Chapter Thirteen
As I drive Nathan to the meeting, I feel his discomfort amping up. He doesn’t want to do this, and he is anyway. I’ve never met a man so grudgingly good. I’ve met plenty of assholes pretending to be nice, and plenty of assholes who don’t pretend to be anything but what they are.
I’ve never met someone so grumpy, withdrawn, and generally cranky who seems like he’s exploding with integrity he didn’t ask for.
We have a little bit of time before the meeting, so I decide to drive to the other end of town first. “I want you to see what it looks like,” I say.
He shifts in his seat as we drive through the ravaged part of town. On either side of the road there are hollowed-out apartments and restaurants. Some places are only ashen rubble. In the middle of one of the most severely burned-out spots, a fast-food restaurant still stands. Abandoned, but unharmed.
“This is awful,” he says.
“Yeah,” I concur. “I wanted you to see it because you’ve already agreed to help, so I know I’m not emotionally blackmailing you. But I want you to see how important it is. It’s not just about me beating Christopher. Or about him not thinking I’m sad. This is what’s left of this part of town, and unless we do something to help, it’s not going to get better for a long time. I’ll be honest, Nathan: I wanted a Christmas miracle. I think you could be it.”
He rubs a hand over his face. “I want to help. But I’m not miraculous.”
“You showed up at the right time,” I say.
He’s silent for a moment. “I can accept that.”
We drive slowly back to the right side of town and into the parking lot of the meeting venue.
“This is it,” I say as we pull up.
“This is ... Well, there’s a snake on the side of the building.”
“You haven’t gotten out in town that much, have you?”
“Not really, no.”
“Well, welcome. I think it’s charming.”
“Yes,” he says, regarding me closely. “I can see that you do.”
We get out of the car, and I realize I may not have adequately warned him about how ... quirky everyone could be.
But it’s too late because we have entered the building and it is already filled with my fellow Rancho Encanto citizens.
I gesture to the front row, where there are still three empty seats, and try to fend people off as we cross the room. “He’s part of my announcement,” I say. “Just wait.”
So we sit and wait for Sylvia to convene the meeting.
Once she does, I raise my hand. “I have business,” I say. “I know we had everything settled for the event, but there’s been a development.”
“I hope it’s not another Culkingate,” Sylvia says.
“No. It’s the opposite. Kind of.” I stand up and make my way to the front. “It just so happens I have a guest staying in my motel who has agreed to put on an event. I believe it could attract a lot more people. We can sell tickets.”
“Who is it?” Reigna asks, looking very concerned that I’m about to upstage her.
“Jacob Coulter,” I say.
Nathan stands, and something in his bearing changes. It’s like that moment when I recognized him from his author photo. There is a subtle difference in how he carries himself when he’s being his author self. He might avoid things like the set of his own TV show, but he certainly knows how to behave when necessary. I wonder if that’s why it’s so important to him to have such a stark divide between his personal and professional life. Nathan doesn’t perform for anyone. Jacob Coulter, on the other hand, really looks like he knows what he’s doing.
“I’ve spoken with Amelia, and if it’s something you think the venue can accommodate, we can sell a package that includes a signed copy of my newest book and a talk that includes a Q and A.”
“That’s amazing,” says Sylvia. “Mr. Coulter, I am such a huge fan of your work.”
Sylvia not only looks starstruck, she looks dumbstruck, because Nathan is gloriously attractive.
Then Reigna stands up, her hands clasped up by her throat like an indignant rodent, and I realize she thinks I’m stepping on her toes. She brought the celebrity, and I’m now competing with her celebrity.
I feel bad because I am. But only a little bad. Because if Reigna only knew ...
“It’s a wonderful idea,” she says. “Though ... what if he was in conversation with Christopher?”
I nearly die right there on the spot. “I ... I don’t know about that. As far as I know, Christopher Weaver isn’t really associated with writing.”
“He’s in the entertainment industry,” she says.
“Amelia is a writer,” Nathan says. “I’d be happy to do an in conversation with her, but it makes the most sense for me to be talking to another author.”
All eyes in the room turn to me. I can’t even be irritated that he’s outed me—it’s not like it’s a huge secret, and it would be churlish of me when I dragged him here.
“It’s true. I am.”
“Published?” Reigna asks, looking intrigued.
“Yes,” I say.
“What do you write?” This comes from Bob.
“Romance novels,” I say.
That gets a mixed bag of reactions from the crowd.
“Not under your name,” Linda Calhoun says from the back. “Or I’d have seen it.”
“I’m Belle Adams,” I say.
“I’ve read you!” Linda says, much to my shock, though she seems to be the only person in the room who has.
“I think that’s fantastic,” says Sylvia. “It’s a different kind of event and offers even broader appeal. We just need to rent another canopy and some more chairs, and there will be space right near the enchanted tree forest.”
“I don’t know,” Reigna says. “It seems like Christopher should at least moderate.”
