3. Chapter 3
Is eavesdropping wrong? Absolutely. Is my curiosity stronger than my morals right now? Yep.
In my defense, I really did need to pee. When I passed by Oakley’s office and the door was open just a sliver, allowing Arlo and his conversation to be heard, I may have leaned against the wall to get the good gossip.
“I was the commander on a case, the Tennison Strangler case, and things went nuclear about a year ago. I don’t know if you’re familiar with it…”
“I am,” Arlo responds.
“The last victim we found was the worst. They were tortured the most. Honestly, death would have been welcomed. And it … it broke me. I had been on the Task Force to track down Alfred Tennison for years, and we never got close. He was always two steps ahead. Victim after victim wears on you, but seeing the aftermath year after year really wore on me. The fact that he leaves his victims alive is the biggest mindfuck out there. The last one, though… Something in my mind cracked. I couldn’t be on the force anymore. I didn’t know how to function properly. This guy had become my life, and I had the realization that I wasn’t good enough to catch him. And if I wasn’t good enough to catch him, then there was no point in staying on the job. So, I left. Woodcroft came to tell me they had a lead—the first since I moved away, I believe—but I sent him on his way. He won’t be back, and my past will stay away with him.”
A gasp works its way up my throat, and I slap my hand over it.
I never would have guessed he had a connection to the Tennison Strangler. When he moved here, it was random, yes, but he told us he was some big chef from New York and wanted a quieter life. No one questioned his background. Small-town people take a minute to warm up to people, but when they do? You’re in for life, and Oakley’s been in for almost as long as he’s been here. Everybody loves him.
I don’t even hear Arlo’s response because my focus turns elsewhere.
My head is screaming with the inklings of a story. A fucking story!Plot lines bounce around my head, characters making themselves known, and my fingers itch to start typing it all up.
I speed-walk back to my table before I get caught and open my laptop to start writing. I create a bible of sorts, plugging in characters, settings, and basic plot points. I make sure every little detail floating around in my head is documented, hoping it all adds up to a book.
The next time I look up, the sun is setting and I look around in a panic. Grind Time is completely empty, except for Oakley sitting at a table in the corner. I realize that he’s usually closed up shop by now.
“Oh shit. I’m so sorry, Oakley!” I call over to him and start packing up my things frantically. I drop my pen three times before I calm down enough to pick it up and throw it in my backpack.
“I didn’t want to interrupt the flow you had going. It’s no problem, Willow.” The way my name rolls off of his tongue makes my skin prickle.
“You totally should have interrupted me! I’m sure you have better things to do than sit here and wait on me to come back to the real world.” My family is used to this side of me, the zoning out and losing track of time. Most of the time, I’m doing it in the comfort of my own home, so it’s not a problem.
“Nah, it was no trouble. I wouldn’t want to pull you from such important work.” His small smile—God, his smile, however small—makes my fingers tingle with the need to touch those plump lips. So damn useless on a man while I’m over here with thin lips that look like shit with lipstick on.
His words register in my very distracted head, and I snort out a laugh. “Important work, sure.”
Writing may be my passion, but I’m under no illusion that I’m making a difference in the world. I may have some die-hard readers who make me feel like I’m changing the world, but I write for me. Because I have to get these stories out of my head and throw them into the world.
He gives me a hard stare, like he wants to make a rebuttal, but chooses to keep quiet instead.
“Can I help you clean up?” I offer instead of pushing him to tell me what he’s thinking. He’s had a hard day from what my eavesdropping heard, so if I can help at all, I will.
“It’s already done. Thank you, though. I just need to wipe down your table.” He moves to the counter and grabs a rag before heading my way.
His imposing height should be intimidating, along with his bulky frame, but somehow, it feels like more of a comfort to me.
He quickly wipes down my table as I swing my bag up to my shoulder. Tossing the rag in the sink by the espresso machine, he snags the handles of my backpack before I get it settled. Like a giant, muscled teddy bear. Jesus … did my vagina decide to take over my life today? This is why I don’t come here often.
“It’s getting late. Would it be okay if I walk you home to make sure you get there safely?”
I’m about to tell him this is Bluebell Falls and I’m the scary writer of the town, so no one will mess with me, but then I remember the conversation with Arlo. He’s ex-law enforcement, so it’s in his nature to be overly protective. Will it be extremely distracting and turn my thoughts to him instead of the book I should be writing? Yes. But a little eye candy never hurt anyone, right?
I could use this as research for my main male character. They have similar features, after all. And now that I think about it, that was probably subconscious. Having Oakley on the brain is clearly having an effect on this story, but why not run with it? It’s not like he reads them, and even if he does, he won’t put two and two together, will he?
