Chapter 1 #2
“I’m sorry.” She frowned. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
He cleared his throat. “I said, can we agree that you’re not needed here?”
Okay, so she had heard. He was just a jerk. She should be used to them by now.
“I didn’t get your name,” she said, lifting her gaze resolutely to his
“Oliver,” he muttered.
“Oliver, like the guy who cancelled Christmas.”
He blinked. Damn, he was good-looking if you liked scowly, grumpy men who looked at you like you’d just killed their favorite puppy. “Oliver like the writer, Oliver Sinclair.”
Juniper’s face lit up. “Oh, I love his books.”
His mouth twitched. And that’s when she realized.
Nooo.
“You’re him?” Her eyes widened. Everybody knew Oliver Sinclair’s name. His thrillers were piled high in every shop and airport across the United States and beyond.
He gave the slowest of nods.
Ugh, never meet your heroes. And why did he have to spoil the non-Porncenter fantasy she was planning to have tonight by being so churlish?
She took a deep breath. “Okay then. It’s nice to meet you, Oliver.
” Lies, all lies. “And I’m afraid I’ll have to come here again.
I’m being paid to take care of the plants. ”
“How much care do they need?” He shrugged. “I’ll water them when they’re dry.”
She winced. “You can’t let them get dry.”
“Okay then, I’ll water them when they’re wet.”
A shudder ran through her. Was this man a monster? “You’ll kill them if you do that,” she told him, trying to keep her voice even.
He rolled his eyes. “So, when am I supposed to water them?”
She let out a sigh because he wasn’t getting it. “You’re not,” she said pointedly. “That’s my job. I check them every day. I check their leaves and the soil and then I decide what they need.”
“And then you whisper to them.” He lifted a disbelieving brow.
She was used to people denigrating her job. She rarely cared. But this man, this writer. The one whose books she bought the day they came out and devoured. He was aggravating her.
And she didn’t like it one bit.
“You think it isn’t a real job?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat.”
“Says the man who makes up people for a living.”
Oliver looked at her carefully. “The man who gets paid a lot of money to make up people for a living.”
“And I’m the woman who gets paid a lot of money to keep plants alive.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Very expensive plants. The Venus Flytrap in the living room is worth three thousand dollars alone.” She paused to let it sink in. “I’ll be here every evening from six until seven.”
His eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “If I’m writing, don’t disturb me.”
“Oh buddy, I have no intention of it.”
“Okay then.” He nodded. “That’s good.”
“Great. Now, can I get on with my job?” she asked, trying not to sound as annoyed as she felt.
“Sure.” He turned away, giving her a perfect view of his broad back and shoulders. “Go do your whispering. I’m sure the plants will love it.” And then as he walked away, she heard him mutter, “What a fucking crank.”
* * *
Excitement rushed through Oliver the next evening as he hunched over his laptop, his fingers flying across the keys.
This scene was actually working. His protagonist – Simon Jakes – was finally unravelling the mystery he’d crossed continents to solve.
Except now he faced a barrage of gunshots that he had to run to avoid.
A smile pulled at Oliver’s lips as he started to describe Simon grabbing the pistol from his pocket as he vaulted over a car for cover and…
What.
The.
Hell.
Was.
That.
Noise?
It sounded like a cat. No, more like a banshee. It took him a long minute to work out it was somebody singing.
If you could call it that.
“Do you know the Muffin Man, the Muffin Man, the Muffin man? Do you know the Muffin Man that lives on Drury Lane…”
He pinched his nose and waited for it to stop so he could get back to this scene.
But it didn’t.
She just kept on singing…
Furious, he pushed the screen of his laptop down and stalked down the hallway to the living room. And there she was, bent over, her shorts riding up so he could see the swell of her behind, leaning into the Venus Flytrap and singing her heart out.
“What’s going on?”
Juniper turned to look at him, a huge smile on her face. It disarmed him. Was she pleased to see him or just enjoying annoying him?
He couldn’t work it out and he didn’t like it.
“Oh hi,” she said, as though she hadn’t just about burst his eardrums. “I was just singing to the plant,” she said, her brows pinching. “Sorry, was I too loud?”
She pressed her lips together as though in consternation. Such pretty lips. Like the rest of her, they made him want to look twice.
But he didn’t.
“I thought you whispered to plants,” he said, his brows pulling together.
“I do when they’re sad. But this one is happy, and it loves to sing.”
“The plant sings?” He tried – and failed – to keep the disbelief from his voice.
She shrugged. “Kind of. It likes me singing. But I can stop if you like?”
