The Write Man Read online

  “I wonder what breed that dog is underneath the dirty mop.” He considered petting the animal but thought better of it until it had seen a little soap and water. “And why didn’t you call? I told you I’d come out and help you when you got here.” He stepped back to allow her entry. The dog squirmed, and Merry set it down, poised to grab it if it trotted off.

  “No point in both of us getting wet. I tossed a few things into this bag for overnight and left my carryon in the trunk. It’s raining so hard right now, I thought—no!” Merry cried out as the dog gave itself a mighty shake. Dirt and rainwater flew, speckling Nick and the hardwood floor. “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry,” she said, and covered her mouth with her hands.

  Nick looked down at himself and laughed, because there was nothing else to do. He was spotted with dirt and rain from the knees down, and a second round assaulted his legs when the dog shook again.

  “Oh, Nick—” Merry began, her horrified expression changing as nervous laughter bubbled from her mouth. The single dimple in her cheek peeked at Nick, and he shook his head and laughed.

  “Your dog looks like a miniature Wookie now, and she needs a bath. Come on with me. You can shower if you want, change into something dry. Does your beastie have a name?”

  “Not yet.” Merry toed off her ruined shoes beside the front door and followed Nick down the hall. “I’ve been calling her ‘little girl.’ She’s so sweet, she must belong to somebody. Maybe she’s chipped. Hopefully this storm will have passed by tomorrow and I can take her to the vet without getting drenched.”

  “It’s supposed to rain all night, but the powers that be say tomorrow will be mostly clear.” He stopped and indicated a room to his right. “Here’s the second bedroom. Let’s get you a towel to dry off.”

  “I’ll bathe the dog first,” she said.

  “I’ll help. We may have to double team her.”

  After two soap-ups and a lengthy rinse, Merry’s orphaned dog turned into a ball of white fluff.

  “I wonder what kind of dog she is,” Merry said, staring at the dog which was now curled up in her lap and emitting soft snores through a black button nose.

  “Mm. Bichon Frise or Havanese, I’d bet. I’m sure the vet can tell you,” Nick said. “At least she’s housebroken. I was surprised when she scratched to go out.”

  “And relieved that she did, in spite of the rain. I was worried she’d make a mess in here, but she’s behaved like a perfect lady.” She stroked the dog’s head. “So you think she’s a Bichon Frise or a—what did you say? Havanese? I’ve never even heard of that breed.”

  “Yes, Havanese. National dog of Cuba.”

  “How do you know so much about dog breeds?”

  Nick stared at her. He knew about various dog breeds because he’d done some research for one of his Pirates books. He covered with a short laugh. “Hey, just because I’m a sports fanatic doesn’t mean I’m not interested in other things.”

  “Okay, so tell me three things unrelated to sports that are of interest to Nick Brubaker,” Merry prompted him.

  “Hm. Let me think a minute.” Nick’s gaze held Merry’s as he considered what to share with her, and he grinned when her cheeks reddened beneath his perusal. She tucked her hair behind her ears and dropped her focus to the dog. Nick watched her, waiting for her dimple to put in an appearance. “Well, I’m a history buff. Also, I like to go fishing, even though I’m terrible at it. And I love live theater, more than movies or concerts.”

  “Broadway?” Her head snapped up and there was that dimple that heated him up every time he saw it.

  He nodded. “Yep. I go every time I’m in New York. Last thing I saw was Hamilton. Your turn now. Three things.”

  “Oh, gosh.” She tucked her hair behind her ears again and gifted Nick with another flash of her dimple. “Okay. Well, I’m addicted to those forensic shows on TV. Not the fictional ones, but the ones that solve real crimes with the use of today’s technology. Um,”—she bit her lip, drawing Nick’s attention from her dimple to her mouth—“let’s see. I’m a foodie, and I’ll try anything as long as it isn’t a bug.”

  “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve eaten?” Nick asked, forcing his gaze and his mind from her delectable mouth to her morning-glory eyes.

  “Medama,” she said without hesitation and shuddered. “I was in Japan on a college trip. No one told me I was eating tuna eyeballs.”

