Write to Me
Write to Me
by
Nona Raines
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Write to Me
COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Nona Raines
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2015
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0278-2
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
Once again, I couldn’t do without my buddy and critique partner, Denise. Many thanks also to my editor, Diana Carlile, for her patience.
PRAISE FOR AUTHOR
Nona Raines
AND HER BOOKS
READ TO ME
“When I finished I almost chanted....I WANT SOME MORE!”
~Sharon, Sharon’s Book Nook
~*~
“It was a really fabulous afternoon read and one of the best novellas I have read this year.”
~Mandie, Foxylutely Book Reviews
~*~
“I really, really enjoyed it, and the ending will leave you satisfied.”
~Love Taps from Lourdes, We Love Kink Book
DON’T LET GO
“Those looking for a sweet yet sensual interlude will find this tale of star-crossed lovers a delightfully entertaining read.”
~Jody, Words of Wisdom from the Scarf Princess
~*~
“The author’s writing style is brilliant, I absolutely loved the characters and their back stories.”
~Willow, Long and Short Reviews
Chapter One
Gloria opened the door and winced. Damn it. She’d forgotten about the bell.
The
bing bong
sounded every time someone entered
The Tattered Page
, announcing the arrival of a new customer. To Gloria’s guilty conscience, it rang an accusation.
There she is, everyone! She’s the one who took it! The evidence is right there in her purse. Grab her!
Of course, no one grabbed her. No one looked up, not even the bookstore’s owner, Mr. Miłosc, who sat behind his large mahogany desk. No one knew about the letter in her purse. The one she planned to return today with no one the wiser.
Just as she thought she was home free, the proprietor looked up. “Ah, Mrs. Navarro. I’m afraid that volume by Carlos Antonio Lopez hasn’t come in yet.”
Though she’d been a widow for over a decade and went by “Ms.” to nearly everyone, Mr. Miłosc insisted on using the pre-feminist title. He was an old-fashioned gentleman, and
The Tattered Page
in Summit, New York was an old-fashioned used bookshop. There were no popular bestsellers here, no sections hawking e-readers, no café offering cappuccinos and pastries. Just shelves and shelves of books, vintage and rare, arranged in a system of Mr. Miłosc’s own devising.
Gloria nodded and hoped her smile didn’t look as fake as it felt. “That’s all right. I didn’t expect it to arrive so soon.”
“I must admit, I’ve had some trouble locating it.” His bushy gray eyebrows lowered, as though in reprimand for putting him to so much trouble. “It’s rather obscure, being one of the poet’s early works. I think I have a line on a copy, though.”
“Oh, have you? That’s wonderful.” She swallowed as the bookseller’s sharp gaze seemed to zero in on the purse clutched tightly in her hand.
“I’ll be sure to send a post card once I’ve received it.” He dipped his head and returned to studying the papers on his desk.
“Thank you.” She almost sighed in relief at his dismissal. She was being silly. Mr. Miłosc didn’t know what was in her purse. Her over-active conscience was at work again.
Really, why should she feel guilty? So she’d found a letter a couple of weeks ago while browsing in the poetry section. It had been folded between the pages of a book. Yes, she’d read it. She was curious. Then she read it again. The emotions expressed on the page were so raw, so naked. So full of pain and heartbreak.
I still can’t believe I’ve lost you…
Whoever wrote those words had poured out his heart. When she read them, she felt as though she were peeping into someone’s most private, secret life. The very reason the note was so compelling.
It bore neither salutation nor signature. It wasn’t even finished. The words trailed off as if the writer had run out of ways to express his loss.
There was no way of identifying or returning it to the original author, but that was no excuse for what she’d done. Instead of setting the note back inside the book, an impulse had her slipping it into her purse. Once she had it home, she read it again and again to the point where she could recite it from memory if necessary.
You never let me love you the way I wanted, never let me close…
She had experienced those intense emotions with her husband, Emilio. He’d written her letters, too. Love letters. Even poetry. The love they’d shared came once in a lifetime.
Like the love felt by the anonymous author of this letter. He—or she—understood the meaning of heartbreak. Gloria felt a kinship with the letter writer. Her heart, too, had been broken when her husband died.
Because of that kinship, she had to return the letter to the book of sonnets wherein she’d found it.
Keeping it was wrong. Who had written it? Was he frantically searching for the letter he’d misplaced? Or had the note been left there purposely, in that particular book, in hopes his lover would find it?
So many questions she’d never have answers to.
She threaded her way through the maze of shelves until she found the poetry section. Now which book was it again? She scanned the shelf. For a moment, her heart fluttered with panic. What if it was gone? What if someone had purchased it? Then whomever the letter was meant for would never see it, because she’d broken the thread.
Cool relief washed over her as she spotted the familiar title in faded gold lettering on the worn brown cover.
Love Sonnets for Every Season
. It had been pushed back on a shelf open on both sides. Easy to overlook on the first pass. When she reached for the book, someone’s fingers brushed hers from the other side. Startled, she jerked back her hand.
