Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
ALICE
Before I can steady myself, Charlie closes the distance between us.
I’m standing at the foot of the bed, his bed, and suddenly he’s there too. It’s a four-poster masterpiece, a real historic wonder, and Charlie rests his hand high on the nearest post as he angles his body toward mine, boxing me in. Doing the best makeshift doorway-lean I’ve ever seen.
“Alice,” he grumbles like a caged lion, “why did you bring a Regency maid costume on vacation?”
I don’t say anything, so he leans closer.
“I know you want to tell me…”
He pairs that with the perfect mischievous wink, the kind I’ve written about for years, and his dimples are so deep I want to sink my thumbs into them. I almost do.
Then he turns up the heat. Just for fun.
Gaze steady, eyes burning into mine, he bites his bottom lip—like a rake who knows exactly what he’s doing—and I am susceptible . Any resolve I had fades; I want to tell that man everything. I want to do a lot of other things too, most of them completely out of character for sweet little Alice.
Don’t be fooled.
I know it isn’t real, whatever’s happening between us. This moment is only pretend. Charlie has feelings for someone else, and he’s just playing a game to make me talk. But it might be my new favorite game.
“Alice…”
He lets my name linger, drawing it out like a promise as he waits for an explanation. I try to resist, but I’m a mere mortal, weaker than weak.
“The outfit goes with the typewriter. They’re for writer’s block.”
Technically, that’s true, but it sounds like nonsense. I haven’t explained myself nearly enough, yet Charlie doesn’t question my logic. “And where exactly does one get a historically accurate maid costume—for writer’s block?”
“I made it. With my mom.”
That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever said out loud. True, but dumb. I brace for impact—sarcasm, mockery, the works. The full Jason experience. But all I get is another good, low chuckle, and I’m not complaining.
That sound rolls down my spine, giving me the best thrill. Especially when he’s standing that close.
Charlie gazes down at me, his face a few inches from mine. The air thins between us, and I can’t even blink, let alone look away. I feel like I’ve hiked to the top of a mountain, and there isn’t enough oxygen in the air. I’m too dizzy for my own good, lightheaded from spending too much time with Dangerous Charlie.
He leans a little closer, still boxing me in. He starts to say something else, or maybe he isn’t going to say anything at all. Maybe words are overrated.
His eyes flick toward the bed, and everything changes. Dangerous Charlie fizzles in an instant, and he leans back as he notices something on the comforter. A folded piece of paper that’s been haunting me since lunch: the newest scandal sheet from the Victorian.
“It fell off the top of the fridge when I tried to make a sandwich,” I admit. My voice wavers, and all those little things I didn’t want to think about come rushing back. My writing woes, and how pathetic that must look to everyone else.
“She made it sound like I’m lazy, like I’m not trying to get any writing done while I’m in town. But I’m not lazy. She?—”
The front door opens downstairs, and my voice fades. Our game fades. Charlie searches my face, and he isn’t trying to get answers out of me anymore. When he finally speaks, any playfulness in his voice is long gone.
“We need to talk.”
He takes me out for an early dinner at the smallest hole-in-the-wall restaurant I’ve ever seen. A place with sawdust on the floor and only one item on the menu for each night of the week. And it works—Charlie’s newest plan is genius.
The moment our Wednesday burgers hit the table, I’m basically an open book. As if that man has discovered the secret to Alice Kilpatrick. Give me enough french fries, and I’ll tell you anything.
“One of my author idols at Harlequin used to dress up when she had writer’s block,” I blurt out of nowhere. Before Charlie can even ask. “That’s where I got the idea. I like to pretend I work at a grand estate. That I’m not just making up a love story out of nowhere—it’s something I’ve seen and overheard while I was working.”
“As a maid in the Regency era?”
I nod as a blush warms my cheeks. “I know it sounds silly. But I get dressed up, and then I do writing sprints on my typewriter. Usually by candlelight.”
Why does everything I confess to this man sound worse when I say it out loud? Don’t get me wrong, I already knew this was bad—my sisters and Jason have all given me a hard time about it—but it sounds even more ridiculous now. Not to mention historically inaccurate.
Typewriters weren’t invented until the late 1860s. If I’m cosplaying a Regency maid, shouldn’t I be using a quill?
I don’t know why that’s never occurred to me, but Charlie doesn’t look like he’s getting ready to call the history police. And he isn’t mortified on my behalf either.
“Does it work?” he asks. “Dressing up?”
“It used to.”
Dressing up hasn’t helped with my current book, but before that, it worked like a charm. My sister Nicki first started acting strange while I was finishing my last book. I knew she was hiding something; I just wasn’t sure what it was. Worrying about her stalled my writing pretty bad, but a few rounds of Pretend Scullery Maid did the trick. Even if Jason said it was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen.
But Charlie seems more intrigued than anything. “Have you dressed up since you’ve been at my house?”
“No.”
“If I asked real nice, would you?”
No.
Nice try, Blythe.
I reach across the table to swat him, and he chuckles. Then I steal one of his fries as punishment. Something in my chest eases as we sit there together, and I’m almost having fun—until he taps the folded white paper on the table: the Victorian’s newest scandal sheet. I guess he wasn’t going to let me off the hook after all.