  “Tuna—eyeballs? That sounds truly awful.”

  “It tasted like squid. If no one had told me what it really was, I wouldn’t have known. But once I found out—” She shuddered again.

  “Okay, that’s only two. You still owe me a third thing.”

  Merry stared at him for a moment while she considered. “You can’t tell anyone,” she said. “Promise?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “The Pukefaced Pirates of Fartbutt Hollow. It’s a series of books for kids, so you’ve probably never even heard of them. I love those books. Not the farts and burps and all the stupid bodily function stuff that sends gads of preteen boys into fits of giggling ecstasy. It’s the stories. If you read them, really read them—I mean, dig down past the silly, funny stuff—there is real heartbreak there. There’s an odd darkness in them that’s compelling. I—I don’t know how to explain it. But I love those books.” Merry shook her head as if clearing cobwebs. “In some ways they’re too dark for children, in my opinion. But I guess”—she shrugged—“kids gloss over the darkness and go for the light, you know? Kids are pretty spectacular that way.” When Nick said nothing, Merry laughed her confession away. “Ridiculous, right? To love the books when I can’t stand the jackass author. I’m a special kind of crazy.”

  Nick’s throat tightened. He hadn’t lied to her, but he hadn’t told her the truth either. What would she say if she knew that he was that jackass author?

  Guilt trickled through him, and he reminded himself of all the reasons he couldn’t tell her about Scurvy Rickets. Number one on the list was his contract.

  He’d never broken his contract, never told anyone who he was. And as much as he wanted to tell Merry now, he shouldn’t. Couldn’t. Though he felt as if he’d known her a lifetime instead of a day, the truth was that he barely knew her at all, didn’t know if he could trust her to keep it quiet. She might like his books, but she had made it clear she did not like Scurvy Rickets. And if he came clean and this—thing, or whatever it was between them—went south, she might use the knowledge against him and blab it to the world. His instinct told him she was trustworthy, but how could he know? Underneath all that sunshine she might be vindictive as hell.

  Yeah, asshole, keep telling yourself that. Nick forced himself to smile, though guilt prowled through him.

  “You’re being awfully quiet,” she prompted.

  “You aren’t crazy,” he said at last, tamping down the guilt. He was impressed and strangely touched that she had seen through the jokes and silliness of Pirates down to the nitty-gritty. He wasn’t certain anyone else ever had. “It sounds as if you have some insight into those books. You ready for some dinner? I’ve got canned soup, oatmeal from a packet, and popcorn.”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she said. “Need any help?”

  “No thanks. I can burn our dinner all by myself, thank you. Besides, you’re being used as a mattress right now.” He pet the fur between the dog’s ears and smiled at Merry. “She looks very comfy. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Alone in the kitchen he breathed a sigh of relief and congratulated himself on keeping his mouth shut.

  The reality was simple: He had no intention of risking his publishing future on blue eyes and a sexy dimple no matter how attracted he was to the woman they belonged to. He glanced over the long, granite-topped bar that separated the kitchen from the living room and watched Merry coo at the dog.

  No doubt about it. He was doing the smart thing.

  And he’d keep telling himself that until he believed it was true.

&
nbsp; Chapter 7

  Something was wrong with Nick.

  Merry wasn’t sure what, because she didn’t know him that well. Maybe he regretted inviting her to stay now that she was here.

  They ate their soup in the kitchen with a near wilted salad that came from a bag, and a bottle of chardonnay. The dog lay curled and snoring at Merry’s feet.

  Merry looked at Nick. He smiled, but seemed distant.

  “I told you it was a bad idea to come to his lair,” Skyblossom whispered to her sisters. “He’s beautiful, but his eyes aren’t green anymore. They’re gray as a stormy sea, and he looks like he’s thinking of faraway things.”

  Maybe he regretted asking her to stay. The thought made her suck in a breath, and she inhaled a diced potato an instant later. She coughed and guzzled water while Nick patted her back.

  “Sorry,” she rasped out. “Went down the wrong pipe.”

