Love, In Writing

by Elsa Winckler

  He continued talking and she found herself giggling over some of his descriptions. He smiled at her, really smiled.

  The full impact of his smile hit her. It was devastating. Heat began spreading from a place deep inside her. Unfamiliar feelings rushed through her body. It took a few minutes for her to realize he’d stopped speaking and she was still staring at him.

  She jumped up. “I have to get to the shop and you must be in a hurry to leave.”

  Graham also got up. She turned around and led the way to the front door. He brushed past her.

  “Thanks. I...thanks.”

  At the door, he turned back and brought one hand up to stroke her cheek. “Margaret...”

  She stepped back. “Graham, I can’t do this.” She gestured between them.

  He leaned in and pulled her closer. “To answer your earlier question. No, I’m not satisfied. Maybe I would have been if I’d been the one undressing you.” His hands rested on her shoulders. “And Margaret, I will undress you. At some point, I will undress you. Slowly.”

  Mesmerized, Margaret could only stare up at him. His hands moved boldly over her, brushed against her breasts before he pulled her closer to him. So close she became aware he was as aroused as she was.

  “One day, when you’re not tipsy, you will ask me to.” His mouth came down on hers and the hot, wet kiss he gave her left her weak and unsteady.

  He smiled as if amused, turned around, opened the door, and walked to his car. Margaret was incapable of moving. She leaned against the wall. He waved as he drove away. Her legs finally gave way and she sagged to the ground.

  Wow. What a kiss. And as soon as life returned to her legs, she was going to try and portray the impact of that particular kiss in her manuscript. She rolled her eyes. At least the man was giving her ideas to write about.

  Chapter 5

  “Details, my dear, details,” Jen called out as soon as Margaret walked through the door of her bookshop.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Margaret said, and with her chin held high, tried to squeeze past Jen. Unfamiliar feelings had kept her up most of the night and when she’d finally fallen asleep, erotic images of her and Graham making love had woken her up. Now all she wanted to do was to try and occupy her mind with something normal so these constant thoughts about a strange man could vanish.

  Laughingly, Jen grabbed her arm. “Oh no, you’re not getting off so easily. The last time I saw you, Graham Connelly had you in his arms and you looked blissfully happy. What happened?”

  Margaret winced. “He actually carried me out?”

  Jen nodded.

  “I was sleeping?”

  “Snoring. You, my friend,” Jen said, pointing toward Margaret, “were completely and wonderfully sloshed. You did it with style, though, I’ll give you that. No loud singing or dancing on the tables, you just passed out gracefully. A good thing, considering some of the esteemed guests we had.”

  Margaret opened her mouth, but then closed it again. She stormed down the corridor to her office. She should find a hole where she could hide out for the rest of the day. Jen’s peals of laughter followed her all the way into her office.

  She sat down and cradled her head in her hands. Two glasses were her limit. What was she thinking? And to be so out of it she didn’t even know Graham, of all people, had carried her. What must he be thinking? A groan escaped her lips.

  Her fingers touched her mouth. She could still taste him, feel him. Who was this man who had, within the short span of a few days, thrown her completely off balance? And why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? Stop dreaming about him?

  “Black coffee?”

  Margaret opened her eyes. Jen stood in the door with a cup.

  “Thanks.”

  “This morning you should dance on the tables, though. We did really well last night. You should have a look. I don’t think we’re out of the woods yet, but I think your bookkeeper will be happier.”

  “Really? Wonderful. I see him next week. He was so pessimistic the last time I saw him, though, I don’t know whether one book launch will do the trick.”

  “Well, the fact that such an esteemed author considered your bookshop good enough will hopefully send others this way as well. Maybe he can help us.”

  “No, I don’t need him. We’ll manage on our own.”

  “Sometimes you can ask for help, you know. You don’t always have to do everything yourself.”

  Margaret noticed a stack of copies of Graham’s book on her table. “And this?” Margaret flipped open the first page of the top book.

  “Graham signed a few extra copies. So nice of him, I thought. You should take one home and read it. It might tell you something about this man who can’t seem to keep his hands to himself when you’re around.” Jen smiled broadly and slipped out of the office.

  Margaret opened the first page. It was not a bad idea. Maybe, somewhere in here, she could discover exactly who Graham Connelly really was. She knew how much of herself she gave away in her books. She had a lot of admin to get through today, but maybe she should just try the first page.

  ***

  Margaret woke up with a start and sat upright. She was still in her office. Disoriented, she looked around her. Her glance fell on Graham’s book lying on the floor. She picked it up, holding it against her.

  She literally couldn’t put the book down. She’d ignored Jen’s pleas from the day before—and didn’t stop reading. She must have fallen asleep after she’d finished it. It was amazing. She loved his characters. He seemed to focus on those marginalized by society. His hero was more of an anti-hero; it was up to the reader to discover his redeeming qualities.

  She found the storyline fascinating and scary because the technology he described sounded like an actual threat. And hidden in between the fantastic and the weird, she found bits and pieces of Graham Connelly, the man.

