How Sweet It Is

by Dylan Newton

  Drake nodded. “He was persistent. Their whole four-year courtship was largely epistle-based. Pretty romantic, really.”

  After a beat, Zander looked at Ryker.

  “‘Epistle’ means ‘letter,’” Zander said, enunciating every word.

  “I know what it means, asshole,” Ryker shot back.

  But instead of being drawn into another scrum, Zander—always the more intuitive of them—turned back to Drake and said, “Sounds like you’re evolving into another genre?”

  Should he tell them?

  Sure, his brothers might razz Drake about writing romance, but they’d still support him. He could confess about his writer’s block and how sick he was of mining nightmares for a living. He could admit how trapped he felt, the literal author of his own misfortune.

  But other than garnering their sympathy, what was the point?

  It was better to forget this stupid historical romance novel and remember what paid the bills on this house, the local veterans’ shelter, and where the funds had come from for both of his brothers’ start-up businesses: his horror books. That’s what he needed to figure out—how to get rid of this writer’s block for Twisted Twin and get the thing done already, cash the check, and move on to the next one, and the next one.

  Lather, rinse, repeat. Until he was dead.

  Drake cleared his throat and changed the subject.

  “I was thinking of getting rid of some of Nana and Grampa’s old stuff,” he lied. “I started cleaning out the attic and happened on those boxes and then got sidetracked reading them, but I wanted to check with Nana to see if she wanted anything before I pitched them. I haven’t been over to visit her this week. You guys seen her lately?”

  “I visited yesterday. Still as spry as ever. She says she works out in their gym four times a week,” Ryker said, then speared Drake with an accusatory look. “Speaking of, how many times are you going to blow off our workouts? Or have you joined some bougie gym and can’t be seen slumming it in my garage?”

  The landline rang, sparing Drake from having to fabricate some excuse as to why he’d dropped his workouts, along with every other thing in his life, lately. He trotted into the kitchen to grab the cordless phone, groaning when he noticed the receiver’s readout: PattyCakes. This just wasn’t his day. He answered.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Drake, in about five minutes, there’s going to be a knock at your door,” his mom said, her voice as no-nonsense as any drill instructor’s. “And you’re going to answer like a gentleman, and I do not need to remind you that a gentleman honors his commitments. He also apologizes when he’s acted like a jackass and made a grown woman cry.”

  “Mom, I didn’t—”

  His mother spoke over him, not missing a beat.

  “I would never dream of telling you what to do, but I thought you should know I spent the last hour and a half with Kate Sweet, and while she does not know I’m your mother, she does know a good cupcake when she eats one, and she’s ordered three hundred of them for your book launch.”

  Drake closed his eyes. “I’m not sure if that’s appropriate, Mom. It probably violates some sort of ethics or accounting rule—”

  “Just hear her out,” his mom said, her voice growing softer. “That’s all I’m asking, honey. Your father, God rest his soul, was a stubborn old mule, and I’m afraid you’ve inherited that Matthews trait in spades.”

  The gate buzzer rang then, and Sasha started barking. A moment later, Drake heard one of his brothers call out to him.

  “Drake! There’s a woman at the front gates. I think it’s the redhead who stabbed you earlier. Should I let her in?”

  “Oh, that must be her,” his mom said, not missing a thing. “I’ll see you Saturday at the Harvest Festival. Don’t forget, you promised to be the emcee for the pumpkin-carving competition.”

  The call disconnected, and he shoved past his brothers to the front door.

  Ryker asked in a mock-whisper, his tone ringing with incredulity, “She’s the one you kicked out earlier?”

  His youngest brother shook his shaggy mane, managing to vocalize his disappointment in one long syllable.

  “Duuuuuudddde.”

  Shooing them back into the parlor, Drake flung open the door. Stepping into the bright light on his front porch was Kate. She looked totally different in a pair of slim-fitting jeans tucked into black boots, with a navy parka thrown over the top of it all, the faux fur–lined hood obscuring all but the perfect oval of her pale face.

