Chapter 6 #2
I need him out of here. I don't need him in my space right now, so that I can do what I need to do with the Clan Chronicles instead of having him watch over my shoulder.
He eyes me warily and shrugs. "No, I'll stay with you until you're done."
How the hell am I going to get rid of him? This is really the stupidest strategy ever.
"Tate…" I bite my lip. "I just need a little privacy at the toilet."
He grunts. “Fine. I'll give you as much privacy as you want, but I'm not leaving you. You're still dizzy, still dealing with the effects of your head injury. If you need privacy, tell me and I'll close my eyes.”
"I have my period!” I lie, and that finally has the desired effect.
He grimaces and shakes his head. "Jesus.”
“Five minutes.”
“Fine, then. You do what you need to, but I'll be back in five minutes. Be quick about it."
As soon as he goes into the main bookstore, I quickly open the bathroom door, and then shut it again, just to throw him off the scent.
I’m maybe literally mental. No, I definitely am.
I'm supposed to be signing paperbacks today. I'm supposed to be making sure that they get on the shelves, uploading things to Instagram, starting everything I need to do for a book release, and a huge variety of tasks.
Instead, I'm pretending I'm on my period, so the hottest guy I've ever been with will leave me alone. Brilliant.
I look quickly around the store for what I need. Finally, I see them. The big, beautiful box of shiny new paperbacks.
It never gets old, holding a book that I wrote with my very own hands.
Ruffling through the pages, seeing the words that I penned, seeing them larger than life in front of me.
I don’t have time to dawdle, though. I grab a permanent marker, and quickly sign the first half a dozen paperbacks at the very top.
I take a quick moment to admire the cover. I love this one. A dark, brooding, bare-chested man holds a curvy brunette to his chest, the magnificent Highlands in the background. Could be me and Tate.
Focus, Fran!
I take half a dozen pictures, one with the book in my hand, one with them propped up, just as the door to the back room opens, and I hear heavy footsteps again.
I throw all the signed books back in the box, and quickly close it.
"Odd," Tate says. "My sisters say that every time there's a new Clan Chronicle, it's on a main display.”
"And there's nothing up yet?"
Of course there isn't. I'm the one that does the display. I'm the one that's in charge of all the marketing for the Clan Chronicles.
He frowns and shakes his head. “No…”
“Probably too early if they just came out. We don’t always get the print copies straight away.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
He nods as he looks around the room. "Did you get what you came for?"
I nod. “Aye. Just need to grab a few things out of my locker.” The lockers are on the exact opposite side of the room. I need to get him away from here.
He frowns and nods, holds his arm out to me, and my heart does a little skip in my chest. I reach out and wrap my fingers around him. I swallow hard, willing my imagination to ignore the warm feel of his skin, the latent strength, the way my body responds when we touch.
“I almost finished the book," he says with a smile that somehow doesn’t reach his eyes.
Uh oh.
I still feign nonchalance, but my heartbeat kicks up a notch.
"Oh, really? Any good?"
“Aye, bloody brilliant.” Heat floods my chest at the praise. I tell myself I’m not the author, that I may pen these books, but my alter ego is smart and witty and cheerful, nothing like the real me at all.
But I can’t help but be flattered by his praise.
He liked it.
“No way. Tate Cowen enjoyed a romance novel? What’s so good about it?”
He eyes me. “Thought you hated them. Why do you care?”
Someone gag me. Please.
I shrug, feigning a lot more nonchalance than I feel. “Don’t, really. Just curious is all. I mean, they’re romance novels, not the typical ones read by men. So I wanted to know what you like about it.”
“The story’s pretty gripping. The characterization is spot-on.” He snorts. “And oddly, it’s like reading a childhood memoir of mine.”
He doesn’t meet my eyes.
I look up at him sharply. “They’re romance novels, why on earth would you equate them with a childhood memoir?”
Smooth, Fran. Real smooth.
“I just mean that they remind me so much of my childhood, it feels like I’m there again.”
Is it my imagination, or is his voice… angry?
Why did I do this? Why?
My belly growls with hunger, and I feel a little dizzy again. I’m usually a pretty busy person with a really packed schedule, but it seems that even the few things we’ve done today have completely worn me out.
I need to throw him off the course, plant another seed. But something in the air between us crackles and sizzles, and my palms grow sweaty. I wipe them on my trousers.
