Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Fran
I’m so annoyed I can barely keep my temper. I don't have patience for things like illness, and never have. I'm a pretty high-energy person, and always have been. It annoys the hell out of me to be sidelined.
“Drive around back,” I tell him, pointing to the back lot where employees park.
Earlier, I was mildly afraid that he would find something at the bookstore that would tip him off that I'm the writer of the romance novels. And maybe a part of me wants him to find out. I’ve seen the darker side of Tate Cowen, and I crave it.
Now, though, I'm so focused on the instructions I got from the doctor that I don't fucking care. Let him find out. What’s he going to do about it?
Real mature.
I even let myself get kind of enamored with him for a little bit. I blame the medication. Medication does stupid fucking things to someone's head.
I write romance novels because that's how I get to write the endings I want to read. The criticism about romance I leveled at them, to the girls… well, it isn’t all cynicism.
I actually believe that romance novels aren't real life. At the very least, I believe that no one like me deserves to have a romance story.
My ex-husband proved that to me.
He said all the right things. Did all the right things. He was a looker, and he was even pretty-admittedly good in bed. He had his affairs in order and made good money. But there was something missing, and there always was.
I told myself that it was just my own mind, that having written so many romance novels I expected something like perfection from my partner. I know men aren't perfect, and no man really ever could be. I know this in my head. But I still have a romantic’s heart.
Still, romance isn't for me, and definitely not with anyone from the Cowen Clan. I wouldn’t fit in with the likes of them.
Tate seems to be mulling over his own issues, since he’s totally quiet and sort of brooding as we park our car. It’s almost as if I can feel the intensity of his thoughts, like heat waves on a hot summer day.
It’s definitely the drugs, because the more I try to pull my focus away from him, the harder it is to resist. I glance casually at his hands, wrapped around the steering wheel, strong and powerful and determined.
And I imagine them on my body. A man like Tate moves with purpose and determination… and I want a man like that.
La la la la la.
I try to mentally drown out my insane mental issues, and of course it’s futile.
“How long will you be?”
“Um, no idea? As long as I need?”
He growls. “Not good enough.”
Grump.
I barely temper the desire to roll my eyes at him and growl right fucking back. I exhale. “Ten minutes?”
“Is that a question or a statement?"
“Question. I have no idea how long I’ll be!”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
He’s silent. Brooding. Eyebrows snapped together over stormy eyes, jaw clenched as he eyes the road in front of him.
“What a riveting conversation,” I mutter under my breath.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
Another growl.
“Charming.” This I say louder. I’d rather take his anger than his brooding silence.
He doesn’t reply, and for some reason that makes me feel badly. I inhale and vow to behave myself. I don’t need to let his surly behavior bring out the worst in me.
We pull up to park. “Will they allow me in the back entrance?” he says, eying the back door suspiciously.
“Aye,” I say with an eye roll. “You’re my husband. Remember?”
He opens his mouth as if to protest, and then shakes his head. "Fucking mental."
I stifle a giggle. For some reason it strikes me as funny, but I don't allow him to see this. Instead, I dutifully take the arm he offers me, and we walk toward the back entrance.
I wonder if I've made a strategic error.
I came here today, not because I need to see my boss, but because the newest shipment of Clan Chronicles paperbacks has arrived.
I've hidden quite a lot, but I don't know how much more I can hide. So the theory is, if I had something to hide, I’d keep him away.
Proudly flaunting evidence near him should get me off the hook.
Right?
And what will he do when he finds out, anyway?
Just before we go in, my head goes fuzzy and light, and I lose my footing.
My toe catches on a sharp rock, and I lurch forward.
The next thing I know, he’s holding me flush against him, lifting me straight back up again, both hands on my arms. He doesn’t let me go, though.
He snakes an arm around my waist and holds me close.
We're so close, I can see the little flecks of color in his eyes, and a freckle just above his left eyebrow, the one with the scar.
"Watch where you're going," he chides, and it could be my over-sexed imagination, but his eyes look more bedroom “come hither” than angry.
The best defense is a good offense.
"As if you think I did that on purpose? Why are you always so grumpy, anyway?” I shake my head and push him away from me, but one does not detach Tate Cowen’s hands easily.
He huffs out a breath. “I just don't want to see you fall and crack the rest of your head open."
I shove him harder, and he lets me go.
Maybe it’s because I’m tired, or maybe it’s because I’ve been in pain and it’s been a really long few days.