  “What were you so deep in thought about?” he asked when her breathing returned to normal.

  “I was thinking about the Foundling Faeries.” She set down her soup spoon and regarded him. “You said something yesterday that made me think you might be familiar with my books. Are you? Familiar with them?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said after a lengthy pause. “They’re popular books.”

  It seemed to Merry that he squirmed a little, and she bit her lip, afraid to ask what she really wanted to know. His attention slid from her eyes to her cheek and back to her eyes.

  “Do you think they’re—” She cut herself off, aware of the heat creeping up her neck and into her face like a thief, stealing her tattered composure. “Never mind.” She picked up her spoon. Was it her imagination, or did Nick look relieved?

  “Your dog is really cutting some Zs,” he said. “Cute little thing.”

  Way to change the subject. “I noticed while we were bathing her that she’s got a couple of those soft lumps on her belly that older dogs get. I don’t think she’s young.”

  “Maybe not,” Nick agreed.

  “So, uh . . . you ever been married? Have any kids?” Merry asked, reaching for a conversation starter.

  “No.” Nick met her gaze and held it. “I don’t have an aversion, just waiting for the right lady.”

  Another blast of heat shot upward from Merry’s chest and neck into her face. Nick’s slow grin made her cheeks burn hotter, and she dropped her attention back to her soup.

  “What books do you read?” The words squeaked out, and she was annoyed with herself for behaving like a teenager.

  “All kinds,” he said, “but I’m really more of a movie guy.”

  “What’s your favorite?”

  “Play it again, Sam,” he said. “Casablanca.”

  “Your Bogart is spot on,” Merry said.

  “Thanks.” Nick grinned. “Did you know he never actually says that line in the movie? It’s a misquote that became famous.”

  “Don’t toss me out, but I’ve never seen Casablanca.”

  “What?” Nick’s brows shot up. “Are you joking? It’s the best classic movie of all time.”

  “You know the truth about me now. My cinematic education is lacking.”

  “Not for long. We’ll watch it together soon. Did you know that this resort was named by the owners as a nod to the movie? It’s their favorite, too.”

  “Pretty sure it’s the favorite of a lot of people,” Merry said, giving him a look.

  Nick laughed. “Okay, you’ve got a point. I’ll give you a pass on this one. But we still have to watch it together. What’s your favorite movie?”

  “The Princess Bride, hands down.”

  “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die,” Nick said, quoting the famous line from The Princess Bride, in character.

  “Typical man,” Merry said, laughing. “You would go straight to that.”

  “What else is there?”

  Merry fixed her smile in place with effort. Somehow they had edged into territory too personal to discuss, and the rapid pulse in her throat made it hard to breathe.

  Nick’s grin faded. Merry looked away too late. His hand covered hers.

  “What is it?”

  She shook her head and blinked back quick tears, angry with herself for spoiling the mood. What the heck was wrong with her? She picked up her wineglass and brought it to her lips.

  “You wonder what’s wrong with you? Too much wine, that’s what,” scolded Skyblossom. Moonflower and Sunbloom stood beside their sister, shaking their heads at Merry and frowning. “It makes you emotional and you talk too much.”

  “Sorry.” She set the wineglass back on the table and forced another smile. “Memories, that’s all.”

  Nick held her attention with silence and a patient gaze, and the next thing she knew she was spilling thoughts, the words bumping into each other in an effort to get out.

  “I was fourteen the first time I saw The Princess Bride with my baby sister Holly. Every time Westley gave Buttercup that look—you know the look—and said, ‘As you wish,’ in place of ‘I love you,’ my heart fluttered. I thought it was so romantic. I replayed those parts of the movie a hundred times, daydreamed about it for weeks. Oh, to be the recipient of that kind of unconditional love. It was nonexistent in our household. My mother took responsibility for nothing, and love, if you want to call it that, always came at a steep price. Anyway,”—she withdrew her hand from Nick’s and folded it with her other hand in her lap—“after watching The Princess Bride I realized that I wasn’t going through it all alone. I mean, Holly was there, too. I had always taken care of her, but had never given consideration to the fact that she was feeling all the same things I was feeling. I wasn’t the only one growing up with an alcoholic mother. Holly and I both needed someone who would say ‘as you wish’ and mean it.

