The Write Man Read online

  Table of Contents

  THE WRITE MAN

  Lisa Ricard Claro

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Roxanne St. Claire. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Barefoot Bay remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Roxanne St. Claire, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  THE WRITE MAN

  A Barefoot Bay Kindle Worlds novella

  Lisa Ricard Claro

  Cover design: Melissa Stevens

  Acknowledgements: A mountain of thanks to author Casey Hagen for her time and expertise, offered time and again with extreme kindness and a generous heart. Thanks also to Roxanne St. Claire for sharing the wonderful world of Barefoot Bay, which has been a delight to inhabit with my characters. And a special thank you to my daughter, Stephanie Vazquez, for her strong support and ever eagle eye.

  The Write Man by Lisa Ricard Claro

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to Barefoot Bay Kindle World, a place for authors to write their own stories set in the tropical paradise that I created! For these books, I have only provided the setting of Mimosa Key and a cast of characters from my popular Barefoot Bay series. That’s it! I haven’t contributed to the plotting, writing, or editing of The Write Man. This book is entirely the work of Lisa Ricard Claro, an author new to Barefoot Bay but certain to become a favorite.

  When two wounded hearts meet and fall hard in love, that’s a happy day in Barefoot Bay. But when one is using a pseudonym and the hearts belong to two authors who are deep and detested enemies? That’s a complicated, crazy, and potentially explosive day in Barefoot Bay. Secrets and betrayal threaten to ruin this romance, unless kidlit writer Merry Sunjoy can realize that journalist Nick Brubaker is indeed the right “Write Man” for her! Authors in love! What could be better? Please join me in welcoming this talented author to Barefoot Bay!

  Roxanne St. Claire

  PS. If you love this island paradise, be sure to pick up one eighteen titles I’ve written set in Barefoot Bay. And there are more than sixty novellas in the Barefoot Bay Kindle World penned by other authors in the same setting. Come for a short visit or lose yourself on the beautiful beach and fall in love over and over again! All the books are listed at www.roxannestclaire.com.

  Dedication: For my sister, Marguerite Broussard, the most heartwarming writer I’ve ever known. This one is for you, sweet Sophie.

  Chapter 1

  Toes in the water, ass in the sand, bikinis, bikinis all over the land.

  Nick Brubaker adjusted his sunglasses and settled back in his low-slung beach chair to enjoy the water play of three twenty-somethings as they squealed and batted a beach ball in the gentle surf. His little poem wasn’t exactly the spectacular prose that had earned his alter ego, Scurvy Rickets, the Newsome Award for Children’s Literature last year, but it made him smile because it was true. For the moment, anyway. Later today he’d be hunkered down in his rented villa here at the Casa Blanca Resort & Spa on Florida’s gorgeous Gulf coast pounding out the first chapter of a new book for kids. But for now, right this second, he’d enjoy the morning view, happy the ladies hadn’t allowed the cool December waters to keep them off the beach.

  And he did, in fact, have his toes in the water and his ass in the sand—more or less—and there were bikinis dotting the beach like wildflowers. Except . . . for her.

  The woman to his left sat in full shade under a lemon-yellow umbrella. Covered from neck to ankles in gauzy white cotton, including bug-eye sunglasses and a face spotted with some kind of pink goo, she was an anomaly in this bikini paradise, and nothing grabbed Nick’s attention like something that didn’t belong. He’d built a career on writing about incongruous things, from an underwater city inhabited by ghosts to a footless zombie working as a shoe salesman.

  So what was her deal, anyway?

  A warm breeze whipped off the water and swirled across the silky sand. It ruffled Nick’s hair and caught the broad brim of the woman’s floppy hat, pink to match the face spots. She cried out in surprise and snatched at the hat, but not fast enough to stop the waterfall of pale hair from tumbling out and cascading over her shoulders. In her grab for the hat she upended her sunglasses and they landed in her lap.

