Chapter 14 – piper
fourteen
piper
“Piper?” Mom says. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a date.”
“I did.” For some reason, those are the words that make me lose it. Is it the past tense? Hot tears stream down my face, and I step into my mom’s open arms.
“Oh, sugar. Come tell me all about it.”
So I do. Dad boils water and makes me a cup of herbal tea while I settle onto the sofa and explain what I did with Clancy Calloway and my dishonesty.
“I messed up.”
“He’ll forgive you, though. Don’t you think?” Mom asks.
I shrug.
Dad looks less convinced. He adjusts his glasses, a frown marring his freckled brow. “What else is going on?”
“I’m just…it’s everything I told you earlier. I’ve been letting go of some things by giving Natalie more responsibility, but I just can’t—I mean, do I have to control everything?”
My parents share a look.
“Just tell me,” I say.
Mom nods slowly. “Yes. You’ve always liked things a certain way.”
“Nat’s been controlling socials. I let Ravi set up books the way he wants them…most of the time.”
“But are you dying to fix them?” Mom asks.
YES. I even changed the setup once, taking all the Clancy Calloway books and putting them below D.M.
James’s books instead of next to them. But I don’t say that.
I just groan, dropping my face into my hands.
“What’s wrong with me? Is this why I have the pen name?
I always just thought I wanted anonymity—a separation so I could own the bookstore and remain unbiased and protect myself if my name ever grew huge.
But it’s because I can’t control readers’ opinions, isn’t it? ”
Dad shakes his head. “We can’t answer that for you, honey.”
“It’s true,” I tell them with a scoff. “I’m so afraid of my work not being loved, of being recognized as a failure, that I don’t even give people the option to recognize me. I control the outcome by not making it possible.”
“There’s nothing wrong with choosing to keep yourself separate from your books,” Mom says firmly. “That’s setting a healthy boundary.”
“But there’s something wrong with tricking Dorian into giving me his thoughts.” I drop my face into my hands and moan. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“Not your best moment.”
“I know!” I say, but my words are muffled.
“This isn’t going to fix anything either, though,” Mom says. “So what are you going to do about it?”
I sit up. “Grovel?”
“Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, I think you need to sleep.”
She’s right. It’s time I stop trying to hold the reins so tightly.
Maybe if I gave up a couple of them, I wouldn’t feel so overwhelmed all the time.
I face my dad. Maybe this is the reason I came here.
I trust my parents’ judgment above all else, and I need their guiding hands.
“Would you look at my books, Dad? The finances for the store, I mean.”
His eyes soften. “Of course.”
Immediate relief fills me. “You might see something I’ve missed.”
“Hopefully I will. How’s tomorrow morning?”
My impulse is to tell him not to waste his weekend working for me, but I smother it. “That sounds great, but only if you’re sure. We can do next week, too.”
“Tomorrow works for me.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I stand, stretching and feeling loads better, like I’ve taken some of my piles of stress and handed them over to my parents.
I come here every week for dinner, and I fill them in on what’s going on in my life.
But apparently, I don’t fill them in on the important things, or I wouldn’t have amassed such a heavy burden. “I love you both.”
They each hug me tightly, giving me the affection I’ve been craving since I walked away from Dorian’s house earlier.
They don’t know I got a ride here, so I order another rideshare, because I don’t want them on the roads this late with their terrible eyesight.
When my car arrives, I hug them again and leave, feeling the slightest bit hopeful.
Maybe Dorian won’t forgive me so easily, but things are better already. Some things, at least.
The driver, Dax, turns down the country station in his Dodge Durango and looks at me through the rearview mirror. “So, any fun plans this evening?”
“Just hung out with my parents.”
“Nice. My mom’s in Orlando. I wish I could hang out with her.”
“What brought you to Nashville?”
“Work.” He pauses. “I’m trying to make it in the business.”
Where country artists are a dime a dozen. “It’s tough,” I say, though I don’t really know.
He blows a raspberry. “Which is why I’m giving you a ride tonight. But I have a gig next weekend, so who knows? Things could pick up.”
“I hope they do.”