  His interest in and concern about the environment, about the earth and what man had done to it, were a leitmotif, scene after scene. His unpretentious, clean style was stripped of unnecessary adjectives or adverbs. And that, more than anything else, showed her the kind of man he really was. What you saw was what you got. He wouldn’t pretend, wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t sugar-coat, wouldn’t hide.

  This was evident in the description of his sex scenes. Heat crept up her neck just at the thought. They were explicit, vivid, and so real. There was nothing romantic about them and the hero never expressed his love for the woman, but the reader was left in no doubt as to his need for her. There was no happy ending, no closure, no satisfying conclusion.

  She sighed. There could be no happy ending with this man, ever. He was way out of her league and probably ate little romance writers like herself for breakfast. But he’d carried her to his car, looked after her, kissed her. And told her he wanted to undress her. And for a short period, she felt—no, she was—beautiful. But nothing would ever happen between them; he’d probably forgotten all about her by now.

  Margaret glanced at her watch. It was six o’clock. There was more than enough time to go home. Then she could have a leisurely shower and some breakfast. And maybe, just maybe, she might succeed in thinking about something else besides Graham freaking Connelly for a few minutes.

  ***

  Graham walked across the parking area toward the food store. After he’d left Margaret’s place yesterday, he’d driven back to his farm near Stellenbosch. He needed distance between them and he needed the space. He thought he’d be able to find both on his farm. He’d hoped he would be able to breathe again without thinking about Margaret, sleep again without dreaming about her.

  It didn’t work. He found himself staring at her cell number on his phone. He would have long conversations with her in his head, but never pressed the button to call her. What would he say?

  He was consumed with ideas for his writing: ideas that stemmed from seeing her, talking to her, thinking about her. The kiss he’d given her just before he left had rattled
him more than he was prepared to admit.

  He’d written through the night and somewhere during the early morning hours he realized he couldn’t distinguish between Mags and Margaret any longer. She looked like her, lifted her chin in the same way, narrowed her eyes in the same manner—hell, she even kissed like her.

  So he went shopping. He had to get out of the house, and quickly. He had to buy some much-needed groceries and was hoping such a mundane task would occupy his mind. He was so fed up with himself. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? Clearly, they wanted different things. He’d never fit into her fairy tale. And what more could he offer someone like her but a one-night stand? Even he could see she needed more. Besides, she didn’t need him. She’d told him last night.

  About to enter the food store, he noticed the little second-hand bookstore tucked in next door. If the display of books in the window was anything to go by, this store sold mostly women’s romances.

  He found himself in the shop, scouring the shelves for Margaret’s romances before he even realized what he was doing. He grabbed two and headed for the till.

  The woman behind the counter smiled as she took the books from him. She glanced at the titles.

  “Margaret Parker. She’s our best-selling author, you know. I’ve got some more of her books below the counter, if you’re interested. I usually keep a few for my regular customers.” She pulled out two more books.

  Graham must have nodded, because she rang up the sale.

  “You’re Graham Connelly, the science fiction writer, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Ms. Parker will be visiting our shop one of these days to talk about her writing. You should come and listen to her. She’s such a wonderful speaker.”

  Graham paid her and nodded. He walked out of the bookshop, lightheaded.

  By the time he stopped in front of his house, two things dawned on him: he was excited Margaret would be visiting Stellenbosch, and he hadn’t bought any food.

  ***

  Graham cursed as he walked amongst the vineyards on his farm. Did she look at everything through rose-colored glasses? There was no such thing as happy endings. Happy couplings maybe, and then also only for a short while. It never lasted. That was a fact. But not in Margaret’s happy-ever-after world. No, there the hero was just about perfect. His biggest problem was to get the girl. And from what Graham had read that morning, he always got the girl.

  Her books were well-written. They were good stories, he had to admit. The themes were interesting, the twists surprising. He even liked the characters. To his amazement, the love scenes were actually steamy. Too drenched in emotion, as far as he was concerned, but he was actually turned on. Women didn’t really think like that, did they? He grimaced. He’d be the last person to know how a woman’s brain worked, but the happy endings were ridiculous. Surely by now she should’ve discovered life seldom gave you the joyous ending her stories portrayed. Hell, shouldn’t she know by now no one could be happy forever?

  He needed to stay away from her from now on. What was he doing kissing her, anyway? Telling her he wanted to undress her? Graham kicked a rock lying in the dust.

  “What did the rock do to you?” his farm manager, Andrew, asked drily behind him.

  He turned around and tried to smile. “Nothing. I’m just frustrated. I have a deadline and the writing isn’t going well.”

  Andrew grinned. “Looks as if you also haven’t been sleeping well. You look grumpy.”

  “I’m not grumpy,” Graham snarled, “and yes, I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “A woman on your mind?”

  Graham swore. “Don’t be ridiculous. What woman?”

  Andrew lifted an eyebrow. “What woman, indeed?”

  Graham began pacing. “It doesn’t mean there’ll be a happy-ever-after just because I kissed her.”

  “Really? You kissed someone? Last time I heard, you were fighting women off with sticks. What happened?”