“Willow?”
My head jerks up at hearing my name, and I see Oakley with his eyebrows furrowed in concern.
“I’m sorry, what?” That’s the downside of being a writer who doesn’t get out much—I’m always in my head and rarely realize it.
“Can I walk you home?”
That’s right. What a turn my thoughts took on that one.
“Yeah, that’d be perfect. Thanks.” I see my bag in his hand and take a peek at my hands, remembering he took it while I was distracted by my overly hungry libido.
God, my focus is all over the place. Being so far behind on this book has turned me into an airhead. But the smile that spreads over his face is well worth all the overthinking.
He leads me to the front door, shutting and locking it behind me before walking in the direction of my small home. I’ve never really seen him outside of Grind Time, but I’m not shocked to find he knows where I live. Knowing his real background now, it makes sense that he knows more about this town than he lets on.
The late spring air is already warming up for a hot Texas summer, but at least for now, it’s not unbearable.
“Thank you for letting me stay and work, even when you were closed up,” I tell him when we’re almost to my house.
“No problem. It’s not like I have anything going on. If it meant you got done what you needed to, then I made the right decision.”
I think I can physically feel my ovaries melting. Such a simple statement, and maybe it says more about my lack of experience with men than anything, but his words have an impact on me.
I stop in front of my house on the sidewalk and hold my hand out. “Well, thank you again, and for walking me home.”
His eyes flicker back and forth between mine, like he wants to say something more but decides against it. Removing the backpack off his shoulder, he gently hands it to me and then waits.
“Umm, I’m good from here.” I’m confused by what I’m supposed to do right now.
“Just want to make sure you get inside okay. Then I’ll head back,” he says as he shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Oh, sure! That makes sense.” I slap my hand on my forehead and can feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment. I’m so fucking bad at interacting with men that aren’t my brothers. Lennox and Ledger definitely don’t count.
Skittering to my front door, it takes me three times to get the key in my lock before my door finally opens. I throw a wave over my shoulder before slamming the door and leaning back on it.
Holy trainwreck, Will. Yes, Oakley is hot as hell. Yes, he may have sparked some inspiration for my new book, but he was just being a gentleman. None of this means he’s into me, so I need to chill the hell out.
Besides, with this deadline looming large, I don’t have time to worry about what Oakley thinks of me.
I head back to my desk and get myself set up to work until I can’t keep my eyes open.
I wake up with a start, the drool pooling on my desk making my cheek stick to the surface.
Gross.
I look around to get my bearings and realize I fell asleep after a late night of trying to plot. The buzzing of my phone starts up again, and I realize that’s what woke me up.
Rina Calling
“Hey, what’s up?” I clear my throat after I realize how groggy I sound.
“Are you just now waking up? It’s noon,” she says.
I pull my phone away from my ear to confirm she is, indeed, correct. “Shit. I don’t know how late I stayed up, but I fell asleep trying to write this damn book.”
“Still no luck?” Her sympathetic tone grates on my already frayed nerves about this project.
“I’ve got a direction.” My sharp tone makes me instantly feel guilty. “Sorry, I need more sleep. Or a gallon of coffee.” I sigh.
“No worries. I was just calling to see if you wanted to head to Rosedale to get a change of scenery.” Rina’s hard, outer shell is something she’s never aimed my way. She’s my best friend in every way conceivable, not just my older sister. She stepped up a lot when our parents died in a car crash when I was still in high school. She helped our oldest brother, Ledger, who became Lennox and my guardian while we finished school, and we both wouldn’t be here without the two of them. But Rina and I have always been close.
“Wish I could, but I need to work on this. It feels like I’m right on the cusp of a breakthrough, so I want to stay the course and hope I make a break in it today.”
“Sounds good, Will. I’ll be back in a few hours, so if you need a breather, let me know.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I put the phone down and stare at my black computer screen. I need coffee, but after last night, I need to steer clear of Oakley for a while. He’s a great inspiration but way too damn distracting for my deadline.
Coffee at home it is.
I brew a whole pot and pour it into the biggest mug I have before I sit back down at my desk and go over everything I did last night.
Five hours later, and I haven’t added shit to my outline. I realize the only time I was productive was at Grind Time yesterday, and I don’t have time to be choosy about where inspiration is hitting.
Thumping my head onto my desk, I try to come up with any solution that doesn’t involve being around Oakley so much. My underused libido can’t handle it, and I need to focus. It may be a self-implemented deadline, but I already announced it to my readers. There is one thing I promised myself I would do when I started this career, and that is delivering what I promise to my readers at all costs, but I’m dangerously close to going back on that promise.
I’ll just have to ignore the sexy ex-Marshal.
Totally doable.