Chapter 8
Penny
Oh God, me and my stupid, stupid mouth.
Beneath Monty’s heavy hand, mine burns. My entire body does. Shame rushes through me like a forest fire, likely leaving me splotchy. Oh, my stupid pale skin and its inability to hide my emotions.
Shaking my head, I pull my hand back and grab my drink, downing the entirety of my cider. Then with a finger I signal to Rosie. A check would be perfect right about now. If only my ride wasn’t the one I was trying to run from.
“It’s okay,” he says in that even tone. “I can take it.”
My gaze flits toward him. Beneath his black frames he looks almost amused. Like he finds this all entertaining. Like he assumes I have no idea what I’m talking about, but he’ll indulge me.
The thing is, I do know what I’m talking about.
At least when it comes to his books. I’ve read them more than most, I’m sure.
Not because they’re particularly good—they’re not, or at least not the last few—it was more a study in figuring out what went wrong.
What happened to the kid who left Hope Harbor ten years ago with this incredible storytelling ability? How did he turn into this?
I don’t want to sound mean or judgmental, but I fear that’s how it will come across. His books have one glaring problem, though, and if he’s suffering from writer’s block, well, maybe this will help.
Rosie appears and I order us two more ciders.
Once she’s brought them, I take a long gulp before setting my palms down on the bar top.
Then, without looking at him, I say, “Your male character lacks depth. I didn’t believe a thing he thought or a word he said and don’t even get me started on his interactions with Sadie.
There was no chemistry, no longing, no yearning—” I turn to face him, energized from the truth.
“It was words on a paper, dialogue without emotion. He didn’t believe in love and you never resolved that. ”
Monty’s brows dip and then they knit together as he repeats my words. “No chemistry? It was a thriller.”
I point at him. “Right. But he wasn’t the killer. And she was his best friend. He saved her and then you just ended it.”
“Well, the mystery was solved. They stopped the killer. He saved his friend.”
“Who he was in love with!” I screech.
“No, he wasn’t.” He shakes his head. “Like you said, he didn’t believe in love.”
“And yet he risked everything for her. Risked his life. Spent all his time with her. You dangled a carrot to the readers and then snatched it away. You wrote half a book.”
He pushes back his stool. “I don’t write romance.”
“Well, maybe if you did you would have earned out your advance.”
Shit, the minute the words leave my mouth, my cheeks burn.
Monty chokes on his drink, clapping his chest to catch a breath.
“I’m so sorry,” I mutter.
Dammit.
Monty pulls off his glasses and swipes at the water that’s formed in his eyes from choking. “I asked.”
Apparently I can’t stop myself. “It’s just, and tell me to shut up if you don’t want to hear it, but why don’t you write romance?”
“Because I write thrillers?” He says it like it’s a question, which has me pushing.
“But why not do both? Romance is the fastest-growing genre. The bestselling genre. You—looking like that”—I wave at him—“would make a killing if you figured out how to write some good old-fashioned yearning. Some off-the-charts chemistry.”
He coughs out a laugh. “Looking like what?”
My cheeks are flaming again. “Don’t play coy, Monty, you know exactly what you look like.”
He glances down—he’s in jeans, worn-in sneakers, and an old Green Day T-shirt—and frowns like he doesn’t understand what I’m going on about. It’s infuriating.
“You’re gorgeous. With those inquisitive green eyes and your chiseled jaw covered in that black scruff.
Not to mention the full sleeve of tattoos or the muscles you can’t hide under that shirt.
” I roll my eyes, agitated, and unable to stop myself from spilling my every thought.
“With your big brain inside such a pretty package, if you put even a smattering of romance in your books, you’d make a killing. Like killing a bird with two stones.”
He chuckles and I wonder if I said that wrong, but I’m too exhausted to ask. I slump against the bar and sigh. “Then again, maybe you can’t. I mean, not everyone can write good romance, though a hell of a lot of people think they can.”
I’m rambling again. I do that when I’m nervous. And I’m incredibly nervous and embarrassed right now. I just told Monty that I think he’s hot. And that his books suck. I’m officially the worst.
“So now you think I can’t write romance?” He arches a brow.
