5. Chapter 5
It’s been almost two weeks.
And I’m stuck. Again.
I had some good momentum—finished half of my outline—and now I’m sitting here in my usual seat at Grind Time, staring into the abyss.
Fuck. This book is going to be the downfall of my entire career. Ten years of working my ass off, and it’s about to collapse because I can’t get a handle on this fucking book.
A shadow interrupts my spiraling thoughts, causing me to blink and refocus. My eyes trail up the imposing man—in a forest green Henley today—up to his brown eyes staring at me with concern.
“Are you okay, Willow?” Oakley asks softly.
“Umm, yeah. Perfect. Why do you ask?”
“Because I’ve been closed up for twenty minutes and you didn’t notice.”
“Oh shit. I’m so sorry! Again!” I frantically start gathering all my things, irritated at myself that this has happened twice. It’s not his responsibility to stay open because of me.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I didn’t mean you had to leave, but you were staring at the wall, so it didn’t seem like you were in a writing zone.”
“Yeah, definitely not in a writing zone.” I let out a self-deprecating laugh.
“You can stay. I’m not trying to force you out.” He rubs his hand on the back of his neck as a red tinge creeps up his cheeks.
Well, he’s as fucking adorable as he is hot.
“It’s okay, really. I’m not making much progress, so going home is probably the best option. I’m sorry you couldn’t close on time because of me. Next time, just kick me out.” I’m dead serious too. My writing is not more important than his time, and I never want to take advantage of his hospitality.
“Yeah, I’m not going to do that,” he says with the shake of his head. He reaches behind him to the counter and grabs a paper bag, dropping it on my table while I finish throwing all my shit in my bag.
“What’s this?” I stand up and push my chair in.
“Lunch. Dinner. A meal, since you haven’t really eaten since eight this morning.” His gruff tone tells me he’s a little uncomfortable, and I have to bite my lip to not smile at that.
He’s keeping track of me.
“That’s very thoughtful. Thanks, Oakley,” I tell him instead of teasing him since I can already see how uneasy he is.
He bows his head with a grunt, and I almost laugh.
He would be so much fun to mess with, but he’s feeding me, so I’ll be nice. Plus, I like this shy version of him.
“I’ll see you later. Have a great rest of your day, and thanks for letting me basically live here lately.” I smile at him before heaving my backpack over my shoulder and snagging the bag that I just know will have an Italian panini in it.
“See you later, Willow,” he says faintly as I walk out the front door.
I woke up this morning groggy and angry at myself. Last night was pure torture. After getting home from Grind Time, I demolished the panini Oakley packed up for me and saved the second one he sent for dinner. I stared at my computer for hours and didn’t get anywhere.
I was so convinced that the little burst of inspiration at learning a little about Oakley’s past would sustain me for the entirety of this book, but I was so fucking wrong. I’m even second-guessing what little I have done for the outline.
I made a decision last night that caused me to toss and turn all night long, making me a grumpy asshole this morning.
I need to talk to Oakley about his past life. I need insight into the cases he worked on and how he felt during them. The inspiration for this book, after all, is him. A scorned special agent, working the case of a lifetime, full of politics and twists.
God, even summarizing it makes it sounds fucking pathetic. I have no real plan to move forward, and time is ticking away.
So that leaves me with one option: work up the courage to tell Oakley I overheard things he doesn’t want people to know, hope he forgives me, and then beg to pick his brain.
What could go wrong?
Everything.
Everything could go wrong and I could turn Oakley into an enemy, forever relegating me to Sal’s Diner for food, and never having another perfect panini and latte again.
Shit, that would suck ass.
But it’s the risk of alienating Oakley or failing my readers, and that’s not much of a decision for me. My livelihood is what I need to be focusing on.
Packing up all my gear yet again, I give myself the day to figure out how to talk to Oakley about this. I’ll wait until closing time before broaching the subject because I know he doesn’t want word about who he really is getting out.
Heading to Grind Time is the usual affair it always is. I wave to Mabel, Alice, and Jim, who are standing outside of the grocery store and look like they’re up to no good. And a couple of minutes later, I’m walking into the coffee shop.
I head over to my usual spot, and see a muffin and a latte already sitting there. I look around to see who could have taken my spot. When I catch Oakley’s eye, he nods to the table then looks back at me, letting me know he left it for me.
My heart pounds in my chest at the gesture. He keeps taking care of me in the background, and it feels strange. New, and something I’m not used to, so my awkwardness doesn’t let me just accept it. I walk up to the counter, backpack still on.
“What do I owe you?” My sharp tone is a reflection of how uncomfortable I am and not because of the kind gesture I’m reacting poorly to. It’s not his fault I don’t know how to handle this level of attention from a man.
“On the house,” he counters, not caving to me at all.
