Chapter Twenty-Four
Finn
My mind wouldn’t settle.
Over and over.
Round and round.
My words to Ulysses about overthinking things were now coming back to bite me in the ass. Because this time I was the one doing the overthinking.
While my—
I squinted up at the ceiling in his bedroom. A sliver of light came through the drapes and slid across the space.
Light pollution.
My place in the country was pretty dark, but I needed blackout blinds because of the shift-work. Right now, I should’ve been at home in my own bed. Instead of here in—
What the fuck, dude? How hard can it be to say?
Really hard, apparently.
Boyfriend.
Right?
Except…were we that? Yes, he’d met my mother. So that moved the relationship from beyond the realm of fuck buddies.
Right?
On the other hand, he hadn’t introduced me to his pizza-delivery person.
Right?
But was that a sign of wanting to keep me hidden, respecting my privacy, or just not wanting to get into a long-winded explanation of who I was?
Boyfriend? Partner? Fuck buddy?
I just didn’t have an answer.
Instead, I squinted at the clock radio.
2:50 a.m.
Too late to go home to try to get some rest.
Too early to go to the fire hall.
Aside from Fifties, there weren’t a whole lot of places open at this hour. I could go and try to sleep in the SUV. Except if my mind was working overtime here, nothing said it would calm inside my vehicle. Between the animal shelter, my kids with drugs, and Giancarlo, I couldn’t settle.
I slid from Ulysses’s grasp and got out of the bed.
He resettled quickly.
Instead of trying to sort my clothes, I headed for the door. Fortunately, it didn’t creak when it opened. I made my way into the main room.
We hadn’t closed the blinds here, so artificial light flooded the room.
Rain lashed the windows. I hadn’t noticed the wind picking up earlier, but it blew with force.
Glad I’m not out in that tonight.
I headed to the guest bathroom, where I pissed, washed my hands, then threw cold water on my face.
Still no answers were forthcoming.
My fight with Marlon was on repeat.
Me—demanding to know if he was the reason Giancarlo was using drugs.
Him—acting all affronted that I would even consider asking him such a question. Because he was innocent, of course.
Right.
Me—demanding to know why he was involved with drugs at all.
Who said something? Your reporter boyfriend? He's lying. Trying to frame me. That's what he does. You should go and look up his name.
I’d already done that, though. And I thought I’d known the whole story.
I’d come here.
And Ulysses had laid himself bare to me.
I’d basically made him relive all that—to alleviate my sense of unease.
Because fucktard Marlon had one thing right—I didn’t know everything about Ulysses. Even now, I didn’t feel like I knew everything.
And who says you need to? Who’s keeping score? Even if he is your…boyfriend…who says your relationship isn’t solid enough as is?
I caught sight of the open door to the second bedroom.
Curiosity might’ve killed the cat—but it had never stopped me from venturing where I maybe shouldn’t have been going. Asking forgiveness instead of permission and all that bullshit.
Instead of questioning the wisdom of my actions, I made my way into the room.
The blinds were open here as well, and that artificial light flooded in. The desk, pressed right up against the window, was the first thing that caught my attention. It dominated the space.
I advanced toward it and did some calculations in my mind. During the day, sitting at this desk, there would be a direct line of sight to Mount Baker. Unobstructed and phenomenal view.
My desk in my loft—with the view of the forest beyond—had nothing on this.
A shiver ran through me.
Well duh. You’re naked. It’s nearly the end of October. What were you expecting?
Ulysses didn’t have his heat on yet. Wasn’t cold enough for that—but it would come soon enough.
Another lash of rain against the window.
I glanced down the desk.
And squinted.
Okay, there’s a difference between asking forgiveness because you inadvertently went somewhere you weren’t supposed to and actually snooping deliberately.
And yet—
I found the switch for the lamp and flicked it on.
The neat pile of papers must’ve been five or six inches.
In Each Their Time.
A novel by H.R. Webb
My jaw dropped. I knew just enough about publishing to recognize a manuscript. And, having read every single H.R. Webb novel, I could also recognize this was a new book. Why would Ulysses have—
“Can’t sleep?” Ulysses’s deep voice resonated through the room.
Involuntarily, I put a hand over my heart. As if I could somehow calm the racing. I turned to face him. While I was naked, he wore a black silk robe. In some ways, the garment was incongruous with the man I knew—soap and water, motorcycle-leather wearing dude. Yet he looked fucking sexy in it.
Again, I shivered.
“You want a blanket?” He moved toward the closet, opened it, and pulled a blanket from the top shelf. “I have more blankets than one man might possibly need. But I always worry about being cold. I suppose because of—” He handed me the scratchy gray wool blanket.
“Because of…?”
He turned to close the closet door. “Doesn’t matter.”
“What if it matters to me?” I could guess—but I wanted to hear it from him.
Our gazes clashed.
He took a deep breath. “Our heat got cut off a few times when I was a kid. That’s all.”
“That’s a lot. My mom and I might’ve had a few lean times, but we always had electricity and wood for the fireplace.”
“You don’t have many fireplaces in four-story walk-ups.”
“In the Downtown Eastside.”
“Yeah.”