  Her parka was speckled with snowflakes, and the imprints of her footsteps were outlined by the light dusting of flakes lazily drifting down. He thought about what he’d learned from his mother—how Kate had been crying in her shop, and how she’d given his mom a huge chunk of business for the launch—and much as he wanted to believe she was innocent of any nefarious planning with Everstone, he’d learned the hard way it was never a good idea to give a pretty woman his blind trust. Rachel taught him that, if nothing else.

  “Hello again.” Kate appeared poised except for her hands, which kept fiddling with the handles of the soft-sided black briefcase she’d carried—then thrown—earlier. “I’m not asking for you to invite me in, but I hope you’d be willing to hear my apology.”

  “You’re in a different outfit” was the brilliant greeting that popped out of his mouth.

  Drake heard his brothers groan from the parlor behind him, and he flipped them the bird, his hand hidden from view behind the door.

  Kate’s face flushed, the pink color reminding Drake of the delicate inside of a tiny conch shell he’d collected from the beach one summer.

  “And I didn’t wear dangerous heels.” She held up a booted foot as proof. “I see you’ve changed, as well. Um, I’m sorry about ripping your shirt.”

  Drake glanced down, having forgotten he’d had to toss his earlier shirt—ruined from his encounter this morning—in exchange for a black button-down that was neither ripped nor bloodstained. He stood in the open doorway, torn between wanting to be polite and invite her in and wanting to stand outside for this discussion, avoiding his brothers’ snickers and loud whispers. Before he’d decided his best course of action, Kate spoke, her voice low and urgent.

  “Please hear me out. I know I gave a bad first impression—”

  “No, you left your impression quite clearly,” Drake said, holding up his arm, allowing the black, unbuttoned sleeve to fall away. A rectangular gauze bandage covered the skin from the inside of his wrist to just shy of the crook of his arm. “Almost twelve stitches’ worth of a first impression. Oh, and a tetanus booster. Turns out, my shots weren’t up-to-date.”

  “Tw-twelve stitches? And a shot? I can’t believe—I didn’t mean to…” Kate sputtered, her throat working reflexively as she swallowed. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then continued speaking in a more measured tone. “I’m here to see what I can do to fix the mess I’ve made. I’m not asking you to rehire me as your event planner. I recognize after this morning, there’s little chance of that. But before I leave town, I have been working on your launch with Imani, and she’s gotten an agreement from Cerulean Books and the movie studio to send a fifty-thousand-dollar donation to your favorite veterans’ shelter. You name the charity, and Imani is set to get the paperwork going on her end to make it a reality by the end of the day.”

  Drake’s mouth fell open. His mother hadn’t told him that. How could he turn down business to his mom’s shop, plus a hefty donation to veterans in need?

  His brothers poked their heads out of the parlor door, waved to Kate, and hissed at him.

  “Stop being a douche.”

  “Say she’s rehired!”

  “All right, I’m not having a discussion with you two cretins standing behind me.” Drake snagged a set of car keys from the hook on the wall and dashed out before his brothers could say anything more. Once on the wintery porch with the door closed, he immediately regretted not grabbing his jacket. Stuffing his hands
in his jean pockets, he gestured with his chin toward the sidewalk. “Do you mind if we continue this outside? I’m sorry to be rude and not invite you in, but…” He trailed off, shrugging. “Brothers. You know.”

  Kate fell into step beside him as they walked off the porch toward the splash of streetlight on the blessedly empty sidewalk outside his front gates. “I don’t know. Not exactly, anyway. I have one sister, but I’m the oldest as well, so I get it. Look, I wanted to apologize to you. Sincerely apologize. You’ll have to take my word for it that I’m known as a professional—”

  “You’re the Queen of Happily Ever Afters. Supremely popular in the tri-state area for planning show-stopping weddings, you’ve been featured in national magazines, and one of your fairy-tale–themed events was even in a Say Yes to the Dress episode.” Drake’s interruption was rewarded with a sharp look of surprise. He chuckled a little at her wide-eyed expression. “What? After this morning, I looked you up.”

  They left his front yard, the gates clicking closed behind them. He turned to punch in the code, locking it again—something he’d forgotten to do this morning, which led to Kate in his yard, unannounced, and the whole thing had gone downhill from there.

