Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
ALICE
Today’s writing is not going well. But there’s one way left to fix things. A final trick stashed up my sleeve.
As long as disaster hasn’t struck…
I head for my giant suitcase in the guest room. It’s finally time to unpack Big Red, and my pulse speeds up. Salvation might be waiting inside—or more heartbreak. It’s hard to tell which.
I’ve been avoiding this moment since I got here. After Jason dropped my suitcase on the sidewalk at the wilderness resort, I haven’t even let myself think about it. But I’ve been staring at the cursor on my laptop screen for thirty-five minutes; I’ve written and deleted over two thousand words since breakfast, and I’m too upset for lunch. I have to do something .
Part of me knows my problem is bigger than this. That the issue I’m dealing with is something my suitcase can’t solve. I’m trying to write a book I don’t want to write, the final romance in a series my readers have been dying to finish. A story with the perfect grumpy hero I based on Jason for fun—and that was a mistake.
Even when we were together, I couldn’t write this book. Something about fake Jason was impossible to build a romance around. Now that we’ve broken up?
Forget it.
I’d rather crawl back to Texas on my hands and knees than write this book. When you add in everything that’s happening with my sisters and yesterday’s medical news, it’s a wonder I can get anything done at all. That I’m not hiding in a blanket cocoon somewhere, watching cat videos on my phone. How am I supposed to finish an entire novel when I don’t even have the energy to make lunch?
Magic.
Suitcase magic.
I fling open Big Red with a flourish worthy of a Las Vegas magician. It’s time to slap a Band-Aid on this open wound. It’s time to shake things up.
Carefully, I move the extra clothes I packed in my suitcase to protect my sweet angel. Underneath, my lucky typewriter is waiting for me. Except it doesn’t look that lucky.
Silver Bullet wasn’t in the best shape when I found him at a local flea market. He was dented and rusty, headed for antique heaven. I wanted to save him, but now he looks worse. As if he’s been to war.
The typewriter repairman I reached out to in New York City last year—one of the best in the country—said it wasn’t worth shipping to him for repairs. Silver Bullet was too far gone. And that was before Jason chucked my suitcase at the sidewalk like a meteor. I shudder to think what that repairman would say now.
After a showdown with my ex, my lucky typewriter is falling apart at the seams. Things are crooked that shouldn’t be, the carriage is dented, and there’s so much gaping around the rear panel, it looks like it’s trying to run away from the rest of the typewriter.
Maybe it still works?
I set it on top of the dresser, optimistic until the bitter end. But when I type my first letter, the sound it makes is the most unholy noise I’ve ever heard. If a typewriter could utter profanities, I’m pretty sure this is what it would sound like.
I type a few more letters. Maybe it’s fine—maybe it just needs to warm up. Yet each new noise gets worse, metal grinding on metal like my typewriter is powered by ancient, rusty gears. Or as if there are cannibal robots trapped inside, fighting to the death.
Despair washes over me. More than any cat video could ever cure.
It was already a long shot; I knew that. Typewriters have always worked for me in the past when I’ve had normal writer’s block. They’re a great way to break my routine, keep from editing while I write, and they make getting words down feel fun again. But I don’t have normal writer’s block this time. I have life-crisis block.
And I don’t think there’s a cure.
Panic joins my despair, and that dynamic duo almost pulls me under. I’m two seconds away from constructing a blanket cocoon when there’s a knock on the guest room door. A very cautious knock.
I take a deep breath and try to look normal before I open up. Even though my world is falling apart and “normal” doesn’t exist anymore. Charlie leans against the doorframe when he sees me, his eyes moving carefully over my face as he assesses the situation. Trying to figure out what’s wrong, so he can help.
“Whatcha doing, Kilpatrick?” His voice is gentle but teasing. “Because it sounds like you’re murdering a robot.”
My chin quivers. That’s all I can do.
He spots my typewriter on the dresser next, then my open suitcase, and the mystery practically solves itself. “It got busted at the wilderness resort?”
I nod.
“Mind if I take a look?”
I move aside, and he gingerly examines Silver Bullet. His hands are slow and careful, like a man who’s spent years working with glass. Something about how gentle he’s being gives me chills.
When he glances up, that same gentleness is in his eyes. I can tell he wants to say something upbeat, but he can’t. “It doesn’t look good,” he admits. “Our typewriter guy is out of town, but I’m honestly not sure if he’d be able to fix it.”
That doesn’t surprise me, but something else does. “Ponderosa Falls has a typewriter guy?”
“Henrietta’s oldest son, Barry. You’d probably get a kick out of him. He and his wife travel to history festivals every summer, that’s why he’s out of town. And they like to ride around on those old-timey bicycles. The ones with the giant front wheel but tiny back wheel.”
“Penny-farthings?”
