Lake Spark: The Complete Collection, Volume Three

Chapter 1

HARLOW

Itap my perfectly manicured dark red nails on the counter next to the bell.

The receptionist behind the desk is too busy typing away on his computer to check me in.

Which is probably why my eyes have traveled back to the man leaning casually against the desk next to me.

He’s too easy on the eyes by far, and he seems familiar, but I can’t pinpoint from where. Why is he smirking at me?

Are his lean and toned arms peeking from under his white t-shirt even real?

I think I could bounce a quarter off his body.

His hair isn’t bad either. I like short in the back and a wave on top, his brown eyes to match, with a glint of curiosity.

An instinct has me thinking he knows more than I might expect.

How I ended up in Lake Spark, Illinois at a place called the Dizzy Duck Inn, I’m not entirely sure.

Well, that’s a lie. It was my publisher insisting that I should attend this writers’ retreat.

And so far, the town seems quaint. Summer is over, yet September brings out a sharper blue in the sky against the backdrop of pines and a deep blue lake.

A steady beat. That’s what my nails are doing as I’m in a standoff with Mr. McBroody.

“Can I help you with something? Normally eyes on me aren’t a bad thing, however, you kind of feel like an asshole who’s about to say something I won’t like,” I tell him, having no problem being blunt.

He just simpers and propels himself off the desk. “Can you go any slower, Stuart?” he asks the college-aged receptionist as he glances over his shoulder. Jock man returns his gaze to mine. “Harlow Olive, right?”

A smile spreads on my glossed lips. “That’s me.” Ah, he’s just a guy who probably has a sister or a girlfriend who reads. “You’re familiar with my books?”

He snickers a breath. “You mean, unrealistic romance novels that you probably don’t even write because you’re too busy picking out what heels to wear and posting smoothie photos on your social media?”

I glance down to my black stilettos. I only wore them because I like to dress well when traveling… plus, I do need some social media content before I throw on my flats.

But wait a second, what an ass for just saying what he did.

My hand lands on my hip that I tip out. “Aren’t we judgmental,” I counter.

“I’m confident this writers' retreat is for people who actually form a plot.”

My head perks up. How does he know about the retreat?

He straightens his posture, clearly having read my mind.

Then he has the audacity to offer me his hand to shake.

“Stone Madden.” I blink, as the name means nothing.

“Doesn’t ring a bell?” He idles in his arrogance.

“The former hockey player now a successful author,” he presses. “We have the same publisher.”

I look unimpressed before my own scoff of disbelief hits me.

“You’re him? You are the guy who writes about fictional hockey with a little mellow drama.

I’ve heard something about that. Just assumed you were some guy who lives in the woods somewhere and chops his own wood while wishing he was someone else. ”

“Hey there, doll. I would look amazing in plaid and using an ax. Besides, there are a hell of a lot of facts woven into my books,” he clarifies.

I chuckle under my breath, scanning the room to see if this is some kind of joke. Sports jock is actually a writer. Huh.

“Stone, do you want me to give you the lakeside view or are you tired of looking at it?” the receptionist asks him, as if he is partly unnerved.

“I’ll never get tired of the lake; plus, if I face the woods, then I’m positive I’ll just end up seeing two raccoons going at it.”

I look between them peculiarly. “Uh, I believe you were working on my check-in,” I reiterate to the receptionist, with his Stuart name tag that I want to rip off because my flight from the warmth of Florida has made me a little edgy, and, okay, the heels hurt my feet like hell.

Stuart throws me wide eyes. “Yes, but Stone is a new local to Lake Spark, so we must give him the full welcome, plus…” His eyes land sharply on Stone, and Stuart’s face falls. “He tried to get me fired a few days ago.”

Stone gives him a contrite smile. “Just keeping it real.”

My eyes swim between both of them. “Local?”

Stone gives me a satisfied smile. “You see, Harlow. Our publisher loves me, maybe it’s my name. Not to mention I have a little investment in this fine establishment.”

“Then you should talk to someone about that ridiculous moose head on the wall.” I don’t blink and tip my head in the direction of the fireplace in the lobby.

He stifles a laugh and ignores me. “Anyhow, the organizers were far too eager to set up this retreat in my new hometown at this spectacular boutique hotel that’s home to weddings, baby showers, events—you know, that kind of thing.