I don’t wait for Charlie to ask any questions. I just start babbling. “I know the Victorian wasn’t actually going after me. She wasn’t trying to be mean. I’m just really sensitive about my book these days. But I’m fine.”
That’s clearly a lie. I’m not fine, and I’m more than a little annoyed with the Victorian. That gossip monger was my new happy place, my scandal sheet dream come true, and then she turned on me. But Charlie doesn’t call me out. He’s too busy listening.
I don’t know why that makes me crumble, having his complete attention, but it does. Before I know it, I’m telling him everything. About all the words I write and delete each day, how many different plot lines I’ve tried that have gone up in flames. I even confess that the grumpy hero in my book is based on Jason, and Charlie winces.
“You have to write a romance based on your ex? That sounds like torture.” He drags a french fry through the ketchup on his plate. “Can’t you just write a different book?”
I wish.
He says that so simply, so matter-of-fact. With all the innocence of a man without a fanbase.
“I can’t. That’s the story I promised my readers. I set up fake Jason’s romance in my last book, and I’ve already teased it multiple times. I just don’t want to write it.”
Charlie nods like he understands. Pausing, he gives my problem a little more thought. “Does it have to be a novel? Could you write something shorter instead? Would that be enough to make your readers happy?”
Something shorter? As soon as he suggests it, I love that idea. A fake-Jason novella would be so much easier to write than a full-blown novel. Or I could make it even more brief.
“A short story would be amazing,” I admit.
At that length, I’d be done before you know it. I could knock that story out in a few hours and never have to think about fake Jason again. If I also gave that story away to my fans for free? Even better. It would be like a peace offering, an “I’m sorry I ghosted everyone” consolation prize.
It takes a few seconds for doubt to creep in, and I give Charlie a sheepish glance. “But I still need to write a new novel—I need the money. And I have no idea what to write. I don’t even know where to start.”
I’m not being dramatic. When I say I have no idea what to write next, I mean it. My brain is an empty field of nothingness, a post-apocalyptic wasteland.
Charlie shrugs. “You can write whatever you want. Whatever you’re most excited about.”
That sounds like bliss, but I still don’t know what I’d write. What excites me these days? Nothing.
I haven’t been truly enthusiastic about anything since Christmas Eve when I drove to visit my sister. I’ve been a bundle of worries ever since, and there hasn’t been room to feel anything else. My life has been stuck in survival mode.
Charlie can see it on my face. Not what’s actually wrong in my life, all the things I’m worried about, but the complete blank slate in my mind. The vast emptiness, devoid of excitement.
“You’re running on empty,” he says. “You’ve got to fill the tank.”
He’s right. I haven’t had real fun in a long time. That’s what this trip to visit Jason was supposed to be, my chance to fill my creative well. To see new things, have new experiences, and feel alive again.
But those plans didn’t exactly pan out.
“You need to take some breaks while you’re here. Have some fun. And you need a fishbowl of destiny.”
“A what?”
“A fishbowl of destiny. My sponsor gave me one when I started flamework. I could never figure out what to make, and it was really getting to me. So he filled a fishbowl with folded scraps of paper that he wrote random words and ideas on to help jog my imagination. I drew “smoke” and “tree” last month, and I think it might be the best thing I’ve ever made.”
Charlie pauses to point his fry at me. “You need a fishbowl of destiny. You could even put your favorite tropes in it.”
I want one. Badly. But a girl has to work with what she’s got. “Be my fishbowl. Tell me what to write.”
He considers that, giving my request serious thought. “How about a masquerade ball?”
I stare at him, the sheer perfection of that idea leaving me breathless. That idea is magic .
“If you can’t figure out what to write, just start with a ball and see who shows up. We’ve read a few stories in book club that had masked balls, and they’re always fun. But I don’t think you’ve ever written one.”
I haven’t, and I love that he knows that. I beam at him, unable to hide my delight. “A masked ball sounds perfect.”
Charlie beams back, pleased he was able to help. “And I’m serious about taking breaks. I could show you around town while you’re here, take you to some of my favorite places—if you want.”
He sounds so shy when he says that, so uncertain, and it’s probably the most endearing thing I’ve ever heard.
“I’d like that.”
Again, doubt ruins my good mood, and I glance at the scandal sheet on the table. “But what about the Victorian?”
I don’t want to care what she writes about me, but I’m a sucker when it comes to stuff like that. Bad book reviews drag me down for months; I’m not even allowed to think about checking Goodreads anymore. But a scandal sheet that’s delivered directly to Charlie’s house? That I know every single person in the Lilac Hedgerow is reading?
“If the Victorian sees me having fun around town, won’t she keep insinuating I’m lazy?”
Charlie has an answer for that too. “You can write in public during the day—at a cafe or the library—and then we can do stuff around town in the afternoon. If everyone sees you writing, they can’t say you’re lazy. What are you supposed to do, write twenty-four seven? You’re not a machine.”
He’s right, and I beam at him again. “You have the best ideas. Are you sure you don’t mind showing me around? I don’t even know what I want to do or see.”
“Don’t worry, Kilpatrick. I’ve got it covered,” he says, giving me a faint but mischievous grin. “I know all the best ways to keep you busy.”