Chapter 12
I didn’t hear from Beck until the next afternoon. When she finally answered my text, she made excuses about being busy at
work.
Beck: Why are you sending me a mug shot?
Me: I got it from Joy. It’s her father.
Bubbles jumped and then stopped. As I waited, my curiosity grew.
Beck: I don’t know him.
I sighed. “Well, he’s related to my father,” I said, but didn’t bother to text it.
Beck didn’t ask me a single follow-up question. I found that suspicious. Strange behavior on top of what she and Aunt Leah
had exhibited. I didn’t like it, but I was going to unravel the mystery behind who he was and how he was related to me with
or without them.
A few minutes later, Gabe arrived, filling the entrance of the cabin in the same way he had before. Male energy in a space was startlingly different from that of women. I liked it. For sure, I liked him.
“I got to running around doing last-minute stuff for my trip.”
“It’s fine,” I said, pulling the door open wider.
Gabe stepped inside. “Sorry for dropping in. I realized I don’t have your number.”
I cocked my head. Surely he, a writer on the short list for the Pulitzer, could be more creative about the reason he was showing
up without calling.
“I used to have a crush on you.”
I was reminded we had unfinished business. “It’s in my personnel paperwork.”
“Well, that’s work-related.”
I cocked my head. “Is this not a work-related visit?”
Gabe stuck his thumbs into the loops of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. He grinned sheepishly. “No.”
“Oh,” I said, moving into the house in a way that encouraged him to follow. Once I reached the living room, I turned and said,
“Bosses get employee numbers all the time from the files.”
“Yeah, but it would be kind of ick for me to look you up like that.”
“Less ick than showing up?”
He smiled, giving me full dimples as a reward for my smart question. “Considerably, I think.”
I put my mug down on the table and asked, “Mr. Scott, how can I help you?”
His eyes traveled to my laptop. “You’re working on a proposal, right?”
“Sadly. I’m trying to get past chapter 1 of it. I keep revising the outline. Sometimes I think I’m too structured for my own
good.”
“That’s what I was counting on. I have to teach a writing master class next month. I’m the opposite of structured. I just sit, write, and hope it all makes sense when I’m done.”
“He’s a panster,” I said, referring to the process known as writing by the seat of one’s pants.
“He is indeed.” Gabe’s flirty smile said he was proud of it. “I was hoping I could pick your brain about your process.”
“Oh” was the only thing my brain could produce. “Sure.”
“Great. I’ll get my laptop.”
He rushed out of the cabin. He was back in less than a minute with it and a beautiful oversized traveler’s notebook that was
made from high-quality leather. It was just like him to have something so writerly. I used composition notebooks that I purchased
in bulk during back-to-school supply sales. I was really doing something if I could find one with flowers or a design on it
instead of the standard marble pattern. I was once again reminded that he and I were not in the same league as writers. But
he was here trying to get some knowledge out of my head, which meant he respected me. I had to stop comparing myself to him.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m good,” he said, taking a seat in the club chair to the right of my cluttered couch. “Looks like I’m interrupting you.”
I sat, picked up the piles of pages of notes I’d printed. “I’m tactile. I have to touch my pages.”
Gabe pushed his laptop open and spoke as he typed. “Recognize when you need to abandon the screen for printed pages in order
to make connections with your writing.”
“What?” I laughed, full enough to produce an embarrassing snort.
Gabe laughed at my laughter and asked, “What’s so funny?”
I placed a hand on my stomach, attempting to stop giggling. “Sir, I did not say all that.”
He chuckled. “That’s what I heard.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to control myself. The situation was not this funny, yet I was highly entertained. “I love it,
but I print because my eyes get tired.”
“Same thing,” he said, shrugging through denial. “Tell me something else.”
“I think you’d do a good job at making it up.” I released a long breath, the smile in my heart rounding out my cheeks. “But
seriously, aren’t people coming to learn your process?”
“They are, but at least I can answer the question about structure if someone asks me.”
We spent the next twenty or so minutes talking about my writing process. Gabe continued to embellish as he typed, adding humor
to keep me laughing along the way. By the time we were done, my stomach ached.