  The wind kicked up again, and for an instant the silken strands of hair danced around her head like an electrified aura of white gold. A second later the woman had it twisted and hidden beneath the hat once again. She lifted her sunglasses from her lap and turned her eyes, morning-glory blue, toward Nick.

  “Something wrong?”

  Spoken by any woman of Nick’s acquaintance, under these circumstances, those two little words would have contained a mountain of snark and would have really meant: Hey, you can stop staring at me anytime now, asshole. But somehow, when this woman said those words—Something wrong?—it sounded like genuine curiosity.

  Her lips curved in a self-conscious smile, and she pressed down on the crown of her head to better secure the hat. “There. Maybe it will stay now,” she said, and a dimple winked at him from her cheek.

  “Sorry,” he said, returning her smile. “It’s rude of me to stare.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I know I look silly. My sister and I were doing some yard work a couple weeks ago, clearing some brush. I got into poison ivy, hence the calamine lotion. I look like I have the measles, right? Pink measles. Anyway, I already had this trip planned, and I love the beach and didn’t want to cancel, so—here I am!” She flung up her arms, but her hands hit the brim of the hat and sent it off her head again. It tumbled across the sand where it settled against Nick’s leg.

  “Oh, my gosh. I’m such a klutz,” she said, shaking her head.

  Nick laughed and picked up the hat, wondering if he should hold it hostage for her name and room number, or be a gentleman and return it with a gallant bow. He chose the latter and watched for a second time as the goldilocks disappeared beneath the hat. She rewarded him with another adorable flash of the dimple.

  “I’m Nick,” he said, removing his sunglasses.

  “I’m clumsy,” she said, and they both laughed.

  Something about her tickled the back of Nick’s mind. The eyes? The hair? The smile? What was it?

  “Have you vacationed here before?” He squatted to meet her at eye level, flipping through the catalogue in his mind in an effort to place her. Recognition danced a sliver beyond reach.

  “No. I’m a first timer to Mimosa Key and Barefoot Bay. I usually stay on Siesta Key when I visit the Gulf, but Casa Blanca was recommended by a friend.”

  “I’m sure you’ll love it. The staff is top notch, and you can’t beat the beauty of the place.” He glanced toward the water. One of the beach ball bunnies waved and blew him a kiss.

  Nick winced. “I wasn’t talking about them.”

  “I know.” The woman beside him chuckled and slid her sunglasses back on. “I do love it so far. I needed a quiet place to work and unwind, and get away from—” She shook her head. “Meany-heads. Well, one meany-head in particular. Another children’s author. Not that I can do that, because the internet is everywhere.”

  Befo
re Nick could ask what the hell she was talking about—because what grown woman uses the term meany-head?—she shifted in the beach chair to face him. The breeze plastered her outfit to her body, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to the weather gods for creating such a glorious sculpture.

  “I’m talking about social media. Trolls. Mean people. There’s no getting away from them. No matter how nice I try—how nice people try to be, other people are still rotten. You know?”

  That prick of recognition sent a warning tingle down Nick’s spine. He still couldn’t place her, but now he was certain he knew her somehow. It wasn’t her looks which, even hidden behind pink dots and miles of cotton fabric, he’d determined to be spectacular. No, it was her delivery, that Dorothy-Gale-girl-from-Kansas likability. There was only one woman in all the universe who made him feel like he was breathing cotton candy. Only one. And her name was—

  “Merry Sunjoy.” She held out a slender hand and gave his a solid shake. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself before. Anyway”—her cheeks bloomed pink as if she were suddenly embarrassed, and she pushed from the beach chair and grabbed the tote beside it—“I’m actually here to work, so I better get to it. It’s been nice meeting you, uh . . .”

  “Nick,” he supplied, standing from his crouch.

  “That’s right. Nick.” The dimple winked. He wished it weren’t so damned sexy. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again, Nick. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Nick kept his gaze on her willowy form until she disappeared around the tiki bar, moving like flames licked at her back.