It’s quiet for a while before he speaks again. “What do you do for work?”
My immediate response—I own a bookstore, something I always say with pride—stalls in my throat.
It’s the truth. I could say it. But it’s not actually the thing supporting me, is it?
It’s not the career making my bookshop hobby a possibility.
I glance out the window and take a leap.
Maybe if I’m not looking at him, it’ll be easier to say.
“I’m an author, actually.” The words come out soft, breaking at the end. My nerves are fried.
“No way. That’s sick.”
A smile curves my lips. “Thanks.”
“What’s your name? Anything I’ve heard of?”
“Still trying to make it,” I say. “But I write under the name Clancy Calloway.”
“No crap, seriously?” He looks at me so long that the car veers, but then he readjusts it and fixes his attention on the road again.
“I’ve read one of your books. The one with the”—he snaps his fingers twice—“doctor, that’s it.
He’s connected to all those people, but then you find out he’s crazy? It was dope.”
“Thanks.” My face warms. His praise is filling me with the coolest feeling right now. “What are the chances that you’ve read one of my books?”
“Pretty high, actually. That book was everywhere last year.”
I laugh. Fair enough.
“So why did you choose Clancy?” He glances at his phone. “Your name is Piper, right?”
“I went with two last names—Clancy Calloway. I wanted people to see the cover and not know my gender. Then they’d enjoy the story without preconceived notions. That was the idea, at least.”
“Cool.” He nods along. “I dig it.”
We talk about the other thrillers we’ve both enjoyed—D.M. James is at the top of his list, of course—until we reach my store.
“Thanks for the ride, Dax. It was nice to meet you. Good luck with your gig.”
“Thanks. I can’t wait to tell my brother I gave you a ride. He’s going to be so jealous.”
I laugh, getting out of the car. This ride is getting five stars tonight.
I’m not na?ve. I’ve been on the lawless free-for-all that is Goodreads and seen the mass of one- and two-star reviews for each of my books. It’s no secret that every reader won’t love every story. I do accept that.
But there’s also something freeing about being open about what I do—about baring myself and accepting whatever comes my way.
Publishing is a vulnerable job. The pen name was meant to protect me.
My suit of armor. I don’t mean to disrobe entirely now.
But that was a cool moment, and maybe I don’t need to be quite so tight-fisted about who I share that part of me with anymore.
I feel lighter in more ways than one when I leave the car behind. But when I cross the street and reach the darkened doorway to Piper’s Books, my feet stall.
Because there, sitting on the front stoop, is Dorian.
The width of the sidewalk remains between us as I stand frozen on the curb and he rises in front of the bookstore door. His eyes are wary, brow furrowed, and his hair is a mess like he’s tugged and pulled and run his hand through it for the last hour.
Hope fills every inch of my body. His presence has to be a good sign, right? He came after me. But I quickly remember what I did, and shame chases the good feelings away.
“I was going to text you,” I mutter, dropping my gaze to my purse and searching for my keys. “I just haven’t gotten home yet.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” Dorian takes a step toward me. “Can we talk?”
“I apologized.” The unsaid words float between us—and you didn’t accept it. You let me leave.
He gives his head a small shake. “I needed a minute to process. Like I told you, this is hard for me. I know what I want to say, but the words don’t always come out right.
They usually just refuse to come at all.
It’s challenging to speak the things I’m thinking.
It takes time for me to process sometimes, and by the time I know what I want to say, it’s too late. So I panic.”
“You leave.”
“Or I let you leave. But I tried to chase you down. I was just too late.”
He tried to stop me? The key fob digs into my hand as my grip tightens.
Dorian takes another step closer. The spring air has a bite to it, and I can see how pink his skin is, but I don’t want to move. We are alone out here, with the moon shining high overhead and the street blessedly empty. All the shops along the strip are dark and quiet. It’s peaceful and still.
“I didn’t like having the rug pulled out from under me, but I get why you’ve kept the name a secret.
I understand all that. How could I not?” He peers into my eyes, his own deep and dark and soulful.
“These last few weeks have felt like a fever dream. I knew I’d be coming to your bookshop for the signing, and I was excited to see you.
