"Women."
"Pardon?"
He walked along, one hand in the pocket of his shorts, the other gripping the iPad. "Girls, actually. I was in fourth grade when I wrote my first love letter."
"Were you really?"
"Uh-huh. She had curly red hair and sat two desks in front of mine. I honed my joke-telling skills that year." Christian turned his chin to her as they walked. "I wanted to make her laugh. Used to like to watch her freckles dance when she giggled."
"It never occurred to me that boys could be romantic." She wrinkled her nose and glanced at him. "Aren't they usually more interested in using sticks as guns and rolling in dirt?"
He feigned offense, clutching at his heart and gasping. "Nine-year-old me is pained."
She clucked her tongue. "I doubt that very much."
“Okay. To be straight with you—my Romeo days were over by fifth grade. If I recall correctly, I had no use for women that year."
"How very sad."
He shrugged. "No need to weep. I was back in the saddle by sixth grade—with a vengeance. By then, my buddies and I had formed a posse to identify eligible ladies and to let them know of our most ardent affections."
"Well, Jane Austen would have been so pleased."
"Man. Don't get me started about her Mr. Darcy. That guy made it tough on the male species around the globe. We were lucky to land a peck on the cheek after that guy raised the bar to such heights."
"Don't be dramatic." She slid a glance at him, taking in the tiny smile. The scar that trailed up his cheekbone turned scarlet and she looked away.
"Speaking of dramatic," he said. "I sensed the other night that the breakfast meeting Jackson had set up for the both of you was a serious one."
She bit her bottom lip and kept her eyes focused on the winding path in front of them.
"I've known Jackson for years," he continued, "and though he doesn't often spill his guts, I can tell when he's got something heavy on his mind."
"It has been rough for him, recovering from all that my sister stole from ... us." She heaved a sigh. "I will do everything in my strength to help him restore what has been lost."
"Is that why you're really here?"
Her mind fiddled with that question. Why was she here? Was it simply to reconnect more fully with the brother she never knew? She had walked away from her apartment, her small circle of friends ... even put her fledgling business at arm's distance with this move.
And yet, she knew. Sophia knew the impetus that had caused her to dislodge her roots and take Jackson and Meg up on their offer to move to this funky seaside town. She'd found a seemingly insignificant bump from her past buried inside a box of memories, something she probably should have burned or shredded. But for some reason, she hadn’t, and when it fluttered to the ground while she was digging for evidence of her newfound family, it struck her once, then twice. A memory on which she had pivoted.
Those few lines revealed so much to her.
"Sophia?"
She startled. "Yes. Sorry. I was distracted by ... by all this beauty out here."
“Aha, so you admit that the City is not all it's cracked up to be."
"I will admit no such thing." She shook her head and pasted a flabbergasted smile on her face. "You don't give up, do you?"
He was quiet for a moment as they walked. "No, I'd have to say that, no, I don't give up easily."
They reached the door to the chapel. She tilted her head. "Would you like to go in for a moment?"
"Why not?"
Their steps echoed in the simple space. Goose bumps lit along her arm, like they had that first time she'd entered through those doors the year before. White walls, high ceilings covered in shiplap, rough-hewn beams stained to a warm tone—it was magical. "Jackson and Meg were married here."
Christian looked around, one hand in his pocket. He wore an expression of regret. "I wish I could've been here."
"Did it conflict with your schedule?"
He looked at her, then slowly shook his head. "I didn't know about it."
"Oh." She felt herself blush. Had he not been invited? "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Jackson had sent me an invitation, but I had already moved. It didn't reach me in time."
So this must have been the reason behind Jackson's cryptic remark about Christian's forwarding orders. "That's too bad. It was a beautiful, inspirational ceremony."
He stared at her long enough to cause another round of blushing. She looked away, toward the steps at the front of the room, remembering Jackson and Meg saying their vows beneath a rough, wooden cross.
“Well, like I said, I would have liked to have been here."
She nodded. "And then I would not have tried to run away from you at the airport!"
He laughed. "I'll never forget that wide-eyed look you gave me. Your eyes were like ... well, they were like wild willow, only on fire."
She shrank back at this. "I don't believe I've ever heard my eyes described as anything other than green."
He stepped close to her, his voice husky. "Well, then, stick with me, beautiful."
Sophia froze a moment, but when a smile stretched across his face, she answered with one of her own. They stepped back out into the sunshine, continuing to banter. On their second loop of the hotel grounds, each of them lobbing a gentle serve of words to the other in a non-stop exchange, they noticed him. Jackson stood at the farthest point of the outlook over the sea, his body bent, his forearms resting on one rugged length of fencing.
They surrounded him like bookends.
"Hard day?" Christian asked.
The surf tumbled onto shore, the sound of it a soothing backdrop.
Jackson sighed like an old man. "Something like that." He turned to Sophia. "Hey, sis." The words seemed to bring a light to his face.
She rested her arm on his back and leaned the hollow of her cheek against his shoulder. The three of them stared at the horizon for several beats, a comfortable silence among them.
Christian broke that silence. "Legend has it that a mermaid wandered into the Netherlands through a fissure filled with sea water."