The book slid away, leaving an open spot. Gloria peered into the opening. A pair of striking green eyes gazed back at her. She couldn’t see much else of the face housing those eyes but soon heard a deep voice. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh—”
The face disappeared, and Gloria took a step back, only to turn when a tall man rounded the shelf from the other side, holding
Love Sonnets for Every Season
. “I’m terribly sorry. Were you interested in this book?”
“I…yes.” She momentarily lost the power to speak as her gaze drifted from the book he held to the man himself. Everything about him was striking. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a face like a male model’s. The only thing that marred it, in Gloria’s mind, was the stubble covering the lower half of his face. But so many younger men liked that style.
Yes, he was younger. She noticed that immediately. In his early thirties was her best guess. Oh, how she’d like to take a razor to that square jaw and those high cheekbones. And while she was at it, a pair of scissors to the shaggy, too-long hair that brushed the back of his collar. But that was the stylist in her talking. Plenty of women loved the scruffy look on a man.
And truthfully, even his five o’clock shadow couldn’t detract from his masculine beauty.
She took a deep breath, gathering her wits, and was about to speak when he held out the book to her. “Please. I wouldn’t feel right taking it from such a lovely lady.”
The compliment earned him a small smile. She certainly wasn’t immune to sweet talk, though she didn’t take it too much to heart. She enjoyed looking good and worked at it. After all, beauty was her business. She received her share of admiring gazes.
But she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that this gaze, from a pair of bottle green eyes brimming with mischief, made her heart beat just a little quicker.
She took the book. “Thank you.” Oh,
Dios
, did her voice really sound that breathless? To cover, she added, “But I hope I’m not keeping you from—”
“Oh, no,” he assured her. “I’m just browsing.” He nodded at the volume she held. “I enjoy sonnets, too.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day
…”
Gloria filled in the next line. “
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
”
His eyebrows rose. “Ah, the lady knows her Shakespeare.”
She smiled. “So does the gentleman.”
“I should hope so, after teaching it to college freshmen for so many years.”
“Oh. You’re a professor.” A sexy professor. Gloria quickly scanned his outfit—an oxford button down shirt with the collar open, a loose-fitting jacket, and clean, close-fitting jeans. She had no doubt all the co-eds in his class made sure to sit in the front row. “My father was a high-school teacher. He brought home quite a few stories.”
“I’m sure he did. Unfortunately, too many of my students behave as though they were still in high school. It takes some of them a while to grow up.” He offered his hand. “I’m Bryan Dunn.”
“Hello, Bryan. I’m Gloria Navarro.” They shook hands. His grasp was warm and firm, and Gloria was reluctant to break contact. He, too, held on a trifle too long, or was that only wishful thinking?
Her conscience tapped her on the shoulder.
Hello. Have you forgotten why you’re here?
Yes. Professor Sexy, uh, Dunn proved quite the distraction. But the letter was still in her purse and needed to be replaced. It wasn’t something she could do in front of a witness.
She took a step back. “Well. Thank you…”
He nodded, understanding the gentle dismissal. “Nice meeting you, Gloria.”
“Same here.”
With a smile, he withdrew to the other side of the shelf. Gloria gave a sigh of relief even as a twinge of regret pinched her. Recalling her purpose, she opened her purse and removed the letter. When she nestled the folded piece of paper between two pages, she glimpsed the lines of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day…
She hesitated. Odd that the book had opened to that page. She wasn’t a superstitious woman. Didn’t believe in signs and portents. Still, some things happened for a reason. She glanced at the shelf behind which Bryan Dunn had disappeared. Was it possible…
****
Dumbass, why’d you let her go?
It wasn’t like him to back off when he found someone he was drawn to. Bryan Dunn wasn’t a perv or a stalker, but if a woman responded to him, he liked to press his advantage. After the handshake and exchange of names would be an invitation to coffee or drinks or a bite to eat…and ultimately, to bed. Sooner, hopefully, than later.
And Gloria Navarro
had
responded. The onceover she’d given him, the way her hand had lingered in his, told him as much. But Bryan knew how to read a woman, and his instincts told him Gloria wouldn’t go for the hard sell.
Damn, though, she was hot. Her bright red sweater hugged her breasts and dipped just low enough to display a hint of cleavage. Her black pencil skirt skimmed the tops of her knees and emphasized her rounded hips and ass. Her black high heels made her legs look amazing and had him instantly imagining her wrapping them around his waist as he plunged into her.
But just as enticing as Gloria’s curves and clothes was her self-assurance. Her appearance told him she was a woman who wouldn’t leave the house until everything—outfit, hair, and make-up, all of it—was just so, down to her toenails. But the confident way she moved told the world she did it to please herself and any masculine appreciation was just a side benefit.
This wasn’t the first time he’d seen her in
The Tattered Page.
He’d spotted her two weeks ago, browsing in the poetry section, and had been instantly struck by lust.
Bryan hadn’t approached her that first time. He’d been content simply to admire her, to wonder about her and where she went once she left the bookstore. But he wasn’t about to let a second chance slip by. When he spotted her today, he’d followed her with his gaze, then made his move. He’d placed himself on the other side of the open shelf and purposely removed the book she wanted. How else could he play the perfect gentleman and offer it to her with his heartfelt apologies?