  “Yes,” she said, “although I don’t seem to be the queen of much of anything today, except maybe—”

  “Chaos?” Drake supplied, then softened his words with a smile.

  Kate paused, narrowing her eyes, but allowing a half grin to touch her lips. “Touché. But for the record, I saved you when you passed out.”

  “And then you neglected to tell me we had guests. You let them see me in that state.” Drake’s lips thinned, and he looked away from Kate briefly, reining in his anger. She had nothing to do with Everstone’s visit, nor did she likely know about his past with the Hollywood producer and how the man had conspired with Rachel to ruin his life.

  She bit her lip. “I thought it was just Imani coming in. Trust me, the last person in the whole world I would’ve let through the door to see us like that was Evan Everstone.”

  Drake whipped his gaze back to her. “Really? Why?”

  Kate hesitated, giving him an appraising look. Finally, she seemed to come to some sort of decision and spoke matter-of-factly. “Because he holds the key to what I want most in this world.”

  Drake’s eyebrows drew together in a scowl. “Are you some aspiring actress or looking to write a tell-all book, or something? What on earth could Everstone have that you want so badly?”

  “An EVPLEX.” The words came from Kate’s mouth as quietly as a church confession. If he hadn’t been holding his breath, he wouldn’t have heard it.

  “A what?”

  “It’s an award that stands for Event Planning Extravaganza.” She sighed, stopping to face him. She tucked a stray strand of auburn hair back into her hood as the wind whipped around them. “Evan sits on the EVPLEX award committee, and everyone knows his vote is the one to get if you want to ever be anything in this business. But he never awards weddings—says they’re innately selfish and unworthy. So, when Imani offered me this job, I jumped at the chance to do something he might consider worthy.”

  “Ah,” he said, the pieces clicking together. “Hence the barn and the coffin dangling from the ceiling beams. I get it. I used to think the only thing I wanted in this world was to hit the New York Times bestseller list. Like having that would somehow…”

  “Legitimize what you’re doing. Validate your choices in life,” Kate finished, surprising Drake by nailing his thoughts exactly. She wrinkled her nose, giving a short laugh. “Yeah, that’s how I feel about the EVPLEX for a lot of reasons, but mostly it’s like a checkmark in life’s report card, you know? Imani said you absolutely despised the idea of coming out of a hanging coffin. I went overboard in my pitch to you—I realize that now.”

  They’d arrived at the sidewalk corner, and when Kate made as if to cross, Drake put a hand to her back, stopping her progress. “I don’t see a car. Did you walk here?”

  She nodded. “I was eating at a café downtown, and the owner there—a really nice woman named Patty—said she knew you.”

  Drake nodded, raising one eyebrow. Did Kate really not know she was his mom?

  “Well, she said Jimmy’s cab was hard to hail at dinnertime, and she said it wasn’t a bad walk, and that all I had to do was go behind the shop, cross the train tracks, and I’d be on Maple Avenue, only a couple blocks from you.” Her teeth chattered slightly when she admitted, “It was lighter outside then, so I didn’t mind the walk, but I wasn’t expecting it to be this cold. And you didn’t bring a coat, so I should probably let you get back inside with your family.”

  Drake shook his head. “They’re not going anywhere. I have the keys to their car.” He dangled them in the air. “And Zan parked right behind my truck so I can’t take that. As long as you don’t mind riding home in what my mom calls Zander’s clown car, I’ll get you safely back to your hotel.”

  “You’ll drive me home?” Kate snorted a laugh as they rounded the Victorian and the small driveway and carriage house came into view. “No offense, but by the, erm, smell of your breath, you shouldn’t be driving anywhere.”

  Drake halted by the gates, feeling himself swerve. Damn. She was right. He’d downed three Zander-size glasses of whiskey. He wasn’t safe behind the wheel. He shrugged off the problem, his alcohol-greased brain coming up with a solution.

  “Okay. You drive, then.” He tossed her the keys and was surprised when she plucked them out of the air like an outfielder.