Jackson continued to stare out to sea, but his composure flickered.
"She was injured on the journey, of course."
Jackson kept still. "Of course."
"She was taken to a lake then," Christian said, "for rehabilitation."
Sophia had been peeking around Jackson as Christian spoke, watching for a sign that one of them would soon crack. But Christian went silent and she couldn't wait any longer. "Well? What happened then?"
Jackson swung a look her way that said don't encourage him. He rolled his eyes.
Christian's forefinger and thumb were cradling his chin now, his face pensive, calm. All that was missing was a smoking jacket. "The locals nursed her back to health and she became a productive member of society." He crossed his arms at his chest and peered back at her. "Was baptized and everything."
Jackson dropped his chin into his chest, laughter rumbling out of him. "You're an idiot."
"And that, my friend, is how you fall for fables—hook, line, and sinker."
Jackson groaned.
Sophia's face split into a grin that she could hardly hide. "Has he always been this way?"
Jackson groaned again, only this time the sound of it lighthearted. He put his back to the railing and leaned against it, eyeing her. "What're you doing out with this character anyway? You need me to call security?"
"Hey, I am her security. She begged me to join her on a walk."
"An invitation is not begging," Sophia said, though she noted Jackson studying her. "A simple walk. Nothing more."
Jackson pushed himself off the fence, the seriousness of his expression deepening. "Whatever it was, I'm glad I ran into you. Can we meet for coffee?"
"Of course. I'm supposed to meet back with Meg later this afternoon, but I'm all yours."
"Great. Let's head to my office."
Christian raised two han
ds and began to back away. "Hey, no, you two go on ahead. No need to join you."
Sophia laughed, but Jackson had already cupped her elbow and started walking. They moved swiftly toward the inn's front doors, leaving the breeze and salt air behind. What was the rush?
"Mail call, Christian," Trace, the inn's quirky concierge shouted across the lobby, holding up a stack of mail. There was something so comforting about knowing that the staff at Sea Glass Inn knew his whereabouts and were looking out for him.
And yet, not.
Truthfully, he was beginning to feel somewhat claustrophobic in the beautiful inn by the sea. He'd come here to start over, to live somewhat incognito away from the groanings of his former life in publishing. Not that it was possible to fully retreat from the living now that the internet had taken over the world.
But after he'd paid his dues and his lease was up, and after he'd wandered the country for a time, Jackson had come to his aid. "Stay at the inn and write another book. I insist!"
So he packed up and checked in. He'd insisted on paying rent—and now that he'd heard more about the inn's troubles, he'd upped it. Still wasn't up to the cost of a nightly rate, though. It wasn't money that he needed, but a change of environment for his muse to get lost in.
Maybe he should've settled for a cabin deep in the woods. A place like Cottage Grove, where he could hide among the pines and soaring redwoods.
"This one looks like a check." Trace doled his mail out one piece at a time, glancing at the sender of each piece before handing it over. She sighed each time and he thought he detected a slight shake of her head, as if quite put out for having to collect his mail.
He thanked her and turned while examining the envelope with a blue check showing through its window.
"Christian!" Meg gave him a squeeze as she bustled by wearing a sharp navy suit with stilettos. His buddy had married far above himself.
"What's got you on the run?"
"Group in-house is having audio problems!" She was hustling backwards now, moving quickly down the hall. "And they're out of coffee!"
Trace tsked. "We have people for that." She turned back toward her computer.
Christian waved his mail at Meg but kept the pace toward his own room. The envelope in his hand was from his publisher. Well, his former publisher. They still held the rights to his previous titles, though they'd buried them under threats from the jerk that he'd caught with an uppercut.
He expelled a breath in exasperation. Move on already, Capra. The one thing he could feel glad about was that the royalty check, tiny as it probably was, had come directly from the publisher—and not through the offices of his ex-agent. Some agents received the entire royalty, kept their fifteen percent, and sent the author the remaining eighty-five. But this publisher had agreed to Christian's request to send each of them their shares separately. He shuddered to think what might have become of his income otherwise.
Christian took the stairs two at a time, opting to forego the elevator. He'd had a standing desk in his apartment, but here he had found himself settling back into the BIC routine, i.e., "butt in chair."
Every writing book he'd ever read said that one way to break writer's block was to get the body moving. Climbing the stairs stirred up his brain cells. Already he began to feel his muse coming to life.
The other bit of advice he'd always heard about writer's block was to get outside. He'd been doing that—catching some of the sun's rays and fresh air—when Sophia's sudden presence about knocked the wind from his body.
He hadn't asked for it, or expected it, but Christian could not deny that he had, quite peculiarly, found Sophia to be ... disorienting. He had little time for that now.
The buzz of his phone broke into his thoughts and he answered without so much as a glance at the screen.
"Wasn't sure you had the guts to answer my calls," Burns said. "I'm impressed."
Immediate-onset heartburn took hold of Christian. "What is it?"
"Now, now, don't take that tone with me. I think we both know that our last phone call ended, shall we say, too abruptly?"
He quit talking long enough to spit into something metal. Christian fought to keep bile from rising in his chest. Burns continued, "I think you'll be pleased with my reason for calling."
