to finally talk me off the obesity ledge. One look at the hurt in his eyes when he showed up at the cottage, and I knew the cold hard truth had come home to roost. The pain he reflected was so severe, there was no mistaking him taking the neglect of my body personal. His words that day stung as he held me.

  “Darlin’, why did you do this to yourself?”

  Jack saw me and my self-inflicted wounds for what it was, unlike my parents or the rest of the world. They didn’t see me at all. He called me out on it and then remained steadfast with helping me conquer my weight issue. It took a while to get my act together on the weight loss, but I’ve still not figured out how to get past my low self-esteem.

  “I’m so glad tonight is over with,” I mumble, fatigue settling into my bones.

  “How did it go?” He takes my glass and places it and the bottle on the table.

  I notice he shoves it out of my reach.

  “Same as always. Roselyn sparkled. I mostly hid. Maxine tried passing me off as the assistant again.” I decide not to tell him about Adrian Wild, thinking I may have made the whole exchange into something it wasn’t. It’s a weird writer trait I possess—always creating a story out of nothing.

  “Did you start speaking in Spanish like last time?”

  “No. I went for honesty in a roundabout snarky way.”

  Jack pats my leg. “That’s my girl. Did you tell Maxine the ghost gig is up?”

  He’s been on me for the last few years to put an end to ghost writing, so I already know he’s about to lay into me. I feel it coming and go on the defense. “I tried, but she brushed me off again.”

  “Because you let her.” He turns so I have to pick up my head and meet his eyes. “Seriously, Harper, you’ve got them all wrapped around your little finger. There’s no excuse for you being such a chicken.”

  “Around my little finger? Hardly.”

  “Oh? Explain to me this, why would a release party for a mega-successful book be held in a sleepy coastal town instead of New York or California?”

  “The inner banks area was the perfect backdrop for the party, so I wanted it to be there,” I explain.

  “Exactly! You wanted it and they made it happen for you. You have enough authority to make them be here tonight on your terms. Heck, I bet you even had the final say-so on the details of the party. Think about all of the untapped power you have at your pretty little fingertips.”

  I nod dismissively. Too tired to go there tonight. “How was the soft opening at Calloway Shores?”

  Jack eyes me, clearly trying to decide whether to allow me to change the subject or not. His lips eventually pull into a smirk. “Darlin’, there was nothing soft about it. We were hard at it the entire night, or I would have been by your side at that fancy porch party.”

  Jack’s parents made sure to provide their son with an expensive business degree. Jack, in return, took his wealth of knowledge and has opened four of the hottest restaurants along the East Coast with it.

  We talk a while longer, but I’m still thirsty, so I produce a yawn and say, “I can barely hold my eyes open.”

  “Need me to tuck you into bed?”

  “No thanks.” I yawn again and this has him rising to his feet.

  Jack bends down and places a kiss onto my forehead before gathering the champagne flute and bottle. I remain on the couch and mournfully listen on as the remaining contents of the bottle pours down the kitchen sink.

  “Good night, darlin’,” Jack calls out from the foyer.

  “Good night,” I reply, infusing as much sleepiness in my tone as possible.

  I anxiously wait several minutes past hearing the lock slide into place on the front door and then the sound of his car driving off before I make a move. My body protests, but I manage to make it off the couch and to my bathroom. The white floral arrangement taking up most of the vanity’s counter space catches my attention as soon as I flip the light on.

  This is another one of Jack’s traditions. He’s given me flowers for as long as I can remember. The first memory of him doing this was maybe around age five or six. It was only a fistful of wilted dandelions and when I brought them inside and placed them in one of my mother’s mini vases, she was appalled.

  “Those things are weeds that are fitting for the garbage. Not a crystal vase.” She snatched the tiny bouquet out of her precious vase and ordered the maid to dispose of them.

  I was heartbroken and ran to my room, but later on the maid snuck in with the dandelions. She had placed them in an old coffee cup. “You know the meaning to a dandelion, child?”

  “No ma’am.” I wiped the tears away and sat up on the bed.

  She sat the cup on my dresser and turned to offer a smile. “They are a gift of happiness and faithfulness.”

  Both meanings fit Jackson Calloway’s friendship like a custom-made suit.

  Recalling that fond memory, I smile while testing the buttery soft petal of the white flowers. I lean in and take a testing sniff, finding the flowers to hold an exotic smell that’s quite intense. I pluck the card out that’s nestled amongst the lilies and read it.

  The Casablanca is an oriental lily. It symbolizes success and celebration. Tonight, I celebrate you, darlin’. Love, Jack

  Ever since I shared with him what the maid had shared with me, Jack always includes the meaning of the flowers he sends to me. He’s my dearest yet only friend, and this double-edged sword of my reality always leaves me in a state of gratefulness with a side of hollowness.

  “And now it’s my turn to celebrate,” I say to no one while limping back to the kitchen where the bottle of bourbon awaits.

  The first shot burns considerably and evokes a cough, but by the third it’s as smooth as glass. I ease over to the back of the couch and gaze outside at the ocean waves bathed in moonlight. I raise the bottle to the beach before taking a considerable drink.

  *****

  Everything hurts. Head pounding, legs cramping, back aching, and neck kinking. Everything single inch of my body is in agony.

  I try adjusting in the bed, but my face comes in contact with something cold and hard. Prying my eyes open and blinking them a few times, I realize my bed is actually my spa tub. And a beach towel is in the place of my fluffy comforter.

  While I contemplate on how I ended up here, Jack walks in and casually sits down on the closed toilet seat. I know he knew I’d
end up doing this and also knew I’d need him this morning. If everything didn’t hurt so badly, I’d be embarrassed.

  “What, Jack?” I mutter, but wish I didn’t. Two words have the pounding in my temples picking up speed.

  “What are you doing in the tub?” His voice is smooth, sounding well-rested—a total contrast to my scratchy rasp.

  I try to sit up, but slump back down when my sore body refuses to participate. “Don’t know.”

  Jack moves over to the sink, washes his hands and combs his hair with the locks instantly cooperating. All the while, I’m trapped in the tub and can do nothing but watch him groom himself.

  As he straightens the cuffs of his dress shirt, his eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Laying like that can’t be good for your body after that class yesterday.” He turns around and studies me.

  “Ya think? Why’d you let me sleep here?” I croak out, deciding to place the blame on him.

  He crosses his arms over his chest, and I try my darnedest to not ogle. Jack is one extremely good-looking man. I’d go as far as calling him pretty. High cheekbones, long eyelashes, pouty lips…

  “Darlin’, I left you on the couch last night. This is all on you.” He unfolds his arms and offers a hand to help me climb out. “Come on, you lush. Up you go.”

  As soon as I take it, he pulls me up and all of that bourbon churning in my gut comes up as well. All over his nice shirt.

  Talk about a whiskey sour…

  Chapter Three

  Two weeks of determination have painfully gone by with me resolute on getting my money’s worth from Sergeant Beck McCaffery. I’ve dragged my tired, aching body to the beach at least ten minutes early each Tuesday and Thursday morning to prove to the jerk I know all about commitment. I also express to him that I’m all about making his life equally as hellacious as his class is making mine. Each morning I stand beside the heavy-set woman, who doesn’t acknowledge my presence, griping and complaining about each fitness task Beck divvies out.