How Sweet It Is

by Dylan Newton

  “Ha. Says the horror writer who should know better,” she said, gripping one of his biceps, ready to dodge behind him or duck under his arm at the slightest sensation of air movement around her. “Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”

  “Why don’t you tell me your launch plans now? We seem to have time to kill.”

  Finally! Kate’s heart lifted…and then sank when she recalled her spreadsheets were in her purse, right next to the bat-infested sarcophagus. Licking her lips, she racked her brain for the broad strokes of the plan.

  “Okay, well, we’ve nixed the barn and haunted house idea, of course,” she began. “In its place, one idea we had was to have both a general fan event, as well as a different, more exclusive VIP version. We want to commandeer your entire block—”

  Just as she threw her arms out on the word “entire,” she saw a bat swoop down from the center of the room, its trajectory illuminated in the dim light cast from the stained-glass windows.

  It was coming straight toward them.

  Drake must have seen it at the same time, because just as Kate ducked, screaming, he grabbed her. One arm wound around her waist, dragging her to him, and his other arm cupped around the top of her head. He spun her until her back was pressed against the door, and his back faced the threat. His body bowed around hers, as if he’d become a human shield, and his voice was calm and controlled when he spoke in a low voice directly in her ear.

  “Don’t scream, Kate. And no more hand movements.” His voice had a hint of irony when he continued. “Damn, these things are crazy aggressive. It’s as if they know who I am, and they’re showing off.”

  It took every ounce of Kate’s resistance not to bury her face into his chest, wrap herself into a small bundle, and cower there until the threat was over. Instead, she took a deep breath, and then another, reminding herself that not all bats were rabid, and logically, they must be much more afraid of her than she was of them. Although right now, she wouldn’t have bet on it.

  “This is the most scared I’ve ever been in my life,” she whispered. “You?”

  His arms tightened a fraction around her. “Not even close,” he whispered back. “But it ranks right up there with most embarrassing.”

  Wait. What? Kate wanted to pull back and look at his face to read his expression.

  “I know. We do seem to be making a habit of extreme awkwardness,” Kate replied. She remembered the way his hands had been all over her thighs at their first meeting. And now with his arms wrapped so tightly around her…

  Damn.

  Kate promised herself that she’d reactivate her Tinder account after this gig. Clearly, her body was ready for something—if not a relationship, then at least a good time. She sank into Drake, mortified but too scared to care as he clarified.

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m embarrassed I put you in this situation. Where in the hell is Wendy?” Drake breathed in her ear, and Kate assumed it was a rhetorical question, because he was the one with the watch, not her. “We can’t have more than five minutes. Tell me the rest of your launch plan. Let’s just cap off this afternoon with at least that check in your spreadsheet.”

  Kate’s neck got that yummy-shivery feeling with him whispering in her ear, but she squeezed her eyes shut, picturing the spreadsheet and what she and Imani had determined to be the most audacious plan Drake might accept—one that would wow his fans, bring in those paid VIP tickets for charity, plus satisfy the movie production company’s desire for an event worthy of the adaptation announcement. While it wasn’t as conspicuous as the haunted barn and dangling coffin idea, as Kate spoke, she cursed their close quarters that hid his expression.

  She couldn’t tell if he loved or hated the pitch.

  He jolted a little when she’d mentioned the giant mechanical spider they’d purchased to scramble up his house from the porch to the turreted attic and back all during the night, yet he hadn’t shot the idea down. When she described how the fans would be treated to a haunted maze that started on Maple Avenue and wound around his grounds, ending at his house, he shifted a little on his feet, and when she said how the VIPs who’d paid the most for their ticket would get to see his writing office, he exhaled slowly, as if deflating.

  She hurried to reassure him.

  “It won’t be a circus, Drake. I promise it will be fun, and the maze will pay homage to each of your books in a spooky but tasteful way. We’ll place guards in costume all around your house, and we’ll block off rooms where the public is not allowed.” Kate mentally ran through the objections she’d anticipated and gave him her contingency plans for each. “Your house will be redone so that it’s infused with enough gothic-style horror to wow your fans, while absolutely not making you look like—”

  Drake supplied the words on the tip of her tongue.

  “Like a sideshow freak?”

  “Drake.” Kate lifted her hand to touch his face, but then quickly detoured to his shoulder. More professional. She needed to be more professional. “I give you my word that it’ll be appropriate. I’ll keep you in the loop—daily updates, in person—so you can veto anything that strikes you wrong, no matter how big or small, and we’ll pivot to something else. What do you think?”

