Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (22 page)

“Nice of him.”

“Yeah.  I framed in a few booths for him when he wanted to add more seating, and after I was published, talked another author I know – he wrote a book about the art of the deli sandwich – into doing a publicity thing there.  A little outside the box, but it brought in some new business for both of them.”

She passed him a spoon rolled into a napkin.  “Is this your way of offering to barter services, Tucker?”

“This is my way of admitting that I haven’t exactly been easy to live next door to.  And to tell you that that hasn’t always been the case.  I’m broody, I’m temperamental and I don’t have much use for many people, but I’m not…” What, now he was auditioning for neighbor of the year?  “Look, I didn’t say anything because unless you’re deaf and blind, you realize I’m… interested.  On a personal level.  Though damned if I can figure out why.”

“You silver-tongued devil, you.”

“You want to tell me the heat between us hasn’t made you wonder if you’d developed a brain tumor you weren’t aware of?”

“You might want to get to the point.”

“The
point”
he dumped cream into his coffee “is that I noticed, the last time that I was in here, that you didn’t have my book in stock.  I’m pretty new, you’re a small store, so no big deal.  But if I brought it up while – as you so astutely observed – I was hitting on you, then that could only go one of a couple ways.  You think I’m using the fact that I’m a writer to hit on you, which makes me a cheeseball. Or along those lines, yet infinitely slimier: I’m hitting on you because I’m a writer and I want you to promote my books.  And worse, at least from my perspective, I say ‘Hey, guess what, I’m a writer, but I noticed you don’t carry my book,’ and you say: ‘Yeah, because it sucks.’  Then I’m obliged to crawl away with my tail between my legs, forever prevented from hitting on you again.”  

She stared at him for several heartbeats.

“And here I thought what was going through your head last night was more along the lines of
I like the way your boobs look in that dress.”

“That, too.  But seeing as how your boobs are
terrific, I’ve yet to see an article of clothing in which I didn’t like the way they look.”

“You know,” she observed as he stirred his coffee.  “I probably shouldn’t find
that sort of comment appealing.”

“Why not?  It’s straightforward.  No point dancing around the fact that we make each other hot.”

“Do we?” She took an apricot scone from the display case, all but slapped it onto a plate.

Tucker considered.  Decided what the hell.  And reached a hand across the counter to cup her cheek.  “You tell me.”

And kissed her.

He tasted her annoyance, but that only made it sweeter when she made a
kind of helpless sound deep in her throat.  She wanted him, but wasn’t necessarily happy about it.  That was okay.  It put them in the same boat.

And the boat they were in, he decided as he angled his head, took the kiss a little deeper, was currently rocking.  On good, healthy waves of lust.

“Mmm.  Stop.  God.”  Blurry-eyed, Sarah pulled away, braced herself on the counter. 

Tucker leaned back, sipped his coffee.  “You were saying?”

She scowled.  “That you are an arrogant, overbearing man.”

“Curled your toes.”

“You most certainly…” she looked down, jerked her gaze back up.  “You can’t even see my toes.”

“I guess it was my toes, then.”

The laugh simply sprang out of her, like a fistful of bright flowers.  “Jesus.”  She pressed her fingers into her eyes.  “This is a place of business.  Not the backseat of your car.”

“I don’t have a car, I have a truck.
It has no backseat.”

“Oh, quit nitpicking, Mr. Wordsmith.”
 

When she simply strolled off, disappearing through the
door Allie had closed earlier, Tucker wondered if he’d misjudged.

Had he pissed her off?  Or worse, he thought, as he considered what he’d overheard the night they’d found the dead rat, had he somehow frightened her?

The thought made the scone he bit into turn to sawdust on his tongue.

But she was back a few moments later, a paperback book in her hand. 

A paperback book he recognized.

She laid it on the counter. 
Slightly battered, with a few pages dog-eared, it was obviously a personal copy.  “I read your book, C. Tucker.  Last year, after a client of the bookstore I managed asked me to order in a copy for her.”

The sawdust formed a lump as he swallowed.  “Okay.”

“Not going to ask me what I thought?”

“I figure you’ll tell me without prompting.  People usually do.”

“Which I imagine is either gratifying or annoying, depending on the circumstances.  And, knowing how you feel about your privacy, I’m guessing part of the reason you use a pseudonym.”

“You’d be right.”

“The other part,” she tilted her head “has to be a sort of
up yours
to your grandfather.”

“Two for two.  I don’t need his money, and I certainly don’t need his name.”

She waited a beat, then told him: “My respect for you at this moment is such that I’m tempted to pick up that kiss where it left off.”

“This is a place of business,” he reminded her.  “But my bed will be available later.”

“I said
kiss.”

“
I’m very good at deciphering subtext.”

She tapped a long, tapered finger on his book.  “You’re very good at writing it, also.  The subtext I got from
Heartland
is that life is very often unhappy, frequently unfair.”

“Shit happens.  It’s how you deal with it that matters.”

“It broke my heart when Jolene died.”

“It broke Hank’s heart, too.”  And had left some scars on Tucker’s.  “They got dealt a raw hand.”
 

“First the war kept them apart, while she married another man and bore Hank’s illegitimate son
.  He’s nearly killed – she believes he has been – and he comes back wounded, physically, emotionally.  He’s destitute, homeless.  She discovers him living on the street.”

“I
’m familiar with the plot, Red.”

