Chapter Three #2
He couldn’t tell her that he already had, at least after a fashion, with Jolene, the new deputy.
Perhaps in another book or two down the line she might even be a love interest for the main character in the series he had worked on for the past five years.
He had thought his WIP could be the grand finale for Adam, but now he was entertaining other ideas.
“I suppose there’s a touch of every person an author ever meets in his works.
Maybe the way they walk, or the scar on their cheek, or even the twinkle in someone’s eyes.
T-shirts and coffee mugs have been known to warn other people that anything they say or do could end up between the pages. ” He chuckled.
“Well, artists say the same thing, only they threaten to put you in a picture,” she told him. “If you ever put me in a book, promise you won’t kill me.”
“Right back at you,” he said, and went to check on the steaks. He flipped them over and poured a little beer on them. “I wouldn’t want to be the dead person lying in a casket in one of your pictures.”
A strange feeling of peace wrapped itself around Jillian—something she normally did not feel unless she had her charcoal sticks or paintbrush in her hands.
She didn’t feel like she had to fill the entire evening with words.
In his own right and profession, Wyatt was an artist, too.
She worked with a canvas. He worked with words.
She watched as he stuck a thermometer into the steaks and took them off the grill. A little bit of steak juice dribbled down on his khaki shorts as he laid them on the platter with two foil packages.
“Dammit!” he swore under his breath. “I didn’t iron them, but they were clean. I even changed, since Rascal and I are having company.”
“You should see my paint shirts. And I’m not company; I’m just the person next door.”
He set the platter in the middle of the table, went inside the house, and brought out two plates and cutlery. “One steak for you. One package of grilled vegetables for you.” He motioned for her to help herself first.
“Thank you.” She forked a T-bone and put it on her plate. “What’s in the vegetables?”
“Potatoes, broccoli, green beans, and lots of herbs and spices,” he answered. “That means I sprinkled dry onion soup mix on the mixture before I wrapped it up.”
She took a bite of potato. “Hot damn!”
“Because it’s fire hot or …”
“Because it’s hot-damn good,” she said. “Did your mama teach you to do this?”
“No, the electric company did,” Wyatt answered and wiggled his eyebrows. “We had a bad ice storm a few years ago. I live in a total electric condo, and the only heat I had was from the fireplace. I cooked on a grill out on the patio and learned to make vegetables this way back then.”
She wasn’t sure she heard him right. “Are you teasing or telling the truth?”
“Truth, darlin’.” He winked.
“Are you flirting with me, Mr. Creswell?” she asked. “I’m not very good with that stuff, so if raised eyebrows and winks are considered flirting, then I should know.”
“Would it be working if I was flirting?” he asked.
She crammed a bite of steak in her mouth and held up a finger indicating that she needed a minute.
She’d never heard that line before, but then she seldom got close enough to a guy to understand banter.
Not that she hadn’t had brief affairs in her thirty-three years, but none of them lasted more than a weekend.
Well, there was one that didn’t leave the hotel until Monday morning, but that didn’t count, because she left him sleeping when she snuck out late Sunday night.
She washed down the bite with a sip of tea before she finally answered. “The jury is still out about whether it is working, and court is in recess until they come back with a verdict.”
“Fair enough,” Wyatt said. “You have a Texas accent, so I assume you live somewhere in this big state when you aren’t slumming it in the boondocks?”
“I live so far south that if you went any farther, you would need a boat,” she answered. “And you?”
“Right in the middle in Dallas right now, but I’m liking the solitude of this place,” he answered. “I’m an Army brat. I’ve lived all over the place. That’s probably why I’m a writer.”
“Because you’ve seen so much of the world?” she asked between bites.
“No, because I never had time to make lasting friends.” He shrugged before he went on. “Even as a teenager, I was more comfortable with my stories than I was with other kids my age. How about you?”
She raised a shoulder in half a shrug. “It’s complicated, but I suppose I was like that, too. Art meant more to me than a bunch of pissy girls fussing about who was the prettiest or who was sleeping with the quarterback of the football team.”
Jillian didn’t want to discuss her past, not when she was encased in this new aura of peace. She’d much rather talk about what he did. “So, I might break down and read a book. Can you steer me in the direction of a good mystery?”
“I thought you didn’t read that kind of thing,” he said.
“I don’t, but I might give it a onetime shot just for shits and giggles.”
“Then I do know this author named Wyatt Creswell who could have a copy of his latest book lying around the cabin. I might even get him to sign it for you.”
“Oh, really? Well, if that could happen, I might read his book just to see if it will keep my attention.”
Wyatt nodded and grinned. “I’ll talk to him, but he’s a nosy bastard, like most authors are. He might want to strike a deal with you.”
Jillian did not make deals. The price listed on her artwork was set in stone. No negotiating. Either the buyer wanted it, or they could walk away. But Wyatt’s brilliant smile and the twinkle in his crystal clear blue eyes made her want to know more about this deal.
“Does it have to be in writing like a contract where I have to sign in blood or will a good old boy’s country handshake do the trick?” she asked. “And what makes him a bastard? Were his parents never married?”
Like mine, she thought, but braked hard at letting her mind drift backward.
“His mother and father were married over fifty years when they both died. What makes him a bastard is that he yells at neighbors who knock on his door, and he drives a hard bargain when he wants something.” He rolled off a paper towel from the holder in the middle of the table and wiped his hands before sticking one over the table.
“A handshake will do just fine if you agree to the deal.”
“And that is?”
“He wants to see some of your artwork before he will sign a book for you.”
She reached across the table and shook with him. “Tell the bastard that he is forgiven for the loud music, but his neighbors would appreciate it greatly if he would keep it down.”
“I will do that,” Wyatt said. “When can I see the art?”
“I will be working on it tomorrow morning on the front porch of my cabin. Bring your book, and we’ll make a swap. Not for the art, but for the opportunity to be the first one to ever get to watch me work.”
“Sounds fair to me,” Wyatt said. “Now, would you like a cup of coffee with our dessert? It’s already brewed and ready.”
“Yes, I would,” she answered.
She reached into a tote bag and brought out the package of cookies. “I didn’t forget the dessert, but it pales in comparison to the steak and vegetables,” she said.
“I love cookies. Did you slave over a hot oven all afternoon baking them?” Wyatt asked.
“Of course,” she answered with a brilliant smile.