Chapter Two
Hunter Black
I scrub one hand down over my face as I stare out the large picture windows before me. There are few things that I love more than the woods. There’s something about the scent of pine and the natural rhythm of the forest that feels like coming home.
Somewhere, a bird calls out a long, haunting note as snow begins to fall.
The writer in me prays it’s an omen. A precursor to a heavy snowstorm that’ll trap me up here alone for the foreseeable future.
I have honey roasted nuts, water, whiskey, plenty of backup battery power for my laptop, and a deadline quickly approaching. The isolation would be welcomed.
I’ve barely sunken into the fantasy when the alarm on my phone goes off in my pocket. I’m supposed to be down the mountain and at the bookstore in thirty minutes.
I don’t want to do this. It’s not that I don’t appreciate my readers, I do. They’re the reason I’m living my dream. I’ve just never been a fan of crowds, people, small talk, or the spotlight.
That said, I don’t get a choice in the matter. Readings and signings are a part of my job, and I’ve been lucky that the publishing company allows me to stick to small venues. For the most part, these shops are quiet, dim, and the people don’t ask for much. I can handle that… barely.
I take another sip of coffee, settle the mug onto the kitchen counter, grab the keys to the rental truck, my favorite Sharpie, and head out into the snow.
It’s falling harder now, though I don’t think it’s going to cause any road trouble.
That’s too bad. I should’ve booked a cabin at a higher elevation, maybe something on a dirt road with no plow access.
Next time.
The truck starts with a growl, and I shift into drive, listening to the sound of the tires crushing snow as I roll through the pines and down the mountain.
Driving has always been a prime brainstorm time for me, so my mind starts rambling with possible plot shifts for my new work in progress.
This is the third book in a row I’ve struggled with.
The third story I can’t seem to get my fingers to write.
If I believed in curses, I’d think I had one.
Maybe what I need is a spell or some kind of cleansing ceremony.
I hear there’s a psychic tucked into the woods somewhere here.
Thing is, I think you have to believe in that shit for it to work.
At this point, I’m torturing myself with the outline. It’s been written at least seven times and I still can’t figure the protagonist out. I know she’s a young woman with a shadowed past and a hunger she doesn’t quite understand yet… but what the hell does she want?
Redemption? Revenge? A sandwich? Who the fuck knows?
Maybe she doesn’t know what she wants. Maybe the hunger inside of her isn’t for redemption or something trivial. Maybe it’s for identity. Maybe she’s spent so long surviving she doesn’t know who she is anymore.
I keep my eyes on the road while scribbling something onto my notebook beside me. I probably won’t be able to comprehend what I wrote when I get back to the cabin tonight, but at least I’ll have something more than a blank page.
By the time I hit the edge of town, the snow’s turned to slush, and the forest is a memory in the rearview.
Civilization has crept back to the tune of red and green wreaths on light posts, shoppers already busy carrying bags, and the town Santa ringing a bell on the corner.
For some reason, reality doesn’t hit me as hard as it usually does.
In fact, the whole scene reminds me of that movie, It’s a Wonderful Life.
Smiling faces, folks bundled in coats, everyone pretending they weren’t thinking about jumping off a bridge last night. A little dark, but classically real.
I’ve always appreciated the stories that are told with grit. The ones with bruises beneath the beauty. The ones that don’t pretend everything is perfect. That’s the same theme I’m leaning toward in my newest novel, the one I’m still figuring out how to write.
When the road is clear, I turn left onto Chestnut Lane and follow the reindeer signs to a cozy little bookstore with large picture windows and a Christmas tree lit bright by the front door.
From here, I can see straight through the shop.
Old pine shelves with matching floors, a little bakery stand in the back, a front counter dead-center, and a girl.
A pretty girl with long blonde hair wearing tights and a short black dress with a red cardigan. She leans against the horseshoe counter in the center of the store, scribbling something down as she bites into a croissant. The flaky crumbs fall and rest on top of her full breasts.
I sit for a moment, trying to memorize the detailed nuances of her. The soft tap of her pen as it hits the counter. The warm light from the window that catches the golden strands in her hair. The way her brows knit together in concentration.