“But they suffered through all of that – their bond intact.  And then she
’s murdered by the man she married.”

“And
Hank,” he continued, feeling a stir of defensive annoyance “was able to rise above the circumstances, his grief, and finish the job of raising their son.” 

“
Women in Refrigerators Syndrome.”

Women in… “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, technically that term applies to comic books, but basically it refers to the death of a female character as a plot device.  It’s used as a catalyst for the male protagonist’s growth, which is all well and good, except for the fact that, you know, the heroine
dies.”

He thought of the hours – hundreds and hundreds of hours – he’d labored over that manuscript. Of the countless rejections, endless revisions.  The times he’d felt like beating his head against his keyboard.  Beating his keyboard against the wall.

He thought of the four
years
it had taken to fight his way through the industry’s bullshit, whims and red tape. 

“Maybe you should limit your reading material to Disney.” 

She let out an exasperated breath.  “So like a man.  If it has a happy ending, it must be a fairy tale.  I liked your book, Tucker.  Very much.  You’re a gifted writer.  I didn’t stock
Heartland
because on a business level, I was trying to keep my inventory fairly small to start.  Beach season is upon us, and romances and thrillers are easier sells. And like you said, you’re fairly new.  And because on a personal level, it… well, as much as I liked it, I hadn’t planned on reading it again, simply because it left me sad.  But I already have your next book on order. The early press it’s been getting is solid.”

He didn’t know whether to feel irritated, grateful or chastised.  “Okay.”

“Funny how that skill with language doesn’t translate to the spoken word.  And by the way?” She spun the book around, pointed to the author photo which still made him cringe.  That stupid smile made him look like the next order of business was selling the reader a used car.  “Victoria is full of shit.”   

“Who?”

“More points for you.  Victoria Hawbaker – Harlan’s ex-wife.  The woman who was fawning over you as I left last night.”

“Ah.”  The very hot blonde who’d left him cold.  All the right lines, no subtext.

“No way she recognized you from this photo,” Sarah said with the same kind of venom that had both surprised and amused him last night.  “You’re not frowning, you’re clean-shaven and someone must have held you down and sheared your head like a sheep. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were civilized.  And if Torie read your book, it was only because she researched your background and found out that you’re an author.”

“And why would she do that?”  He started to pick up his
coffee, but Sarah snatched it away.  “I was drinking that.”

“It’s gone cold.”  She dumped it, poured him a fresh one
, making it difficult to complain.  “She would do that because you’re a Pettigrew.  And she’s a gold-digging bitch.”

“This particular vein is tapped.”

“Of which she is either unaware, or she thinks she can bring you around, convince you to make nice with Grandpa.  Then work herself into the family fold.”

He studied her face. 
“You’re not kidding.”

“Talk to Allie about what Victoria did to Harlan.”

“I’d rather talk to you, if it’s all the same.  And not about Victoria.  Pen?”

“What?”

“Do you have a pen?”

“Sure.” With a puzzled look for the change in subject, Sarah
dug out a pen from beneath the counter. Tucker glanced around, snagged an extra coffee sleeve from the basket, and scrawled his cell number before passing both the sleeve and the pen across the counter.

“What’s this?”

“What’s it look like?  I don’t always come to the door, but if you are interested in picking this up where we left off, just text me.”

“A booty text. How romantic.”

“You want romance, read a novel. You want your toes curled, you know how to get ahold of me.  What happened to your hand?”

“What?”

“Your hand?” he indicated the bandage across the top.

“Oh. That.” She frowned. “Useless g
ot out again last night, and I found him hiding under a bush. He scratched me. I guess he was scared of the storm.”

Tucker swallowed his opinion of her varmint, and when t
he front door opened again, he turned his head to see Allie’s older brother come through it. 

And settle his gaze on him.  “Mornin’ Sarah. 
Pettigrew.” Those cop’s eyes narrowed.  “Just the man I wanted to see.”

WILL
bit through the dusting of crystallized sugar on top of his muffin, into a plump piece of fruit.

A
nd tasted childhood.  Nobody made a blueberry muffin like Josie. 

He’d bypassed the fancier
special in favor of the good, old-fashioned basic.  Will figured that pretty well summed him up.  He was a chunk of granite in a family of polished marble.  Not quite as elegant, not quite as smooth.  But, he liked to think, solid as bedrock.

But enough about him.
 

He eyed the man sitting across from him, the man taking up most of the corner into which their little table was tucked.  The man whose arrival – as Will had suspected – seemed to be stirring up some sediment on the bottom of the Sweetwater pond.

“How’s small town life treating you?”

“Well enough.”

“Big change.”

“You could say that.”

Will chewed.  Swallowed.  Gestured with his chin.  “That eye looks a little tender.”

“
I’ve had worse.  And I have no interest in pressing any sort of charges.”

So it was going to be like pulling teeth. 
That’s okay. Will was used to wielding pliers. A lot of the folks he arrested had that right to remain silent part down pat – and some people got nervous and clammed up for no good reason around cops.

Tucker, he suspected, was simply the kind of man who wasn’t given to chitchat.  If he had something to say, he said it. 
If
you
had something to say, then say it, and stop wasting his time.

Though he considered
it a particularly Yankee characteristic, Will decided he could respect that.  So instead of discussing the heat, town politics, or how the hurricane season was shaping up, he cut to the chase.

“Tell me how you came by your renters.”