I can think of nothing more horrendous. This is for Rancho Encanto and not me, though. Plus, it seems like no matter what I try, I’m getting myself more and more tangled up in the Christopher of it all.
“If he agrees to it,” says Sylvia, “then he can moderate. But Mr. Coulter is right. It makes the most sense to have him in conversation with another author.”
“All right,” says Reigna. “I’ll contact him immediately. Then we can update the website.”
I haven’t agreed to that at all, but I can’t think of any reason that isn’t the truth that I could possibly have for not wanting Christopher to moderate, so I say nothing.
“Excellent,” says Sylvia. “We have two more weeks of ticket sales before the event, and we’ll still sell tickets at the door. This is shaping up fantastically.”
The rest of the meeting goes as scheduled, but afterward, I have to practically untangle Nathan’s adoring fans from him. I’m very careful to not use his real name. By the time we get out of there and start heading back to the motel, I’m overwhelmed, and in awe of him.
“Thank you,” I say.
He looks at me from the passenger seat. “Yeah. No problem.”
Except I get the sense that it kind of is a problem, and he did it anyway. It does something to me. I just don’t know how to process all these emotions. Because ...
“I cannot believe that Christopher might moderate. That’s like my actual nightmare.”
“That does suck.”
I laugh, because for some reason it seems like an uncharacteristic thing for him to say. I’m not sure that I should have an opinion on what’s characteristic and not for him.
“I can have my agent call and say I don’t want him to.”
“Your agent would do that?”
“Sure. We’ve been together forever. He helps mitigate how much of an asshole I come across as.”
“I don’t have an agent. I submitted directly to the publisher. So I have no one to mitigate ... me.”
“Well. You don’t need it.”
I take that as the extraordinarily deep compliment that it is.
I park my car in the back lot, and we get out. We begin to walk toward the gate that takes us into the courtyard, and Nathan stops.
“So, your ex. He’s the kind of guy that’s egotistical enough to cheat on you, and most definitely then egotistical enough to believe you got him hired for this so that you could ... what? Try to get him back?”
I study the ground. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that he’s an egotist.”
“Why would you defend him at all?”
“I don’t know that that’s a defense of him. I was with him for years. He wasn’t all bad. It was ... There were circumstances. Anyway, a lot of my friends have been with men who cheated, and they chose to forgive them. I didn’t. It didn’t work for me. I think more people cheat than I realized.”
He stares at me, those green eyes uncompromising. “He’s a dick.”
I’m taken aback by the vehemence with which he says that. I’m reminded again that I don’t know anything about him. Not really.
I’m also reminded that I thought the same thing about him, more than once.
“I’m not happy with him,” I say. “But I feel like I have to preserve some kind thoughts for him because he was somebody I devoted a significant part of my life to.”
“Not in any way that counts,” he says. “Or he never would have done that.”
“Why does that matter to you?” I ask.
I want to know. I maybe even need to know why he’s standing out here talking to me. He has come to stay at my motel for all these summers. And now, this Christmas. He has been here without actually being here all this time, with the exception of his heroism during the fire. I’m mystified by it. Baffled, even. Why does it matter to him what I feel about anything?
A couple of days ago I wasn’t even sure he knew my name.
But he does.
He does know my name.
He walked with me to the grocery store. He’s standing here now.
Casting aspersions on a man who isn’t here to defend himself, not that I need him to be here defending himself. Not that I need him to get a fair chance. What I want to know is why this man thinks he has the right to criticize Christopher.
When it isn’t like he’s ever displayed an interest in me.
Or even the slightest bit of human warmth.
“Because,” he says, “if I were in the position ... I would treat you better.”
“You don’t really treat me that nicely.”
Suddenly, the air shifts. It’s like there was something between us, a veil dividing two worlds, and it’s torn now. I can see him. Without any barrier.
What I see leaves me speechless.
His eyes are glittering with arcane fire. His whole body draws up tight.
I can see now the effort he is exhibiting in order to keep himself from moving toward me.
I can see that it isn’t a lack of interest but an extreme amount of restraint that keeps him planted to the spot he’s in.
I can see the truth.
It terrifies me.
I haven’t touched a man in years. I’ve been protecting myself.
Sure, I stare at Nathan Hart from across the courtyard. I think about him when he isn’t around.
I do not make decisive moves toward him because I know I will end up getting burned by the heat between us.
I was able to keep myself safe by only acknowledging that he felt the same in moments. Small spaces of time between one breath and the next.
But now I see it.
I see it, and I am undone. Stripped bare. Rendered speechless. Absolutely terrified.
“That’s the problem,” he says. “If I treated you nicely, it would only lead to one place.”
My mouth goes dry. “Where ... where is that?”
“I think you know.”
I close my eyes. “I need to hear it.”
I open my eyes just in time to see his gaze burning right through me.
“It would lead straight to your bedroom.”