And it does something to me. Him standing up to my attitude that’s all over the place is attractive. My mind envisions what he would be like in the bedroom. Would we fight for control? He could physically overpower me, and I would be A-okay with that. Holy shit. Focus, Will.
I have to turn away, skittering back to my table, otherwise I’m going to blurt out a whole lot of words that would make both of us uncomfortable.
When I sit down, I realize that my abrupt departure because I was in my head was rude.
“Thanks, Oakley!” I call out and see him smirk at my chaotic actions.
Deciding I need to refocus my brain, I take my time eating my muffin and drinking my first latte of the day, before turning back to my book.
About halfway through the day, I cling on to a string of thought about making my main character fall in love but using the woman against him somehow. I have no idea how to make it all work, but the thought won’t leave me.
My books don’t have a shortage of sex in them, but it’s never the primary focus. They are, at their heart, thrillers. For some reason, creating a relationship within this book feels like an important part of the story, sex included. Huh, maybe it’s a romance? I have no fucking clue right now, and that’s scary. Only having a very basic premise for this book when I’m down to a month to write feels insurmountable. And I still need to work myself up to talk to Oakley about his former job.
“Hey, Willow, we’re closing up soon. You need anything else?” Brittany asks as I am startled at her voice.
“Nope, I’m good. I do need to talk to Oakley, though, so I can help you close up.” It’s honestly the least I can do with how much space I’m taking up here daily.
“Oh, no—”
“I insist,” I interrupt her refusal as I take the rag from her and move to the table beside me.
Together, we clean the small dining room, Oakley nowhere to be seen.
“Well, I’m going to head out, but I’ll tell Oakley you’re waiting for him,” Brittany says before heading back to the office.
Awkwardly rocking on my heels as I wait in the empty coffee shop, I’m second-guessing this whole thing. I don’t know how Oakley is going to react when I tell him what I overheard. He’s taken a lot of care to hide his past, and I’m about to blow it wide open. Not that I would tell anyone else in town, but even one person knowing might cause him to freak out.
I figure this could go one of two ways. He’ll either calmly hear me out before losing his shit, or go in full-on panic mode and kick me out for good. No more lattes with foam on top he’s been trying really hard to make pretty. No more delicious paninis. Fuck, if this book wasn’t so fucking important, I wouldn’t be jeopardizing my access to the best food in town. What an irrational thought. Sometimes, even I amaze myself.
Before I can do any more back and forth in my head, Oakley’s voice sounds from behind me.
“Brittany said you needed to talk to me. Is everything okay?” The genuine worry in his voice makes me feel like shit for what I’m about to tell him.
“You should probably lock up and make sure no one accidentally comes in.” I know it sounds cryptic, but I know without a doubt he doesn’t want this getting out to anyone. This is just extra security.
“Umm, okay.” He moves to comply and then takes a seat next to my usual spot.
I join him and start wringing my hands together, unsure of how to approach this. I’m scared of his response. Scared I’ll lose this very precarious relationship we’ve been working on over the last month or so.
“Willow, you’re freaking me out. Is everything okay? Are you in trouble?” Gah, those protective instincts of his never stop working.
“Everything’s fine. Well, I hope they stay that way after I tell you what I’m about to tell you,” I ramble.
“Will. What. Is. Wrong?” he says through clenched teeth.
Will. That’s the first time he’s ever used my nickname. Focus.
“I overheard you talking to Arlo after that guy came in here, and I know you’re an ex-Marshal and worked on the Tennison Strangler case, and I desperately need to pick your brain for this book, and I promise to not tell a single soul anything. I haven’t told anyone, and I’m on a tight-as-hell deadline and I’m stressed out, but I think you could help me.” I say it all in one breath, looking down at the table the entire time.
When he doesn’t respond, I peek up through my lashes and see his jaw clenched so tight I worry about his dental health.
I want to say more, but I think the best course of action is to let what I said sink in before I say anything else. I don’t want to make it worse than it already is. Lord knows, I have the tact of a toddler right now.
My mind is running through every possible scenario, and they start to look worse and worse for me.
I open my mouth to say something that could help my cause here but close it just as fast, because I don’t think there’s anything I could come up with to ease this situation.
I go back to staring at the table as I see Oakley in my periphery, tapping his index finger on the back of his other hand. The beat he taps gets faster, and I think I’m done for.
No more delicious coffee. No more perfectly grilled sandwiches. And no more book.
Fuck. I have no other option. This feels like the only way to get out of my writer’s block, and I just fucked up the entire thing.
“You didn’t tell anyone?” Oakley’s voice is so quiet I barely hear him.
“No! No, no one,” I say quickly.
His stare drills through mine, and I hold it. If there is a chance he’ll talk to me about his past, I need to be committed to doing anything.
“What did you hear exactly?”