  “No...yes...” Graham swore again and pushed his fingers through his hair. “I met her in an elevator, thought she was stalking me...long story. She writes bloody romances,” he muttered, and resumed walking.

  “The bitch. How could she?”

  Graham whirled around. “You think this is a joke? She is driving me insane. I can’t get her out of my head.”

  Andrew was now openly laughing at him. He slapped Graham on the back. “Never thought I’d see the day. You’re well and truly hooked. Wait until I tell Yvonne. My wife loves to read love stories. She has this favorite author...come to think of it, I think she mentioned this author would be visiting Stellenbosch sometime soon. You should talk to her.”

  Graham started swearing again.

  “What?”

  “It’s her. I heard today she’s visiting a second-hand bookstore in town. It’s not funny!” he shouted when Andrew just kept on laughing.

  He gave Andrew a last, disgusted look and walked back to the homestead, muttering and swearing. He was now at such a low point he couldn’t have a simple conversation without mentioning her. How pathetic could you get? Maybe he should try to date again.

  He stopped, then turned back. When he’d returned from his overseas trip, Andrew and Yvonne mentioned they knew a nice woman they wanted to introduce to him. At the time he hadn’t been interested, but perhaps he should see whether she was still single. Surely there were other women out there who would also fascinate him, who didn’t write love stories and who wouldn’t have impossible expectations when it came to relationships?

  Feeling better already, he quickened his step. He was going to make a date with this woman as soon as possible and he was going to forget all about Kommetjie, a bookshop with the stupid name of Happy Ever After, and a romance writer called Margaret Parker. And if it meant he would never surf in Kommetjie again? Well, too damn bad.

  ***

  Yvonne phoned first thing Saturday morning. “How was it?”

  He was barely awake. He sat up in bed and yawned. “How was what?”

  “Oh, come on, you know. Your date with Rita. How was it? Is she beautiful or what? You guys should have so much in common—”

  “She’s a nice girl. She’s beautiful, funny, interesting. Thank you for arranging this.”

  “But?”

  “But nothing. I don’t know. I might see her at a later s—”

  “No spark?”

  Graham sighed. “No damn spark.”

  Yvonne giggled. “Is it because of this writer you are seeing?”

  “I’m not seeing any bloody writer. What did Andrew tell you?”

  “Just that you keep talking about her. By the way, I love her books. No other author out there writes a romance like she does. I have all her novels, if you want—”

  “Thank you. No. Good-bye.”

  He dropped the phone and lay back, his arms folded under his head. He stared up at the ceiling. He’d have to try something else to get Margaret out of his mind. Dating other women clearly wasn’t going to do the trick. Rita was nice, pretty, beautiful even. She was interesting: they’d discussed various issues. He liked her. But there was no real connection. His blood didn’t heat the way it did when Margaret was near him. His heartbeat had remained normal throughout the evening; he never became angry about anything Rita had said. He’d missed Margaret’s little thrust-out chin.

  He swore and sat up. He was going to get up and start writing. And he was not going to stop until this obsession with Margaret was gone. He had promised the publishers his book could be on the shelves by March. And because he’d struggled to start, he now had very little time in which to finish the manuscript. He simply didn’t have time to think about anything or anyone else. He was a writer and he was going to write. Not think about a sexy woman with killer legs, long-lidded eyes and a stubborn chin. Exasperated with himself, he swore again and strode down the corridor toward his study.

  Chapter 6

  Graham sat in his car, staring out acro
ss the sea. How the hell did he get here? He’d thrown his surfboard and wetsuit into his car early that morning. He’d been trying to work since Saturday, but it was as if his brain cells had simply stopped functioning. He just had to get out and so left his farm to go to Koelbaai, the closest surfing spot to Stellenbosch.

  So when had his car turned south instead of east? But here he was, in Kommetjie, not Koelbaai. And the only thing on his mind was Margaret. By now, he’d resigned himself to the fact she’d always be on his mind.

  He still wasn’t quite sure what to do about her, knew there could be no future for them, but maybe this thing they had going should be allowed to run its course. And hopefully, before it fizzled out, he’d be back to his old self and he’d be writing again. He knew whatever her was feeling for her would end at some point. Of that, at least, he was sure.

  He turned his car around and slowly drove toward her shop. It was a beautiful day. He was going to see Margaret any minute now. He made the turn just before her shop and as he drove closer, she came running out. Even from a distance he could see she was upset. He increased his speed, but she was in her car and had sped off before he could stop.

  He jumped out of his car and stormed into the shop.

  “What happened? Why is Margaret crying?”

  Jen turned a tearful face toward him. He lowered his voice. “What—?”

  “Her brother has been in an accident. Someone just phoned. They found his car early this morning. The accident must have happened sometime during the night. Margaret’s terribly upset, he’s her only sibling and she adores him.”

  Graham felt helpless. “What can I do? Do you know which hospital they’ve taken him to?”

  Jen shook her head. “No, I didn’t even think to ask, but you can stick around if you want to. She’ll phone me at some point.”

  Graham stood around for a few more minutes. “I’ll see if I can find her. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”