Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
NATE
W ell, this is uncomfortable .
Nate wished Luke didn’t have to hurry home to his family. He needed another buffer between him and the brunette in the Bentley.
“Nathaniel, welcome!” The older lady with long silvery hair wrapped in a bun on top of her head gathered him in a warm, motherly hug.
He wasn’t sure what to do, so he patted her back awkwardly. “Please, call me Nate.”
“Nate.” She stepped back and smiled brightly. “I’m Beverly. And this is my husband, Frank.”
Frank grunted an indiscernible greeting, but gave him a firm, semifriendly handshake. Nate didn’t mind a man of few words. And from what Susan said, more than half of Frank’s vocabulary consisted of blunt statements and gruff sarcasm. So, silence and a solid handshake seemed like a decent start.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Thank you for welcoming me into your home.” He retrieved the bouquet from on top of the duffel bag. “These are for you.”
“Oh, how lovely! Carnations are my favorite. Thank you! A gift really wasn’t necessary. We’re delighted to have you,” Beverly said with a soft, sincere tone. She struck him as the sort of person who would struggle to say an unkind word about anyone. “This is my niece, Juliet. Although her friends call her Jules.”
“Nice to meet you, Juliet.” He hoped his choice of address wasn’t perceived as a slight, but they definitely weren’t friends.
“Nice to meet you, too.” Miss Proust—who wore a coat that looked like cashmere and pearls that would probably go for over five grand at the jewelry store where he worked—wouldn’t meet his eye, and she shifted her feet as if she couldn’t wait to sprint from the room.
What had Frank and Beverly told Juliet about him? Did she know he’d spent some time living on the streets? Even now, he wasn’t exactly high-class. He worked part-time, volunteered the rest of the week, and lived in a studio apartment above a greasy pizza joint. Most of his belongings smelled like pepperoni and stale garlic bread. Was she averse to associate with someone of his lowly social status? The lyrics to one of Aladdin ’s opening songs echoed in his mind, particularly the part about riffraff and street rats.
“Juliet is a novelist,” Beverly said proudly.
Well, that explained the Proust bumper sticker. From the looks of her expensive outfit, she did quite well for herself, too. “Nice. Anything I’ve read?”
“No.” Juliet’s gaze briefly flitted to his face, then back to the floor.
She probably figured he was too uncultured to read. He smiled to himself, thinking about the worn copies of White Fang and West-Running Brook in his duffel bag. Or maybe she wrote romance and made an assumption about his reading preferences based on his gender. “What genre do you write? Contemporary? Regency? Romantasy? Amish?” He rattled off some of the romance subgenres he knew, adding, “Billionaire?” Yeah, that seemed like her vibe.
Her dark doelike eyes narrowed. “Literary fiction, actually.”
Shoot . That should’ve been his first guess. Now he’d offended her by jumping to his own hasty conclusions. Way to go, Nate. “Cool. I like the occasional lit fic. I recently read and enjoyed Remarkably Bright Creatures ,” he offered, hoping to find some common ground. “I was pleasantly surprised because magical realism isn’t usually my jam.” Although an excellent book, he could’ve done without the coarse language sprinkled throughout. He’d heard more than enough in the military, and preferred to avoid it whenever possible. With contemporary novels, he didn’t always know what to expect. One reason he often stuck to the classics.
Her frown lines softened. “I enjoyed that one, as well.” She tilted her head, studying him like some oddity she discovered in a novelty shop.
He stared back, trying not to fixate on how attractive he found her impossibly long eyelashes and her wavy brown hair with streaks of caramel woven throughout.
“You’re a soldier?”
“Yes, ma’am. Two tours in Iraq.”
“What was that like?”
“Hot.”
The frown lines on her forehead returned, as if she’d anticipated a juicier response. The only thing he liked less than snobbery was a morbid fascination with war. He’d met countless people who wanted to hear all the gory details without ever leaving the comfort of their cushy recliner.
“Are you hungry?” Beverly quickly redirected the conversation. “There’s leftover roast beef in the fridge. I could whip you up a plate. And there’s fresh coffee and gingerbread cookies.”