  Merry Sunjoy.

  Nick narrowed his eyes and slid his sunglasses back on. This was too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. There was no way that his arch rival in the world of kidlit, Miss Sunny Sunshine herself, Merry Sunjoy, was at the Casa Blanca resort by accident. Was she here to up the ante in their ongoing social media feud? And how could she have found him out?

  Scurvy Rickets was Nick’s pen name for the books he wrote for the young middle-grade set, and he was contractually bound—as was everyone associated with Scurvy Rickets—not to divulge who he really was or be photographed as the writer whose pen name was Scurvy Rickets. The image of Scurvy Rickets, used online and in other media, was created by a graphic artist. The real identity of Scurvy Rickets, namely Nick, was a well-kept secret, and it was a secret Nick was eager to keep. The mystery of authorship was one of the things that made Scurvy Rickets so popular, and no one outside of Nick’s agent and publisher knew his real name. Well, them, and Poppy Washington, a Casa Blanca housekeeper with a big personality and a kind heart, who had discovered the truth during his stay here last year, thanks to a scheduling mix-up that brought Poppy into the villa at the same time Nick was on his way out costumed as Scurvy Rickets. He wore the pirate costume with full theatrical makeup for book signings and public appearances and had been on his way to a bookstore in Fort Myers when Poppy let herself into the villa to restock the kitchen for him. Nick had asked her to keep his secret, and to his knowledge she had never blabbed to anyone what she had seen. The point was, no one knew. It was part of the mystery and fun that was Scurvy Rickets.

  The stories Nick wrote as Scurvy Rickets were fantastical and borderline grim, with enough bathroom humor to take the edge off. Young boys especially laughed maniacally at any reference to flatulence and burps—gassiness in general was always good for a guffaw—and Nick made sure his popular series, The Pukefaced Pirates of Fartbutt Hollow, contained ample references to both.

  He’d written the first Pirates book—a gory tale of what happens to bad men who earn their just rewards—after his father’s death via a drunken tumble down a steep flight of stairs. The tale he wrote was intended as a personal allegory for Nick about how he wished he’d been the one to make his abusive old man walk the plank. As it turned out, he’d hidden the truth behind so many funny and fictional words that the work was neither as dark nor as deep as he’d supposed. What it was, was literary gold. Young kids loved the Pukefaced Pirates and their gassy leader, Cap’n Smellmore Beanbottom. So did most adults. But not every adult.

  Not Miss Merry Sunjoy.

  Merry Sunjoy wrote children’s literature as well. Hers were heartfelt, sunlit stories featuring fun-loving faeries and bluebirds of happiness, none of which farted or puked or had earwax fall into their soup. Merry Sunjoy was all bliss and butterflies. Nick didn’t have a problem with it. In fact, he thought her work was well written but didn’t understand how anyone could be so sunny-side-up all the time. Life wasn’t like that.

  Nick considered Merry’s complaints about internet trolls and assumed she was talking about him. Well, not him, but Scurvy Rickets. This made no sense, as Merry Sunjoy knew as well as Nick did that their social media battle had been cooked up by their respective agents as a promotional ploy. True, the idea had germinated after Nick, channeling Scurvy, had posted a snarky random comment on a blog post dissing Merry’s Foundling Faeries books. He hadn’t done it to cause trouble. He’d done it in character as Scurvy Rickets. Old Scurvy left zany comments all over the place, and most people played along because, clearly, Scurvy Rickets was not a real person. Still, he’d hit a nerve with Merry Sunjoy when he’d had something to say about children’s stories that created unrealistic expectations. She had responded with some prim and pithy retort that had proved to be a hilarious defensive salvo, and the next thing Nick knew his agent, Phoebe, had talked to Merry’s agent, and their social media feud was underway. Their back-and-forth banter had escalated over the last few weeks from funny to—well, maybe not so funny. It had become too snarky. Maybe even borderline mean. But even so, the lady knew the barrage was coming. She had approved it via her agent. So why was she bitching about it now?