Elena mentioned you at one of our brunches and how great your store is, how you’re basically married to your job—”
“Nice.”
“—and I couldn’t get you out of my head. I had to see you.”
“You couldn’t just stop in and buy a book like a normal person?”
“No, I thought setting up a huge event and revealing my pen name was a better idea,” he deadpans. “Honestly, some part of me clearly wanted you to see my success. Maybe I thought it would give me a better shot with you.”
“You always had a shot,” I whisper.
“I didn’t know that.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. It feels like a loss. They can’t touch me if they’re tucked away like that.
“But really, now that I know you’re the writer behind my favorite author, your chances have tripled.”
“Was that your master plan? Get with me so I’d beta read all your manuscripts?”
“Sounds like it’s working. Your thoughts about the mental hospital are on point. With your notes, I’ll surpass you in no time.”
He chuckles. The low rumble reaches my gut and silences me.
Dorian’s expression grows serious. “I forgive you, Piper.”
“Thank you,” I say weakly.
“Where did you go?”
“When I left your house? I went to see my parents. They know everything now, and they’re definitely on your side.
But so am I, so I don’t blame them. They might have pointed out my incessant need to control things too, so I’m trying to find a healthy balance.
I might…I don’t know. I might start telling people that I write.
” I draw in a breath. “I told my driver on the way over here, and I know it’s an insane coincidence, but he likes one of my books. ”
“Not that insane,” Dorian argues. “You top the thriller charts, Piper.”
My cheeks warm with pleasure.
“I don’t want this to be over before we actually start anything. I want to date you. I want to see where this goes.” He steps closer, his hands still in his pockets. “I want us.”
“You’re getting better at speaking your mind.”
His stare fixes on me, making everything around us fade. “Oh, there are so many more things I could say right now, but I’m trying not to scare you away.”
A thrill runs down my spine. I drop my purse and keys on the sidewalk and grip his jacket, fisting it in my hands and pulling him closer. “We could try to help each other, you know.”
“How would we do that?” His fingers skate up my arms, and he cradles my jaw.
“You can help me learn to trust more people, and I’ll give you plenty of opportunities to tell me how you feel.”
He presses a kiss to my temple, then lowers his mouth to my ear and whispers, “What’s the number one piece of writing advice, Piper?”
Words are meaningless. His cold fingers slide over my skin. His voice sends shivers down my neck, filling my body with a deep need to be closer to him. I don’t care about writing or school or even books—yes, I said it—right now.
Finally, he tells me. “Show, don’t tell.”
Then he does it.
Dorian drags his lips to mine and kisses me like a man starved.
Like the pent-up energy from the last nine years has been building until this moment, when we finally pop the lid and let the beast free.
Mixed metaphor? I know. I can’t get anything straight while Dorian is kissing me.
My body is weightless but grounded, his hands roving, pressing, pulling me close.
My insides melt into hot liquid as all sense of time evades me.
Nothing matters except this moment and this place and this man.
I lay my palm flat against his chest and revel in the quick pounding of his heart—how it’s beating for me.
We break away to breathe, and I throw my arms around his neck, hugging him. My cheek is warm against his skin. “You’re so cold.”
“I’ve been here a while.”
“You could’ve waited in your car.”
He leans back to look me in the eye. “I didn’t want to miss you.”
That’s when I kiss him again, long and slow and tenderly. I’m on fire, but he feels icy. So eventually I do the right thing and pull back. “Come inside. I can make you something warm to drink.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Of course. We didn’t really have dinner. Are you hungry?”
The look in his eyes tells me exactly what he’s hungry for, making my stomach flip.
I reach for my keys and purse, laughing. “Food first.”
“Okay,” he grumbles, taking my hand. I unlock the store and let him in, but we only make it a few more feet before he’s pressing my back to the bookcase and kissing me in the dark. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he mumbles against my lips.
I set my purse on the edge of the nearest shelf, dropping my keys inside, and throw my arms around him, kissing him back. I’m pretty sure I’m warming him up on my own well enough. Who really needs tea anyway?