She’s gorgeous, and for a brief second, I find myself interested in opening the door, interested in stepping inside, interested in learning her story. That doesn’t happen often.
The young woman looks up, freezing in place when she sees me sitting outside.
Her expression is blank, almost like a deer in headlights.
I know right away what that means. I’ve seen it plenty of times before from women who’ve read my every word.
Women who become obsessed with the version of me they see online.
Women who think I’m the man in the books I write.
I should be flattered. It’s these superfans that keep me in business.
Instead, my anxiety ratchets and my jaw locks.
First off, these women aren’t interested in me.
They want the fantasy man they’ve been reading about.
The brooding antihero with a tragic past and a possessive streak.
They want the man who breaks rules and bends women over for sport.
They want the man I’ve built from whiskey and insomnia.
I’m not him, not even close, and suddenly the urge to know her melts into a puddle of unease.
The woman brushes the crumbs from her chest and paces toward the door as I make my way over the shoveled sidewalk and toward the entrance.
It’s a cold morning, but the chill feels nice for a change.
I spend far too much time in the tropics for a man who prefers mountain living, but being close to the publishing house is easier than traveling back and forth regularly.
The door swings open, bringing with it a rush of warmth and a curvy blonde whose smile brightens the room.
“Oh wow.” She glances down and then up again.
“I said I wasn’t going to say ‘oh wow’ then I immediately said it.
Now I’m repeating it… and for some reason narrating myself.
I don’t usually do this. Sorry.” She stretches her hand out but ultimately barrels against my chest with a hug.
“I’m Lana. Sorry. Now I’m hugging you. Umm,” she glances down and mumbles an ‘oh God’ under her breath before attempting composure, “welcome to Chestnut Lane Bookstore. How, ugh, how was your trip in?”
I offer her a smile in hopes that it calms her somehow. “Good. Clear roads for the most part. It’s nice to meet you, Lana. I’m Hunter Black.”
“Oh,” she smiles even wider, “I know exactly who you are. I, ugh, we have some breakfast. Well, the bakery delivers baked goods daily for us, so I grabbed some almond muffins. I read online that you like them.” She mumbles something to herself again.
“I mean, I don’t like… obsess over you or anything. ”
My brows raise. “What else have you read about me?”
“Oh, umm… I read that you started your career as a writer twenty years ago after a brief jaunt in editing, and that you’re a loner who doesn’t really have much in the way of family left.
Also, you love to vacation in the mountains, prefer talking to trees, and you love a steak dinner with a side of chocolate cake whenever you finish a book.
” She darts her gaze back and forth as though she’s heard herself speak and wonders if maybe she’s coming off crazy. “But I follow Nora Roberts too.”
“Yeah? What’s Nora up to lately?”
“Oh!” She freezes, eyes darting to the ceiling like the answer is written up there somewhere. “You know, writers are always writing.” The words stumble out in an endearingly adorable lie, as though she has no clue what Nora Roberts is doing these days. “Do you want a muffin?”
“Sure.” I nod, biting back half a smile as I follow her thick, swaying hips to the back of the bookstore.
The urge to know her is back again, and so is the impulse to pull out my notebook and write.
Something about her brings life to my body and makes me want to write her out, just to see if I could survive her.
She’s young. Maybe my protagonist falls in love with an older man.
I haven’t written an age gap romance in a while.
Readers love a good age gap. They highlight contrast so clearly.
The heroine’s fire. The hero’s calm. They meet in the middle, and something clicks.
That, and the taboo nature of it all adds just enough edge to make the reader’s heart race.
“The bakery in town is fantastic,” the young woman continues.
“You’re going to love these muffins. I bet you’ll even write about it in one of your books.
It’ll be so good. Oh my God,” she mumbles again.
“Sorry, I’m really nervous. I’ve read every single one of your books.
Some of them two or three times. I even got an early copy of the January release and stayed up all night to finish it.
” Her cheeks flush pink as she talks, and there’s a tremble in her voice, but her eyes are steady with mine.
“So, you didn’t get any sleep last night?” I lean against the counter, arms crossed, trying not to let the corner of my mouth twitch into a smile.