Chapter 4 #2
Glad I hadn’t braided my hair yet, I pulled the bonnet off my head, fluffed my twist out, and opened the door.
“Hey, Alex,” he said, his voice low and warm, like we’d been friends forever instead of two people who barely knew each other.
“Hi,” I replied, one hand clutching the doorframe, the other hiding my bonnet behind my back. Instinctively, I glanced over
his shoulder. The words “What are you doing here?” were locked in my throat.
“Sorry to drop by so late. I was hoping to catch you earlier, but I got caught up at a community meeting.” One of his perfect
eyebrows shifted up. “May I come in?” That handsome eyebrow had to be a character in the story of his life.
I hesitated. I didn’t know him. I had no idea why Gabriel (that was how I thought of him now) Scott would be here. I stepped
back to let him in, because apparently that’s what you do when a Pulitzer finalist shows up unannounced and because I’d never
know if I didn’t let him tell me.
He smiled, and those deep-cut dimples stole my good sense. He didn’t just step into the foyer; he ventured into the living
room. Glancing around at my makeshift writing nook on the couch, complete with tea mug, throw blanket, and the you’re-not-really-going-to-write-are-you laptop, he said, “Looks like you’re getting some work done.”
“I’m trying,” I replied. “Can I get you something to drink?”
He shrugged through a no. “It’s late. You’re working . . .” His words trailed off. An awkward moment of silence passed between
us before he spoke again. “This is my favorite cabin.” He rocked slightly on his heels as he did another visual sweep of the
room.
“You’ve stayed here?” Of course the answer was yes, and obviously others on the property since he’d pegged this as his favorite.
I was no good at this talking-to-a-handsome-man stuff. My brain literally burped, and the thoughts of a pimply fifteen-year-old
came out.
Gabe saved us by not acknowledging my already-answered question. “I need a favor,” he interjected, sitting down on the arm
of the couch. “You know about the writer-in-residence program at the center, right?”
My mind went back to the sign carved in wood outside my door. I shook my head. “I know about the sign, and based on the way
this place is decorated, I assumed you have a residency program for writers.”
“It’s not a residency program in that sense, but we do have cabins that a few writing groups have rented out for retreats.”
He paused, and again I thought he looked a bit like he wasn’t sure he should have come. “The center has a literacy program,
which includes the support of a writer on staff. Basically, we employ a writing tutor who gets to live in this cabin.”
“Oh,” I said, thinking that sounded nice. Living here all the time was a sweet perk for the job.
Gabe continued, “I’m the center director and have been the writer in residence for the past two years.”
Nice. Scholarly of him, but I didn’t know what that was supposed to mean to me.
“I’m going on a book tour this summer. The person I hired to take over for me backed out—family stuff. I was wondering if you would be interested in the job . . . at least until I can get someone else.”
“Interested,” I echoed, mostly to buy time while my brain tried to process that he wanted me to be his replacement. I thought lofty positions like that went to writers with literary distinction.
“The duties are pretty straightforward.” The intensity in his tone made me think whatever they were, he’d taken them seriously.
“It’s mostly work with struggling students, helping them improve their writing—essays for school. You’d also assist with the
center’s creative writing program, which again includes working with students.” He took a breath. I guess I didn’t look like
a startled deer, because he kept going. “I’d be around for the first couple of weeks to help you transition, and then in and
out when I have breaks in between my travel.”
“Okay,” I said, stalling. I glanced at his hands, noticing how his fingers curled loosely against his knees. Why did he have
to look so casual about this? Like it wasn’t a big deal at all?
“You’d get to stay in this cabin, and there’s a stipend,” he added. “It’s not as overwhelming as it sounds.”
After his offer landed in my brain, Aunt Leah and Henry flashed before my eyes. The sign outside the cabin came to mind: Writer
in Residence.
Staying here. I liked it. The thought settled in, and an unplanned “hmm” slipped out.
“Hmm as in maybe?” His lips curved slightly, and I hated how the small motion made my stomach flip.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
Gabe nodded as his smile lingered. “That’s all I can ask.” He reached into his shirt pocket and removed a business card and
handed it to me.
His phone number, email address, and a post office box number were etched next to his disarmingly gorgeous author photo.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. The quiet felt heavier than it should have. His gaze flicked to my writing setup
and then back to me. “You’re really going to think about it, right? Not just say you will?”
I hesitated but then nodded. “I’ll really think about it.”
“Good.” He stood. “I’ll let you get back to your writing.”
He was halfway to the door when I called, “Gabe?”
He turned, and the way the light caught the edges of his face made me wish I’d kept my mouth shut, because those disarmingly
gorgeous looks that were captured in his photo were real. They took my breath and the thought in my head. I was struck by
his strong jawline, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes . . . watching, assessing, searching. His entire being held confidence
he didn’t have years ago. I wondered if it came with age or success but then dismissed my wondering because he was good-looking
and a smart writer. Probably both.
“You were going to”—he paused for a few odd seconds, in which he swept my body with his eyes from head to toe before adding—“say
something?”
What was that look? Second-guessing his invitation?
“Why me?” I asked, folding my arms, as though that would protect me from whatever his answer was.
He shrugged. “You used to be a teacher.”
“How do you know I used to teach?”
That earned me a dimpled smile. “I remember from your author talks.”
I willed myself not to feel embarrassed about those awkward things. “You haven’t seen me do one of those in a long time. You
must have a great memory.”
“I remember memorable things.” He smiled once more, and the crinkles around his eyes again reminded me of something that couldn’t possibly ever matter—he was younger than me, but he wasn’t in his twenties anymore.
Then he left, and I stood there staring at the door long after it closed, replaying his words in my head.
This cabin.
A stipend.
I didn’t want to seem like I was easy, but there was nothing to think about. Between being able to make a little money and
having someplace to live while Aunt Leah recuperated, this was a sweet deal.