“What happens if you stop?” He couldn’t believe he was asking this. Was this some kind of joke? Was Chris in on it?
“I don’t know. But I guess if the plant gets sad, I’ll have to come more often.”
“I’ll find my headphones,” he told her. “They’re noise cancelling.”
She beamed. “Good idea. How’s your work going?”
He took a deep breath. Maybe she was trying to be nice. “Fine. Just trying to finish this scene and then I have some thinking to do.” He pinched the bridge of his nose because he wasn’t looking forward to the next part.
“What kind of thinking? Is Simon okay?”
Juniper looked genuinely interested, and it kind of touched him. Sure, she annoyed him, but like any writer, he enjoyed getting praise.
“He’s always okay in the end,” he told her.
“Yeah, but you put him through the wringer first. The one when he had to fight the Russian mafia was scary.” Her eyes widened. “I lost a night’s sleep so I could finish that one. I just couldn’t see how he could escape that prison.”
“You read Midnight in Moscow?” He didn’t tell her it had taken him a week to work out how Simon escaped. He always ended up writing himself into a corner.
“I’ve read them all,” she told him. “I have all ten of them at home.”
He blinked. She’d said she was a fan, but so did a lot of people when he told them his name. Most of them hadn’t read his books though – they’d seen the movie adaptations. But Midnight in Moscow wasn’t due to get made until next year.
“You’re a good writer,” she told him, her expression sincere.
He swallowed hard, feeling like an asshole. “Thank you.”
“Where’s this one set?” she asked him. “The one you’re writing now, I mean.”
Oliver caught her eye. Was this some kind of truce? “All over. He’s hunting down a human trafficking ring.” And that was more information than he’d told anybody else about the book. Including his agent.
Juniper looked genuinely gratified that he’d told her. “When will it come out?” she asked. “Because I’m missing Simon like you wouldn’t believe.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Next year I think. If I ever finish it.”
“You will.” She sounded more sure than he felt. “You’re a born writer.”
“Thank you.” He let out a long breath. “I guess I should write some more.”
“Sure.” She nodded. “I’ll try to keep it down.”
“No, sing. Maybe it’ll inspire me.” It wouldn’t, but he was done being a dick. It didn’t suit him, anyway.
“If it does, you’ll have to put me in the acknowledgements.” She winked and turned back to the plant, doing whatever the hell she did to the soil with the paper testers in her hand.
And he walked back to the office and opened his laptop and cracked his knuckles.
If her singing got him to finish this book, he’d dedicate the whole damn thing to her.
* * *
“You didn’t,” her friend Ally said, putting her hand over her mouth as she laughed. “And he believed you?”
“Yeah.” Juniper wrinkled her nose. “But now I feel bad because he’s been so much nicer these past few days and I’m lying to him.”
“He’s the one who called you a crank,” Harper pointed out.
Juniper was sitting on the beach with her big group of friends and their families. When she’d arrived in town two years ago to open up her plant shop in Angel Sands, they’d all taken her under their wings.
Right now they were sitting on the golden sand while some of their friends surfed and played in the ocean. It was Sunday afternoon and in the summer they always gathered here to gossip, play, and eat. It was her favorite part of the week.
“And now I have to sing ‘Muffin Man’ to every single plant.” Juniper sighed. “And I hate that song.” It was a mess of her own making. He’d annoyed her, and she wanted to annoy him back. But now he was being nice, and she felt like an idiot.
“Me too,” Ally agreed. “I’ve hated it for months. You can’t go on TikTok without hearing Adam Lambert go all Cher.”
“It’s catchy as hell, though.” Harper sang it, and they all groaned.
“Please stop,” Ally begged.
Thankfully, Harper did as she was asked, but she was still smiling.
“Did you ask him what happens at the end of the book he’s writing?” Harper turned on her towel to look at Juniper. Her daughter was a little way down the sand, making castles. “We could sell the secrets on the internet and make a bomb.”
Juniper knew Harper was joking, but she shook her head, anyway. “Nope. I don’t think he knows. Keeps going on about this writer’s block he has.”
“Eep.” Harper grimaced. Before she moved to Angel Sands, she used to work in a costume department at a Hollywood studio. She knew how important writers were.
“Apparently he’s stuck,” Juniper told them.
“He wrote a scene the other day – when I was singing – but that’s it.
” Every time she walked past the office, she’d seen him kind of hunched over the desk with his head in his hands.
“I feel kind of sorry for him,” she admitted.
“He looks lonely,” she said. “He always wants to chat before I go.”
“About what?”