I’m just not staying at my house as I want the full retreat experience. ”

I blow out an aggravated breath. “Great. I’m blessed with an arrogant asshole who probably uses a ghostwriter to turn out his books.”

“Watch it there, feisty firefly. Please tell me you don’t write hockey romance. I bet you’ve actually never even been to a game.”

What a jerk. “I have… does it matter?” Damn it, he sees through me. My understanding of the sport could probably be improved, but I don’t write about hockey, so who cares.

“Mr. Madden, your room is ready. Would you like a welcome cookie?” Stuart offers him a wide smile.

Stone gives him a neutral glance. “Nah, it’s okay.”

“How’s your brother and the baby?” Stuart asks, as if they are now suddenly old friends.

Stone gets comfortable again, leaning against the reception desk. “Great, thanks for asking. Vaughn is busy on the road now that hockey season has started. Isla and the baby are doing well. She’s the cutest kid too.”

“Go, Spinners hockey.” Stuart gives a little fist pump in the air.

Are we for real?

I wave my hands between them. “Yoo-hoo, tourist here waiting for my room. What kind of welcome to Lake Spark is this? You’re treating him like he’s some kind of royalty.” I jerk my thumb at Stone. My annoyance is about to blow sky high.

“Oh, Ms. Jelly, don’t worry. I ensured you got a corner room near the squirrel garden.

There is also a fruit basket and local treats from the town too, not to mention a Spinners t-shirt.

Welcome cookie?” Stuart gives me an overdone, albeit sincere smile as he magically holds up a basket of cookies from behind the desk.

Great. Squirrels and carbs.

“Lovely.” I’m not at all serious.

Gah, I hate that he said my legal last name.

“Yeah, I would change my real name to a cocktail garnish too.” Stone chuckles under his breath, and that deep sound causes something inside my belly to flicker. What the hell?

“See you at the afternoon session, Harlow. Let me guess, you’re going to go curl your hair and freshen your makeup.” His eyes draw a line up and down, assessing me, and his eyes on me feels like a sin.

Still, I stay strong and point a finger at him. “You are a judgmental jerk. Shouldn’t you be on the ice playing hockey or drinking a protein shake or something? I’m sure your ability to think is the size of a puck.”

A short chortle escapes him. “Aren’t you a cute little fiery thing. See ya, firefly.” He walks away with a swagger that irritates me because my eyes linger a little longer than they should on his exit.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like a cookie?” Stuart breaks my attention, and I glare at him.

This is going to be a long retreat.

I’ll show him.

Stone Madden will be proven wrong with his critical accusations.

Staring in the mirror of my room, I double-check my black yoga pants with a dark olive-green sweater with matching converse shoes with olive-green sparkles.

The memo for the afternoon instructed us to arrive in comfortable clothing for the welcome session.

I fluff my hair and begin to leave my room but stop abruptly and lean half of my body back to catch one more glance at my appearance and decide that despite my makeup mostly being off, that maybe I should throw on a little highlighter on my cheeks and smear on lip balm.

It’s not clear why that hunch hits me, as if I need to impress someone.

By the time I’m down in the conference room, a small group is scattered around the place. A few people are already sitting on the circle of chairs, and a few are perusing the snack table off to the side.

I decide water is a great start and head straight for the table, saving introductions to the group for after I’m hydrated.

Truthfully, this retreat is kind of what I need.

My writing nights are sometimes consumed by a mix of distraction and a flinch inside of me that I still can’t seem to escape. Sleep isn’t for me.

Grabbing my bottle, I notice someone in my peripheral vision, studying me.

“Wow, does it hurt not to be in heels?”

Ugh, the guy who pretends to be an author graces me with his presence.

I bark a laugh as I turn in his direction. “I don’t know. Does it hurt not to be in a room where your sweltering gaze distracts the world?” Oh shit, why did that roll off my tongue? Subconscious hell is hitting me earlier than normal today.

Stone’s brows raise a smidgen, and his lips stretch into a line of satisfaction. “Natural looks are natural looks. Something you hide behind your alter ego.”

“Are you saying I have natural looks?” I’m wary yet slightly honored.

Someone claps their hands, indicating we should all join the circle, and it breaks our comments, meaning I don't get a reply.

“Welcome to the club, Harlow,” he whispers as he walks away. I guess he gave me my answer.

My jaw drops slightly before I shake my head and join the circle.

We are a group of six.