  He was silent for a breath.

  “Daily updates from you. In person?” he asked, his voice low. At her nod, he sighed, his breath stirring her hair, warming her neck. “After what I’ve put you through today, how can I say no? Let’s…let’s win you that EVPLEX.”

  Kate gasped and pulled her head off his chest, peering up at his face in the dim lighting, taking her chance with the bats to grin up at him in disbelief.

  “Drake, that’s—that’s so…” She lost her train of thought. His face was so close. He smelled so good. His gaze drifted down to her lips, and Kate felt the scene tipping, as if gravity had reversed, forcing her face to tilt up toward his…

  Just then, a pounding came on the door, and she heard the light tinkling of keys rattling in the lock. Suddenly the vault door opened. Sunlight spilled into the dusty mausoleum, and she backed away from Drake, blinking owlishly and looking—she knew—guilty as hell.

  As her eyes adjusted, she spotted the bewildered faces of Mr. Clark and Mrs. Scanlon peering in.

  “Are you two…done?” Mr. Clark said, putting his hands on his overalls and cocking his head. “Or do you need a few more minutes?”

  Kate bolted for the doors, almost knocking over Mrs. Scanlon in her desire to move as far as possible.

  Whether it was to escape from the almost-kiss-tastrophe or from the bats, she wasn’t sure.

  It wasn’t until Drake emerged a minute later, carrying his notepad, her purse, and both their coats that she realized she’d left them behind. He shook out her jacket and his, then he gave her purse a once-over before returning her belongings.

  “Vermin free. I’ve got a few more things to research while I’m here, but I think…” Drake’s neck and ears were flushed, yet he smiled—really smiled—at her when he continued after a pause. “…you’ve done your part for the day. You can put me down as a ‘yes’ to all your plans. I suppose you’ll need to get into the house soon to measure, or whatnot?”

  “Do you have time tomorrow?” she asked. “The sooner I can get measurements and pictures, the sooner I can lay out a plan for the designers. What fits your schedule best?”

  “Morning. Around ten o’clock. I’m more of a late starter with my writing, so if we can wrap it up before noon, that will be best.”

  “You got it,” Kate said. She’d have to work fast to get the permits for the road closures and mechanical spider in to the appropriate official today to provide adequate notice. “And, Drake, I promise I won’t embarrass you or make you regret it. It’s going to be the best book launch you’ve ever had!”

  Drake looked unimpressed. He shrugged. “It’ll all be worth it if Everstone has to give you an EVPLEX for a night honoring me.”

  Ten minutes later, Kate keyed herself into her
hotel room, kicked off her heels, and rubbed her sore feet. She toggled into her cell phone’s favorites menu and clicked on her best friend’s picture.

  Imani answered on the first ring, sounding out of breath and laughing. “Hi, Katie! Are you back so soon?”

  “I’m back. What’s got you in such a good mood?” Kate couldn’t help smiling along too.

  “I thought you’d be working longer, so I went to visit my grandmother. You remember Gigi?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I’m going to eat dinner with her tonight, so we can have some time together, and then I’ll walk back to the hotel. I’ve been waiting for you to call. Do you have good news?”

  “Apparently, the key to Drake’s cooperation is willingness to do crazy stuff with him,” Kate reported, unzipping her skirt. She wrestled out of her clothes, stuffing them in the hotel’s dry-cleaning bag. She fervently hoped they had some magical detergent that removed ground-in tomb dirt and bat poop.

  “Ooh, really?” Imani’s voice cooed on the other end. “Should I go out to the porch to hear the details, or can I leave you on speakerphone?”

  Kate shook her head, laughing as she peeled off her pantyhose—full of runs and rubbed-on stains—and stuffed them into the trash can. “Not like that. I mean crazy stuff like hang out in a mausoleum with him. Which I did, for an hour.”

  “Your version of crazy and mine are vastly different.” Imani sounded unimpressed.

  Kate snagged the white hotel robe from the closet and slid it on. “Well, have you ever lain down in an empty mausoleum tomb to describe the experience to a writer? Because I had to. Drake was too big to fit. That’s how much I love you, Imani. I’m willing to risk rabies from the bat that crawled on my hair as I lay in a freaking stone sarcophagus. In a suit. And heels. Just to give you a client who’ll say ‘yes’ to our new ideas. But I did it, and Drake agreed to have the launch in his yard and his house. We have a green light to begin.”