  Meany-head.

  He knew that ridiculous term was meant for him. Well, not him, but Scurvy Rickets.

  Why was she really here? Was it an off-the-wall coincidence? Or was it possible she was here by design, had somehow discovered who he really was?

  His working vacation had just thrown him one hell of a curve ball.

  Chapter 2

  Hair and body wrapped in matching white towels, Merry wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror with her hand and assessed what remained of the poison ivy. She didn’t resemble the Swamp Thing now, so that was good. And she didn’t need the calamine lotion anymore as the rash was almost gone and no longer itched.

  She recalled the look on the face of the man at the beach and wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t blame him for staring. Between the calamine lotion and the loose clothing that might double for a tablecloth, she knew she looked ridiculous, but she was only following the doctor’s orders. Heat, the doctor told her, would agitate the rash, so stay out of the sun. Quite a trick when one was at the beach. In her defense, she had expected cooler weather this early in December, but the daytime temps had been in the mid-eighties.

  In keeping with her doctor’s orders, Merry had covered up to enjoy the ocean air first thing in the morning instead of later in the day. But inspecting herself now, she decreed the poison ivy scourge cured. Mostly. And that meant shorts and flip-flops and no more calamine lotion.

  She called room service and ordered a light lunch, then settled in to check her email and respond to comments left on her last post at Merry Sunjoy’s Book-Bliss Blog for Parents Who Read to Their Kids. Yes, it was a mouthful, but Merry’s blog readers didn’t mind the lengthy title. In fact, some had shortened it to Merry Sunjoy’s BBB, which Merry considered delightful until that nasty Scurvy Rickets person turned it around. His last Twitter post had read:

  Scurvy Rickets @ScurvyRickets 4h @MerrySunjoy #BookBlissBlog=#BigBunchaBaloney dissing #PukefacedPirates. I say “Stick it where book-bliss don’t shine, lady.” #Beanbottom

  First, she hadn’t dissed the Pukefaced Pirates series. Well, not exactly. She had simply pointed out that there was other children’s literature available that didn’t rely on gastrointestinal upsets to bring comic relief, to whic
h Mr. Rickets had replied via a blog comment that she lacked a sense of humor. Merry had replied that her sense of humor was good enough to know that his work wasn’t funny—a blatant lie. The Pirates were hilarious, and she knew it, but Rickets himself was such a jackass she couldn’t bring herself to admit it publicly. The next thing she knew, her Twitter notification pinged and she read his nasty tweet. She still hadn’t responded to it, wondered if ignoring it would be the best thing.

  She frowned. It had already been shared over a thousand times, and that was just since breakfast.

  Since she couldn’t make up her mind about whether or not to tweet him back, she had gone to the beach instead where she met the very handsome gentleman with hair the color of sun-kissed chestnuts. He’d been rather gallant, returning her errant hat, and she’d watched him from behind her sunglasses, too engrossed in the thick muscles of his chest and arms to pay any attention when he said his name. He had repeated it for her, and she still couldn’t remember it. There should be a law against a man being built like that, and she hoped she’d run into him again. It was more than three years since her divorce, she was thirty-two, and not getting any younger. She had promised herself she was ready to take chances again, ready to trust other people.

  Maybe.

  Possibly.

  After all, not every man was a pathological liar like her ex. At least, that’s what her therapist had insisted.

  Based on that notion, there had to be at least one human male in existence who knew how to tell the truth. Right? Right?

  And there was something about that guy on the beach. Merry had seen him somewhere before. She was certain of it. That flash of immediate recognition had to be the reason she had yammered on like a fool. The moment she’d realized she was rambling, she worried he’d think she was being forward, which she was not. Anyway, she might be ready to take chances, but not today. What she wanted was a nice, quiet, working vacation.