I swoon despite how bad my day has been, and Charlie smiles, his dimples on full display. “I knew they’d be your kind of people.”
Before he can say more, he spots something on the bed that makes his smile deepen. Those dimples too.
He gestures to the clothes I unpacked from Big Red. The super embarrassing ones that are now sprawled out for the world to see. None of them are underwear, but I kind of wish they were. At least underwear is normal.
Charlie reaches for something on top, holding it up. “Did you bring a Betsy Ross costume with you to Colorado?”
I snatch the white linen cap out of his hands and stash it behind my back. Because it’s worse than a Betsy Ross costume. Way worse.
He reaches for something else, a pair of wool stockings that are folded and bundled in a neat little set. With ribbon garters wrapped around them and tied in a bow.
“What’s this?”
“It’s nothing,” I stammer. “That’s just some backup clothes I brought with me—just in case.”
“You pack wool socks in the summer? Just in case?”
He’s right—this is weird. I have no idea what I was thinking, bringing all this with me on vacation. The typewriter was bad enough. I’ve traveled with it before, but that doesn’t make it better. It’s a giant, heavy typewriter that I packed in a suitcase and took on a bus.
What is wrong with me?
Writing shouldn’t be this hard. I shouldn’t need an entire roster of bizarre supplies to get things done. I shouldn’t need magic .
Jason would’ve roasted me for weeks if he saw everything I brought. He was annoyed enough when he heard that metallic clank at the wilderness resort and realized I’d brought my typewriter. Forget an entire historical outfit.
Why did I pack an entire historical outfit?
I press my eyes shut, and Charlie elbows me lightly. When I finally get up the nerve to check, all that’s waiting for me is a wry smile, a hint of gentle teasing in his eyes. No harsh judgement, no roasting.
He reaches past my inner and outer petticoats on the bed, his fingers latching on to something smaller, stranger. To him, it probably looks like a thin cotton pouch on a string. “Alice”—his voice is slow and playful—“what in the name of history class is this?”
“It’s a pocket. Most dresses didn’t have them back then, so you’d wear this between your petticoat layers. Your top skirt would have a side slit to let you reach in and voilà—instant pocket.”
My voice is too excited when I say that. As if tie-on pockets are the best things that have ever existed, and maybe they are. Besides typewriters.
Charlie nods, amused but not in a mean way. He sets the pocket down and reaches for my cotton chemise next, the one I wear under all my layers whenever I dress up. He doesn’t seem to know what it is, but if he finds my stays next—my Regency version of a corset—I’m going to die of embarrassment.
Guess there was underwear in that suitcase after all…
I dive into action, scooping everything up and stuffing it back in my giant red suitcase. When I turn around, Charlie looks even more amused than before. “Is there…something you want to tell me?”
“Nope.”
“Because those looked like historical clothes—lots of them—and I’m pretty sure there’s something you want to tell me.”
Forget it, Blythe.
There isn’t a single thing I want to tell this man about what he just saw. Except he won’t stop staring at me, and I cave. “It’s a Regency maid costume.”
It isn’t, though. Most Regency-era servants didn’t have a specific type of outfit they had to wear. They used their regular clothes. What Charlie actually saw was the everyday outfit of a working-class woman in the early 1800s…that I wear as a scullery maid costume.
I’ve barely said anything. I gave that man five measly words of description, but it was too much. His smile quirks.
“You brought a Regency maid outfit with you on vacation?”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
Great question. I’m never going to answer it, but great question .
Charlie studies my face again, and his brow crinkles like he can tell I’m digging in, like he knows I won’t say another word about it. So he changes tactics. Leaning back against the dresser, he unleashes one of his dangerous smiles. A casual but deadly masterpiece that makes being bad look good.
My knees wobble.
“You know,” he says slowly, “when other girls wear maid costumes for fun—for Halloween and stuff—they don’t look like this.”
For Halloween and stuff?
I shrug. “Mine is a Regency maid costume. That’s different.”
Charlie nods, his warm hazel eyes fixed on mine, and that much playful smolder should be illegal. That man should be arrested . Still holding my gaze, he pushes off the dresser and takes a slow step toward me.
I gulp.
Then I ramble.
“Go historically accurate or go home. That’s what I always say.”
Is it, Alice? Is that what you always say?
My ramblings don’t deter Charlie. He chuckles, and the low rumble of that sound buzzes under my skin. My knees wobble again.
“Why did you bring it with you?” he asks, and his voice is a flirtatious growl. The best growl.
I shake my head, adamant. I’d rather die than confess. I’d rather write an entire romance novel about my ex.
Charlie doesn’t give up. Keeping his eyes on me, he moves closer, his smile so wicked it takes years off my life. As if that man has ways of making me talk.
Very fun ways.