I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s a lot more than just a sex scene or two.”
He chuckles. “Ah, thanks for enlightening me.”
I shift and study him. “Look, you can’t be taught how to write chemistry.
You either can, or you can’t.” With a lift of my shoulder, I add, “It’s like dating, really.
Wooing a woman. Though, I’m guessing you never really had to work too hard on the whole dating thing.
Ya know…” I wave at him again. “Because of the glasses and the tattoos.”
His lips tilt up. “You seem awfully invested in my glasses, Xuxuzinho.”
Despite the low sweep of my stomach muscles every time he uses that term, I try to maintain an unaffected air. I doubt it works because I feel the heat rushing over my neck and my nipples pebbling.
“So you think I don’t have game,” he says, and the deep rumble of his voice rolls over me like a fast wave, right before he tips his foot beneath the low bar on my stool and tugs me closer.
With his gaze still on me, he slips his glasses off, folds them carefully, and then sets them on the bar.
I hiss out a surprised breath as he leans in and then skirts a finger through my hair, pushing it behind my ear, before skating it slowly down my jaw.
“I— What?” What was I saying? What did he ask? Oh God, why is he so close?
Monty’s mouth, now only an inch from my own, lifts on one side as his hand settles on my neck and he reverently strokes my jaw with his thumb.
“You think I can’t write a man who yearns to kiss the woman he’s dreamt about for years.
” I taste his words against my lips. The crisp apple and heady want.
“A man who has tried to figure out her eye color for longer than the few seconds when he can feel her pulse beneath his thumb.” His teeth scrape over his bottom lip.
“Who’s wondered if she tastes like a fall dessert, sweet and sugary with just a hint of cinnamon—” His green eyes dilate, lust filled.
“Or maybe”—his voice dips and those fingers on my neck tighten as he tugs me that last little bit closer—“she tastes like she’s mine.
” On the last word his lips ghost across mine and my eyes fall shut.
I wait for him to kiss me. Ache for it. His lips brush against mine once more, though, as he mumbles against my mouth, “Maybe I should be your fake boyfriend.”
I blink as I come up for air. “Um, what?”
Monty leans back, completely unaffected. “Think about it, all the Liberty Ladies would stop bothering you about dates and you could teach me”—his lips quirk like he finds all of this so very amusing—“all about this romance stuff you think I can’t write.”
I cough out a laugh, trying to cover up my nerves. My heart’s still racing from how close he was to kissing me—just like earlier in my store before Babs interrupted us. Though this time it’s coated with embarrassment because he didn’t want to kiss me. He was proving a point. “That’s ridiculous.”
Monty shrugs like he doesn’t care one way or another what I decide.
“Is it? You’ve been telling me for months how everyone’s worried about you and you just want to be left alone.
And we both witnessed the séance tonight where they planned to rid you of Richard’s evil chakras.
” His eyes dance and now I know he’s fucking with me.
I chuckle. “Okay, fine, I hear what you’re saying, but fake dating?” I make a face. “That’s absurd.”
Monty smirks. “Is it? I seem to remember you waxing poetic in one of our texts about this amazing book with fake dating in it. Isn’t that your favorite trope?”
My jaw drops. “You can’t use my book boyfriends against me!”
Monty chuckles. “This could work for both of us, Xuxuzinho. Think about it.”
I have a feeling I’ll think of nothing else.
Hope Harbor Happy Chat
Babs: The picture is a bit grainy but I’m almost positive that’s Penny.
Mindy: But who’s the guy she’s kissing?
Rayna: She isn’t kissing him. He’s definitely about to kiss her though. And I don’t think it’s Richard.
Tally: While I refuse to participate in this conversation we should at least get his name right. It’s DICK!
Babs: Apologies. She’s correct. It’s definitely Dick.
Mindy: Wait, Penny is back together with Dick?
Babs: No! That’s the name we call Richard. That’s not Dick. That’s Jake Montgomery.
Mindy: Are you sure? I don’t remember that boy having so many tattoos.
Stew: I have software we could run the picture through to confirm.
Fletcher: Ladies AND STEW, this chat is for official town business.