“You’re hilarious.”
He cocked an eyebrow, and his voice took on a serious tone. “Entertaining you is the least I can do after barging in on you.”
“Open your phone,” I said.
He did, and I told him my phone number. Seconds after, I received a text with a happy face emoji.
Surely I’ve turned into some fierce heroine in one of my novels, because who am I right now?
“Now we’re properly set up,” he said, the curve of a smile on his face.
Gabe smiled a lot. It was part of his personality. Beyond the smile, the eyes that came with it were warm, sultry, subtly
probing.
I have a crush on him. Not used to. Now.
His voice interrupted my pondering. “So”—he pointed at my pile of paper—“what’s going on with chapter 1?”
“Mayhem. I usually don’t worry about it being good until I’ve finished the entire book, but this time I have to get it done.”
“What’s different about this time?”
“I get book deals based on a rough outline.”
“What changed?”
“My editor. The types of books they want. I have to submit a hundred pages for review.”
Gabe snatched his head back. “Wow. From nothing to a hundred pages?”
“To add more context here, I did write a book that I was contracted to do, but she didn’t like it. I couldn’t get it right
during rewrites, so she rejected it. I’m technically out of a contract.”
“That’s tough.” Gabe was truly sad for me. He shifted his position, and I could see a light bulb go off in his head. “Maybe
I can help.”
I pulled back. “You, help me outline a romance?”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t write romance.”
“A story is a story.” He slid down off his chair onto the floor and reached into his pocket for a pair of reading glasses.
They instantly turned him into a nerd with good cheekbones and nice eyebrows. Why did men naturally get nice eyebrows and
long eyelashes? “Tell me what you’ve got so far.”
I hesitated at first, but then I reached for my composition notebook.
“Not only does she write an outline, but she plots with pen and paper.”
I smirked. “I told you I’m tactile.”
I shared my ideas for the story. He nodded like I was talking about high lit or some other potential prizewinning idea.
“The character arc?” he asked.
“She is afraid of committing to a relationship because she blames herself for her father’s death.”
He nodded. “Emotionally unavailable.”
“Yes.”
“Well, it works for the story, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Kara was emotionally unavailable, and so was Bonnie.”
He could have knocked me over. Those were the names of two of my heroines. Before I could ask, he said, “I read your last
three books.”
“Oh.”
“Not like a weird stalker or anything. I needed to see what you were writing . . . you know, to offer you the job.” His brows
arched upward, and he rolled his lips inward.
I couldn’t find words but eventually said, “Okay.”
“You’re a talented writer, Alex.”
Our eyes connected and held for a long moment. “Thank you” would have been the appropriate response, but I couldn’t make my
mouth form words. I was still shocked he’d read my books—and I hadn’t read his. I had my reason, but still. He read my romance?
He was too cool. “I am really good at convincing myself that everyone is a better writer than me.”
“We all do that. It doesn’t mean it’s true, and it doesn’t mean it matters even if it is true.” He drew his knees up to his
chest. “Let’s figure out something else for your character.”
The ease with which he said the right thing all the time was sexy. I’d been trying to keep my focus on our conversation, but
now I was staring at him—tracing his strong jawline, finding way too much interest in his lips. Heat rose to my face.
What is the air on? “Is it warm in here?”
Gabe reached for a pile of my papers and dropped his eyes to them. “Define warm.”
I popped to my feet and walked to the thermostat. It was on 74 degrees, the temp I always kept it on. I pretended to adjust it. “No wonder it’s hot. The repairman changed my setting.” I cleared my throat as I returned to my seat. “That ought to do it.”
Gabe smiled, amused. There was no way he knew I’d lied about this.
He said, “Maybe you could do a contradiction. She’s a life coach. If you’re not married to her career, make her a dating coach,
and her issue can be that she matches people up and has never had a real, healthy relationship herself.”
I considered that. I’d written several stories about women who had this story.
Gabe took off his glasses and propped his elbow on his knee. “I think most authors are working out their own issues. What
do you think?”
I wasn’t going to answer that question. Was he even serious? “What would writing twenty-nine romance novels and being alone
say about me working through my issues?”