“Well, glad you like them. Do you still think they’re written by someone you know?”
He sobers. “No question, lass.”
I frown. “You don’t think your sisters really would, do you?”
If it were one of them, they wouldn’t face the consequences that someone… like me would. Still, I feel shite for suggesting such a thing.
He shakes his head. “Not sure about anything right now.”
“Who else would it be?”
He scowls, as if really mulling it all over.
“Could be Nan.”
I snort. “Your grandmother definitely reads them and has nothing but dirty comments to make.”
“Aye,” he says with a wry smile. “Not surprised. Could also be my mum, but if they really are about us…”
I cringe. “God, scratch your sisters and mum off that list.”
He grimaces. “But my gran’s alright then?”
“Oh, ewwww,” I cringe. “No, it’s definitely not one of the family.
But listen, Tate, it’s a bit ridiculous that you all think they’re about you anyway.
” We open the back door and head to the car.
“I mean… let’s be honest,” I say in a low tone, just above a whisper.
“There’s more than one Scottish mob, isn’t there? ”
“Of course,” he says, scowling.
“Then why can’t it be any one of them?”
“Because,” he says with finality, “I’m no bloody fool.”
Warning, my mind blares. Danger.
“Didn’t say you were—”
“She knows too much,” Tate says. So we’re back to “she?”
Danger!
“Still, could be—”
“She’s hinted at even more. And while you were in the doctor’s office, I read plenty more and can see now why Leith wants me to find the writer.”
“Oh? And why would that be?”
Does he notice the way my hand’s trembling, or how my voice shakes? Can he hear the rapid beating of my heart?
At this point, I half want him to find out, so we can move on from here. The questions between us are making me physically ill.
“She’s mentioned things we don’t know, as if she has an inside source.”
Why, why, did I keep them so realistic?
Why?
“Like what?”
He blows out a breath. “Like I’d tell you.”
“Why not? If it’s in the book, then anyone can read it.”
He opens the door for me, and I slide in, heart thudding in my chest so hard I feel nauseous. He goes to his side, brooding in silence when he returns.
“First, they’ve had one of my sisters sent off in an arranged marriage.”
I nod. I added that in because Islan told me it was a strong possibility, and also because she maybe just casually mentioned one day how hot the Welsh Captain was.
“...and?”
He shakes his head as he starts the car.
“And more. Like the way she knows our code of conduct,” he says, accelerating as we pull onto the main road.
“Like she knows we’ve got sources in Paris, and friends in Ireland.
She mentions our hierarchy in vivid detail, and even seems to know that the year before the eldest brother assumed a position of leadership, we made a deal not to trade arms on any of the coasts, in agreement with our friends in Ireland. ”
Thanks for the facts, Aisla. Why didn’t I muddy them around a bit more?
“Ah, interesting. And some of that was true, was it?”
I’m starting to get nervous. He’s driving faster. Those gorgeous, deadly hands of his grip the steering wheel tightly, and he’s lost the laid-back approach from earlier. I swallow hard, looking out the window at the way the trees whip by.
“Some of it was true?” he asks. “You ought to know, Fran.”
Still scowling he smacks the locks on the door. My heart does a little skip.
“Why me?”
“All of it’s fucking true.”
We sit in silence, because I don’t know what to say and I’m not sure what he’ll say next. I twist the strap of my bag in between my fingers, suddenly nervous.
I was playing with fire, I fucking know I was. And something tells me I'm about to get burned.
“Do me a favor?” he asks.
“Aye?” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s distant and hollow, betraying the fear that’s begun to grip me.
“What?”
“Turn on my phone.”
He jerks his chin at the mobile on the dash. With shaking fingers, I reach for it.
He slides his finger over the home button, opening it with the fingerprint I.D. He places it on my lap, and my stomach drops to my toes.
Instagram.
He’s followed the Clan Chronicles account.
And there’s my picture, my hands, holding the signed paperback. Just a plain pair of nondescript feminine hands, but in the background, the light blue hue of the temporary sling I’m wearing shows.
Did I think he wouldn’t see it?
Did I really think it was anonymous enough?
“Poor writer of the Clan Chronicles,” he says with a forced sigh. “She’ll have to take a sabbatical, won’t she?”