“Coffee would be nice. Thanks.” He was starving, but didn’t want to impose too much right out of the gate. These people had invited him into their home for a week, and he hoped to find ways to be a blessing, not a burden.
“How do you take it?” Beverly asked.
“Black, please.”
Frank grunted at his response, and it soundly awfully close to a grunt of approval.
“Wonderful. I’ll put these beautiful flowers in some water, then I’ll be back with coffee and cookies in a jiffy. Make yourself comfortable.” She gestured toward the cozy seating arrangement around the fireplace—a well-worn, plaid couch, matching love seat, and twin armchairs.
“Thanks. Where should I…” He trailed off, tapping a hand to his duffel bag to finish his question.
“Oh! Silly me. You’ll want to settle in first.” Beverly turned to Juliet. “Be a dear and show Nate to the guest room.”
Juliet’s eyes widened, and for a second, he thought she might refuse.
“Of course.” She offered him a stiff smile, then led him down the hall.
The first door they passed revealed an office lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases overflowing with old leather-bound books and thick hardbacks. It took all of Nate’s self-control not to ditch the tour right then and there in favor of perusing the well-stocked shelves.
They passed the hall bath next. “I guess we’ll be sharing this bathroom,” Juliet said and quickly showed him where Beverly kept the soaps and towels.
“And this is your room.” She opened the door to a small bedroom painted a soothing sage-green color. A large bay window with a built-in seat overlooked a neighboring forest of mature pines and cedar trees. The bed appeared slightly smaller than a queen—maybe a full?—and was piled high with the softest-looking quilts. He didn’t even care that the pattern on the topmost quilt featured pink and white roses. If he wasn’t so eager to soak up all things Christmas, he’d be tempted to stay in bed the entire week. He might actually get some sleep in a setup that luxurious.
He set his bag on the antique steamer trunk at the foot of the bed, but a nagging suspicion tugged on the back of his mind. “How many guest rooms do they have?” If he had to guess, the farmhouse looked like a three-bedroom, two-bath floor plan.
“Just one.”
That’s what he thought. He cast a sideways glance at the enticing mound of blankets. Keep your mouth shut, Nate. Those plump pillows have your name written all over them. He wanted to take his own advice but couldn’t curb his chivalrous impulse. “Then you should have it.”
She blinked, taken aback. “Oh. Thank you. That’s very kind. But there’s a comfortable roll-a-way bed in the study. I actually requested that room. I thought all the books and Frank’s old typewriter might be…” She hesitated, as if searching for the right word, before adding, “Motivating.”
He nodded. “That makes sense.”
They stood, staring at each other again, as if neither one of them knew what to say next.
Nate found his mind wandering, mentally tracing her graceful features. She had this one long tendril that framed the right side of her face. It twisted like a curlicue, and for one wildly inappropriate—admittedly ludicrous—second, he was tempted to wind it around his finger.
He cleared his throat, shoving the unwelcome thought aside. “Should we head back to the living room?”
Juliet jolted out of her own trance. What had she been thinking? Was she appraising his appearance, too? For some reason, he wished he’d shaved that morning.
“Actually, I’m going to grab some coffee and hole up in the study for a while. I’m on a tight deadline.”
“Sure.” He followed her out of the room, confused by the faint pang of disappointment. Did he actually want to spend time with this woman? A woman who openly judged others for their inability to properly pronounce the last name of a French novelist? He hated to admit he found her intriguing and attributed her allure to their shared love of literature. He’d always been a sucker for a pretty girl with a book.
Remember, Nate. The prettiest face in the world can’t make up for a bad personality. Even if she is well-read.
His gaze lingered on the gentle swish of her silky hair grazing her shoulders as she walked.
Despite her less-than-stellar first impression, Beverly’s niece might be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And based on the way his pulse spiked in her presence, he’d be wise to avoid her at all costs.
Luckily, even if he forgot the whole personality-over-appearance equation, there was zero chance she’d be interested in a barely-making-ends-meet veteran, even if he could correctly pronounce Proust.
Plus, there was the not-so-small matter of his past.
If the absence of an impressive paycheck and mailing address didn’t scare her off, revealing his darkest, most shameful secret would do the trick.