He laughed. “I guess the answer is probably no.”
I held in my harrumph. I had a question for him. Sir, are you still attracted to me? Will you help me work out my romantic issues?
“Did you work out your issues in your book?”
He gave a half smile. “Seasons is full of my trauma and reflections.”
“My trauma and reflections are in my journals,” I said. “What’s it like bleeding on the printed page?”
He raised a hand to his chin and rubbed it a few times before saying, “Bloody. There was healing that had to be done. I wrestled
with my demons, my faith, and then I had to work through forgiveness, or it would have been dark, you know.”
We sat there looking at each other. Guilt crashed through my emotions. I wondered if he was annoyed that I hadn’t read it.
“It’s a book that you’ve got to be ready for,” he said, reading my mind and answering both of my questions, or at least his words said so. I wasn’t sure if his eyes matched what was coming out of his mouth.
“So have we fixed your girl?”
I cleared my throat and my conscience. “I think we have. A dating coach will be more interesting than a life coach.”
“More of a—”
“Contradiction,” I said, finishing his sentence.
“I’ll take that water now,” he said.
I blinked a few times, my heart fluttering. Is he trying to stay? “Sure.”
I stood and walked into the bathroom first to check my nose, teeth, and breath. I was tempted to put a little concealer under
my eyes, but he’d likely notice it. I exited the bathroom, and he was standing in front of the wall of quotes, reading them.
I grabbed a water bottle from the kitchen and handed it to him. He pulled his eyes away from the wall and opened it. He chugged
the entire thing in one long gulp.
“Thirsty?” I asked.
His eyes swept my body from my face to my feet and back up. “You were right, it is warm in here.”
Flirting. He is definitely flirting.
“Do you miss teaching?” he asked.
I was still trying to recover from being brazenly inspected. “Sometimes, but I love writing more.”
“You’re good at it . . . connecting with the kids.”
“You’re a master at it. They love you more.”
“That’s because I’m a Toys ‘R’ Us kid, or at least they see me that way.”
“It’s your light and easy energy. Kids sense it. They’re attracted to it.”
“They also know when they’re respected.” Our eyes caught, held. A small smile tugged at his mouth, like he’d decided something.
“So what are you doing next Wednesday night?”
I frowned. “Besides trying to write another three thousand usable words about my dating coach?” I shrugged. “Nothing.”
“I could use some more help.”
Curious, I asked, “With what now?”
He laughed. “I’m working on an outline for a short story.”
I pursed my lips. “You don’t outline.”
He was enthused when he said, “I’m going to try.”
“Okay. I guess I can let you use some of my brilliant brain cells since you hooked me up with this nice cabin.” Before I lost
my nerve, I said, “I’ll even make us a little dinner.” I hesitated before adding, “Brain food.”
He smiled slowly, thoughtful but happy. “She can write, teach, and cook.”
“She has lots of talents.”
“I have no doubt,” he teased with a dimpled grin. “Maybe we can cook together. I think best when my hands are moving, and
not necessarily on the keyboard. I chop vegetables really fast.”
“Sounds fair, but all of mine are frozen. If you want to show off your knife skills, bring what you want to cut.”
“I’ll do that.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at it. “I should get going. I have a meeting with a book club
in Mexico City.”
“Enjoy Wilmington.”
He smiled again. More dimples and more of his light filled the room and my chest.
I followed him to the sofa, where he picked up his things, then trailed him to the door. Once he was outside, I fell against
the door and exhaled. Hard. I knew I was breathing, but it didn’t feel like it.
I sent a text to Trish.
Me: Gabe and I are having a plotting session next week . . . over dinner.
Trish: Sounds like a date.
Me: I don’t think so, but he told me he used to have a crush on me.
Trish: Girl, you are not that daft. It’s a date.
Me: Why not just ask me for a date?
Trish: Maybe he’s between royalty checks. ??????
Trish: There’s no reason he’d tell you he had a crush unless he was trying to feel you out.
Me: What do I do?
Trish: Stop being the antithesis of romantic. Move the plot along!
I smiled and closed my phone. Move the plot along. Maybe I would.