I wrapped the blanket around myself. Warmth would be slow in coming because I’d let myself get chilled. Another shiver ran through me.
“Why don’t you come back to bed? I can warm you up. Or we could have a shower. Plenty of things I could do—”
“Why do you have an H.R. Webb novel? A manuscript, right? Do you, I don’t know, write reviews for them or something?
Beta reader? ARC reader?” Advance reader copy.
Because there had to be some kind of an explanation why he had an unpublished manuscript by one of the biggest thriller writers in Canada. Right?
He sighed. “It’s sort of a long story.” Something flickered in his eyes.
The penny dropped. Or was it the shoe? Both dumb expressions. “You’re H.R. Webb.”
For the first time in our acquaintance, he bit his lower lip. “It’s complicated.”
“No, it’s really not. You’re either a prolific thriller writer who sets their gritty crime dramas in Vancouver or you somehow have gotten a hold of their manuscript—possibly through unethical means.”
“You would believe that of me?”
“I don’t know what to think—you haven’t told me anything. You haven’t given me any kind of an explanation as to why you have this. My feet are getting cold. Hell, they are cold.”
“Come back to bed.” He extended his arm.
I shook my head. “Not until you explain.”
“Ah. Stubborn.”
“Yep. Goes with the red hair—or so my mother tells me.”
“Right. Okay. I am H.R. I’ve been writing these books for almost fifteen years.”
“But, why? I mean, I get why you write—but why do you write and have a day job?”
He shrugged. “Being an author has always felt ephemeral. Like it might all end at any moment and I’ll be left with nothing.
So it’s easier to just keep fiction writing as a side gig.
I put all the royalties aside. I guess, a nest egg, should the worse ever come to pass and I lose my day job. ” He emphasized the words.
“Man, I don’t understand. If I could write all day, instead of fighting fires, I totally would.”
“Would you? Or might you grow bored? Feel the need to be part of a community. Writing is a fairly solitary act. I have writer friends with whom I communicate—but all over the internet. I don’t have real-life friends who know my truth.
My editor, my agent, and a couple of people at the publishing house know—but that’s it. ”
“There’s been speculation that H.R. is a woman.”
Slowly, he smiled. “I’ve heard those rumors. Obviously not true. The assumption is also that H.R. is Caucasian.”
“You know, I’ve never thought about it.”
“Because those authors still dominate the market. Another reason I didn’t identify myself—I don’t want to be labeled as a certain kind of writer because of my skin color, you know?”
“Yeah. I really do.” I closed my eyes. “You haven't told me about this. You're a writer? You didn't bother to tell me? You think I didn’t need to know?”
He eyed me. “Why do you need to know? It’s just something I do in my spare time. It’s not who I am. Look, even after I published my first book, I went back to UBC to get a Master’s in Journalism. Writing fiction is…my stress outlet.”
“And when you left town?”
“I took a vacation.”
“You said you were working.”
“I was.” He held my gaze. “I was meeting my agent and editor in Toronto.” He pointed to the manuscript.
“Sometimes it’s easier to have the meetings in person.
Plus, checking in can prove to be a good thing.
My editor wanted a different approach with this book.
I argued if this formula worked, why mess with it? ”
“Don’t you get bored of writing the same thing over and over?”
He shifted from foot to foot. “Maybe? Sometimes? But my fans want the same thing over and over.” He scratched his scalp with his fingernails. “I know what poor looks like. I don’t ever want to go back to that.”
“You’ve hit the bestseller lists. That means sales. That means money. You don’t seem to have some extravagant lifestyle.”
“That’s true. But I might lose my job tomorrow. I might have things fall apart and I have to dip into my nest egg. And the next book might be a flop. Lots of horrible things can happen. So I just balance everything precariously and wait for things to fall apart.”
I didn’t want to be swayed by his words, but I understood what he was trying to say. “Because of your childhood.”
“Probably.”
“Right.” I took a deep breath. “I've had you all wrong, all along, haven't I? I thought you were beginning to care for me.” I gestured toward the papers. “But you didn’t even trust me with the truth. With your truth. You planned to keep that side of you hidden from me. For what, forever?”
“I didn’t know.” He met my gaze. “I didn’t know we were going to turn into something. And I like what we are. I don’t want to fuck that up with bringing something that doesn’t matter into the relationship.”
“Doesn’t matter? Writing is a huge part of who you are.
Hell, I write poetry. So I understand about having the need for a creative outlet.
And before you go razzing me for not telling you, let me say I’ve had six poems published in the last five years.
Not exactly something worth writing home about.
Especially since only half of those actually paid me money.
You’re H.R. Freaking Webb, for Christ’s sake.
So not even on the same plane of existence. ”
“Six published poems is impressive, Finn. You could’ve shared that with me. Poetry journals are notoriously hard to get published in. I’ve never tried writing poetry because I know it’s harder than it looks.” He extended his arm again. “Come back to bed.”
I shook my head. “Is this why you haven’t made progress on the shelter? Because you’re busy writing fiction?” I gestured to the manuscript. “I'm going home now. I need some space.”
“Finn—”
“No. Not this time. Just…let me go.” I brushed past him—heading to the bedroom to get dressed.
He didn’t follow me.