  “It was a hallelujah moment when Holly asked me to do something one day and I responded with, ‘As you wish.’ She didn’t get it. I mean, she was only eight, so that part of the movie didn’t touch her the way it did me. But I knew what it meant. I knew, every time I said those words, ‘as you wish,’ that Holly was receiving that unconditional love from someone she could trust. No one ever said those words to me, but I could say them to her and mean it from sister to sister. As you wish. Such a simple phrase.” Merry let out a relieved sigh and when she smiled this time it wasn’t forced. “I’ve never told anyone that before, not even Holly. She’s a grown woman and she still doesn’t know, probably doesn’t remember me ever saying it to her. But it was the start of the Foundling Faeries. The reality of unconditional love and how that holds people together even when they don’t know it.” She expelled a little laugh. “Now you know Merry Sunjoy’s darkest secret. Not very dark or very exciting.”

  “I’m honored that you told me, and you can trust me not to breathe a word to anyone.”

  Embarrassed by her own verbosity, she laughed at herself and, with a flick of her hand, waved away the importance of what she had shared. “Go ahead and blab to whomever you like. It’s so corny no one would believe you anyway.”

  The dog’s snores chose that moment to rise from gentle to epic, and Merry and Nick exchanged a chuckle as they carried their bowls to the sink. They washed and dried without conversation.

  Nick refilled their wineglasses, and Merry accepted hers wondering if she should have declined. The wine she had consumed earlier had already loosened her tongue way too much, and her self-doubt with it, and now she was itching to ask his opinion of her books, assuming he had even read them. But why would he? They were children’s stories, and he was a sports columnist. Even in the unlikely event that he had read her books, and that was a big if, it was rude to put him on the spot about it.

  And hadn’t he already answered the question, told her he wouldn’t have enjoyed her books when he was a boy, that he preferred darker themes? Said her books didn’t reflect his childhood reality.

  She sipped her wine as they settled back on the couch. Sure enough, her to
ngue was loosened up, but good, because she looked into his hazel eyes and blurted, “Please tell me how you’re familiar with my books.”

  “I’ve read your books to my niece,” Nick said without hesitation. “All of them, and more than once. She’s eight, and she loves the Faeries. She can never decide which one is her favorite. Telling her I’ve met you will immediately up my cool factor.

  “Since you’ve told me about your mother’s addiction, and along with everything else you shared, I understand now where your stories are coming from. They’re an allegory for how you and your sister tried to help your mother, how you never wanted to give up hope that she could be cured of it. And, of course, there is the aspect of unconditional love. There is none deeper.” He set his wineglass on the coffee table. “I imagine writing the Foundling Faeries books is cathartic. They aren’t simply stories. All of your childhood fears and dreams and heartaches are poured into them. They help you make sense of the senseless. I understand that, Merry, how writing is the best form of therapy. They may be stories for kids, but you’re writing for the child still inside of you, trying to make peace with the past. Believe me when I say I understand that concept better than you might think.”

  Stunned, Merry stared at him. Nick got it. He got her.

  No one else ever had.

  Everything inside Merry opened like a flower turning toward the sun. Her chest ached from the joy of it, the simple thrill of knowing that someone understood. It was a gift, and she accepted it with open arms.

  She gulped back the rest of her wine, set down the wineglass, and launched herself into Nick’s arms.

  ***

  Nick’s surprise lasted a nanosecond, overrun by immediate desire. This mercurial woman was like a roller coaster ride, each dip and turn as unexpected as the last. One minute she was distant as the moon, then sharing secrets, adorably embarrassed, now coming alive in his arms. At the moment, her soft lips were fused to his, her body supple and throbbing against his own. Her warmth seeped into him at every point of contact as his hands traced her ribs and spine, the flare of her hips. The subtle scent of warm vanilla filled him, made him hungry for more of her.