"Listen, Burns, don't give me any credit here. The reason I answered your call—the only reason—is because, quite frankly, I hadn't looked at the screen. I have to go."
"Shut up a minute. I have something to say that will please you."
Christian shoved open the stairwell door, marched down the hall, and entered his room. Burns continued to talk, all of it nonsense. Christian tossed the mail and his iPad onto the expertly made bed, slid the glass door open, and stepped out onto his deck.
He drew in a breath just as he realized Burns had said something about his book. He'd heard the words "contract" and "your publisher," but hadn't been listening closely enough to realize how those words had been strung together.
"Wait. Say that again?"
"See there? I knew you'd be pleased. As I said, I have decided to let bygones be bygones. To that end, I spoke with Lisa and she has decided to forgive your ... actions as well."
"Lisa?"
"Your publisher." Garbled laughter filled his ear. "Don't tell me you've forgotten the woman who gave you a writing career. Aside from me, that is."
Christian bit his lip. Lisa certainly had been his champion, especially with his first book. If he were going to credit anyone for giving him a start in publishing, it would be Lisa. She'd taken that first manuscript, and after going through it herself—something he'd heard was unusual—she'd handed it to one of her finest editors.
But, he'd learned, that even one's closest allies can find reasons to withdraw their support.
"Listen, Burns, this will be our last phone call. Do you understand? I have to go."
"It's you who needs to understand. Now that word is out that you've decided to write the novel that I've already shopped, Lisa has decided to give it a look."
"She already said no."
"That was because of your dirty, no-good ... indiscretion. But I took the liberty of calling her to discuss the matter and she's agreed that enough time has passed and she is going to forgive you. She'll have a contract out to me within the week, but I'll need you to hustle and send over what you've got so far to Lisa. I take it the manuscript has not veered too far from the proposal." He paused. "And if it has—change it."
A slider door opened nearby. Christian glanced over to see Sophia standing on her balcony. She waved to him, but as he lifted his hand to return the gesture, what's-his-name appeared next to her, looking like he'd just stepped off a tennis court. White shorts. What self-respecting guy wore white shorts?
Christian turned his back on them and studied the balcony railing. A venomous heat threaded through him. He planted a fist on the railing, an unmovable decision in his head and heart.
"Burns, this conversation is over. I will not be sending you a manuscript so do not bother to send me a contract. Are we understood? There will be no more business between you, me, and/or Lisa. Got it?"
"I see."
"I'm glad that you do."
"Might want to take a good long look at our contract, though, slugger. Particularly the clause under future works. You may think you can take everything I gave you and keep all the proceeds for your greedy self, but my lawyer informs me that you are wrong." He paused, no doubt letting those words sink in. "The next call you'll be getting—is from legal representation."
With a click, Burns was gone.
Christian huffed, pulled up Burns's number on his phone, and hit "block." When he turned back toward Sophia's balcony, she—and that pretty boy—had vanished.
Chapter 6
Christian could no longer ignore the blather coming from his stomach. He'd tried filling his hunger with some of the contents of the mini-bar—chocolate-covered pretzels and trail mix—but found himself hungrier still. Not to me
ntion nearly broke from the typical mini-bar cash grab. Had those prices been Wade’s idea too?
Without thought to a comb or brush, he put on a pair of slippers and padded down the hall to the elevator, which he stepped inside without a passing glance at the other occupants.
The quiet of the inn's restaurant drew him in, and with no host at the front, he wandered inside and took a seat at the bar. The night bartender, Johnny, slid a menu over to him. "Calamari's fresh tonight."
"I'll wait to order it till it's day-old."
Johnny scrunched his eyes and stared. Christian sighed. He hated when people didn't get the joke.
"What'll you have?"
"Peroni. On tap. And a burger. No onions."
"You got it."
He glanced around while waiting, noting how few tables were occupied. An older couple sat near the window, neither talking. A few voices carried from a far corner. Not a great sign for his old friend. Then again, the place would be hopping by the weekend—and he'd be lucky to find even one empty seat at the bar.
His beer arrived first, followed by the burger. "Anything else?" Johnny asked.
"Got any miracles back there?"
Same scrunched-up face.
Christian waved him off. "Nah, I'm good. Thanks." His night might have ended there if he hadn't looked up during a particularly sudden and loud burst of laughter coming from the table across the restaurant.
He spotted her first. How had Christian not noticed them when he'd entered the place? Perhaps the self-absorption he'd dragged into the restaurant with him had something to do with that. She sat between Jackson and Meg, and across from her—probably looking deeply into her eyes—was Wade.
Christian took a larger bite, nearly choked, then grabbed his beer and threw it back so as not to require the Heimlich maneuver from a passing doctor. Or bartender.
Johnny grabbed the empty glass, his brows up. "Another?"
Before he had a chance to answer, Jackson's voice shot across the empty restaurant. "Hey, Christian. Join us."
With barely a nod in his old friend's direction, Christian folded his napkin in half, wiped his mouth, and slid off the barstool. He tossed the napkin onto his plate and approached the foursome, glad they hadn't had to watch him be revived on the dining room floor.
Windswept Page 6