Maybe I’m more sensitive than usual, and more than a little afraid he’s going to find things out when he goes into the bookstore.
But for some reason, this particular comment makes tears blur my vision.
I look quickly away to hide them. I don’t want to show any sign of weakness.
I try to blink them back, but not before a traitorous one falls onto my cheek.
I swipe it away rapidly as we come to the back entrance to the bookstore.
He turns to me. “Fran, we should probably—”
But his words freeze on his lips, and his tone softens. "Jesus, Fran, are you crying?"
I silently beg him, don’t go soft on me, Tate. Don’t. I can resist him when he’s angry, but this...
“Leave me alone.”
“Look at me.”
Again his voice is harsh, and I nearly flinch from the sound of it. "Fuck off," I tell him. "I'm perfectly fucking fine."
He reaches for me, but I sidestep. I don't want his help, and I definitely don't want his sympathy. I'm not a girl who cries, and I sure as hell am not going to start being one now.
My hand is on the back door, when suddenly he grabs my hand.
His grip is so tight, I try to yank my hand away from his.
The next thing I know, his forehead’s touching mine, his fingers gripping the back of my neck so tightly I can't move and his other hand wraps around my lower back like I belong to him.
I blink rapidly, still trying to hold back tears, when his lips brush mine, and my mind is immediately swept clean. I can’t think of anything beyond the feel of his lips, his breath mixed with mine, the way he holds me so tightly I can’t breathe.
He pulls away too soon.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You probably thought you’d finished with douchebag husbands.”
And just like that, I’m laughing, one of those ugly snort-laughs until I swear I'm half crying, with tears running down my face and my nose all runny.
"I didn't know I was funny," he says.
"Maybe it's the medication,” I say and for some reason I find that uproariously funny as well.
He stares at me as if I’ve gone mad, then finally cracks a grin, and my pounding heart comes to a stuttering halt, mesmerized by the way his eyes light up. I vow to make it my mission in life to make him smile more often.
Suddenly, someone opens the door to the bookstore, and we jump away from each other.
I blink in surprise when I see it’s one of my coworkers.
Lenny’s a tall, gangly youth with thick spectacles and a sparse beard, wearing a knit cap, faded black trousers, and one of those funny jackets with leather on the elbows, giving him the appearance of a dirt-broke professor.
“Oh hey, Lenny,” I say, giving him what I hope is a friendly smile. I feel like I’m sort of deer-in-the-headlights grimacing, and that could cause suspicion.
From whom? At this point, damn near anyone.
“Fran.” He blinks at me in surprise. “Heard you were feeling poorly?”
I shrug. “Got into an accident yesterday, smashed my head right good. I really can’t be here long, still on doctor’s orders to rest up, but my mate here needs to do an errand and I do as well.”
“Crap, did you bang up your car, then?” he asks, then before I can answer, he looks at Tate for the first time. At the look of surprise on his face, I look at Tate myself.
Oh, dear.
His eyes glitter with warning, and one hand’s clenched into a fist. Though he wears a jacket, his ink runs up his neck and across his wrist and knuckles. He looks scary as fuck, a full head taller than Lenny.
“You brought a friend,” Lenny says.
I give a nervous laugh. “Oh, right, Lenny, meet Tate. Tate’s taken me to my appointment. Blasted head injury and all that. May need to carry a few things home, so I brought Tate to help.”
Brilliant, Fran. Brilliant.
Tate gives me a withering look, and a little part of me wonders if I keep treating him like a mule, I’ll end up punished like he promised.
I hope so.
Squee!
Tate reaches out one large, rough, inked hand to Lenny, who flinches as if Tate’s going to electrocute him. He eyes him in surprise before he realizes Tate just wants to shake. Idiot. Lenny’s hand is dwarfed by Tate’s, and he winces when Tate gives him a firm handshake.
I bite back a snicker.
We enter the store, and suddenly, this is not a game I’m playing any more. What am I thinking?
What if he finds out I'm the writer? I war with myself, back and forth.
Maybe I want him to.
Maybe I don’t. No, I definitely don’t.
Maybe I do!
God!
I came here to check on the paperbacks, and to see if anybody has come in to pick up their signed copies. Simple. In, out, no harm done.
Lenny goes back inside, and quickly busies himself on the other side of the store as far away from Tate as possible. Smart.
"I have a few things to do in the back. Mind giving me some privacy?”