  “Okayyyy.” Kate Sweet dragged the word out, squinting with one eye. “But, um, if I drive us back to the hotel, then you’ll be at my hotel without a way to get home. So, why don’t I call Jimmy’s Cab? He’s probably done with dinner, by now.”

  “Nah. I’ll walk from the hotel. Or I’ll call Jimmy. If I know my brothers, they’re going to order pizza, have another drink, and overstay their welcome until tomorrow, so they won’t need the car tonight.” Drake brushed away her concerns, entering his code into the security gates for the second time, focusing on each number, until the thing beeped a happy set of tones, and the gates purred open. “I have to lock everything—honestly, the front gates should’ve been locked this morning, but I’d forgotten to do it after taking Sasha for her walk.”

  “Why do you—”

  Kate was interrupted as a young man came sprinting from a beat-up, two-door Camry that had been idling with its headlights off across the street.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Matthews,” said a kid dressed in ripped black jeans, a long, black overcoat, and black boots with chains and buckles that jangled as he ran. He held a book out to Drake—one of his old bestsellers, Dark Dolls—and his kohl-lined eyes were pleading as he asked, “Can I get your autograph? I’m a huge fan! Been reading you since I was ten years old, and this is the first hardcover book I ever bought myself. All the rest of yours I have on my Kindle.”

  He was about to give the kid his standard I-don’t-do-signings-outside-of-events-put-on-by-my-publisher excuse when he caught Kate’s expectant smile. She looked almost thrilled to see him accosted by a fan who’d obviously been sitting outside of his house, stalking him, waiting for his chance to pounce for an autograph. He knew it was a testosterone-fed ego thing, but the glimmer in her eager expression made Drake want to impress her.

  While he inwardly rolled his eyes at his caveman-like behavior, he nodded to the teen, whose face broke into an excited grin.

  “Oh, great! Could you make it out to Trent?” the guy asked, bouncing on his toes as he handed Drake the book. Belatedly, both he and the fan realized neither of them had a pen.

  “Here,” Kate said, digging into the black briefcase she held. “I’ve got one.”

  Drake accepted the proffered pen, the barrel of which was crusted in what must have been thousands of rhinestones encased in glass so it could be held without slicing your fingers. The streetlamps caught the gems, casting little glittery reflections all over the book as he doubl
e-checked the spelling of Trent’s name, and wrote out his usual inscription for Dark Dolls, borrowing a line from the book.

  For Trent,

  Best wishes. Never leave the dolls out while you sleep.

  Underneath this, he scrawled his autograph and today’s date on the inner title page with a final flourish and presented it back to him. The kid took the book back, reverently touching the signature. Then, he snapped the cover closed, whooping as he held the book over his head and jogged back across the street. His car revved away, horn tooting, moments later.

  Drake handed the pen back to Kate. “Well, that was a first.”

  “Getting asked for an autograph next to your house?” she asked, following him to Zander’s Prius.

  “No. That happens almost every day,” he said. “I meant signing with a rhinestone pen. I fully expected the ink to be pink and glittery.”

  “They’re Swarovski crystals, not rhinestones,” she said, “and the pen was a gift from the first bride I worked with when I started my business six years ago. It’s my lucky pen.”

  He blipped the hybrid car’s alarm off and opened the driver’s door for Kate and then hopped into the passenger seat.

  “You sure you want me to drive your brother’s car?” Kate asked. “I’m happy to call Jimmy’s, if that’s easier.”

  “Maybe I want to talk with you for a few more minutes,” Drake mumbled, not meeting her gaze.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kate shrug, and then she used the levers to pull her seat forward, clicked on her seat belt, adjusted the mirror, and started the car. Drake cranked the heat and flipped the radio off as she carefully backed out of the driveway and onto Maple Avenue. Something of a plan formed in his head, but it all depended on this woman—the one he’d put in the driver’s seat, literally and figuratively.

  “So, why are you here, and not Imani, talking to me about the launch?” he asked.

  “I wanted to deliver the news about the veterans’ shelter donation in person, so maybe…you’d not back out of the launch?” Kate took her eyes off the road, glancing over at him with a pained expression. “Otherwise, my best friend is going to be in some very hot water at work.”