  Kate purposely left out the bat-forced, stand-up-snuggling that happened. And she definitely left out the almost-kiss-tastrophe. No way was she confessing to anyone, including her best friend, that she’d been so close to blowing it all. Again.

  At the news of Drake’s capitulation, Imani’s jubilant shout echoed in the hotel room. “Woo hoo! What was it like?”

  “Um, well, he was really nice, like you said. I’d been so worried after our initial meeting, but you’re right. Once you get to know him, he’s really funny. A real gentleman. And he listens, you know? A writer thing, I’m sure, but—”

  “No, I meant what was it like inside the coffin. With the bats? I know Drake’s a good guy. I work with him, remember?”

  “Oh,” Kate said, embarrassed. “Right.”

  She filled her friend in, giving her the bare bones of it, and leaving out what she felt sure now was flirtation on his part…with the eager return of the same from her. It had been the result of being scared—like when you grab your date during a spooky movie, or on a roller coaster. It didn’t mean anything, and telling Imani would only serve to worry…and disappoint her. It was the latter reaction Kate couldn’t stand. It was one thing to disappoint her family. She’d come to grips with that. But she wouldn’t put Imani through hell to scratch an itch.

  “Good work,” Imani enthused when Kate finished. “I’m not surprised. If anyone could wring an agreement out of someone, it’s you, Katie. Oh, did you get Drake to agree to dress up like a vampire too?”

  “What? No!” Kate’s voice rose an octave. “He’d never agree to that. Since when was that in the plans?”

  Imani gave a wicked laugh. “Just checking to see how much you had my superstar writer wrapped around your manicured finger. I’ve got to tell you, I’m surprised he caved. After the original pitch, he was pretty set on keeping it low-key. He hates the camera and limelight more than any other writer I’ve represented, and that’s saying something. Most writers are so private, they’re almost reclusive. And”—Imani’s voice lowered—“between you and me, I heard he’s not having a good time with his work-in-progress.”

  “Really? He—he didn’t say anything about that. What’s going on?”

  Imani’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Writer’s block. His editor told me about it yesterday. First time he’s extended a deadline. Ever. I’m a little worried about him. He’s…not quite himself lately. I can’t put my finger on why, and when I ask him about it, he shuts down.” Imani spoke again at a normal volume. “Gotta run—Gigi and I are making anatomically correct zombie cookies. I’ll bring some back with me. See you in a few!”

  As Kate hung up, she sat in the massive hotel robe, feeling oddly dejected. She should be elated over this big win, but after hearing about Drake’s writer’s block…his capitulation to the new launch plans felt all wrong.

  But he’d said yes, and time was slipping through her fingers. With only a few weeks until launch, plans had to be put into motion, or the man wouldn’t have an event at all.

  It was too late to change course now.

  Chapter 10

  Drake sat at his kitchen table as he reread the first chapter he’d created for Memory’s Lane—the novel previously known as Forbidden—on his laptop. Sasha nuzzled against his leg, annoyed that her morning walk was delayed, and he picked her up. Tucking her down into his lap, he stroked her soft fur, scanning his work-in-progress to see if it looked the same on paper as he’d imagined it.

  Sam strode down a dark stretch of one of Picadilly’s mist-soaked cobbled streets toward his commanding officer’s hideout, the thick fog clinging to his boots and legs like a wispy shroud. His mood was as bleak as the English weather, a never-ending cold drizzle. As he brought the ragged ends of his Da’s old peacoat around him to hide his tuxedo, he had no idea that the empty, dank misery of his life was about to change; along with a sweeping, all-consuming passion, the universe was about to deliver a gut-punch.

  Perhaps sensing the mechanisms that fate had set in motion, Sam shivered as the wet wind found its way through the thin fibers of his coat. He peered into the distance, wishing for more visibility than the flickering yellow glow of the intermittent gas lights. He reassured himself that the British police couldn’t have discovered him already—not when he’d taken so many precautions. But his heart hammered in his chest as he picked up the noise of soft footsteps—someone creeping up behind him.

  With his leg wound, he’d never outrun a pursuit, so he hid in the shadows. The streetlamp revealed the vague outline of his follower as the stranger approached, jogging fast, almost at a run. Sam pulled out his pocketknife, flicking the sharp blade open in his palm. If he was going down, it wouldn’t be without a fight.

  He waited until the footsteps were right up to him before throwing his body into the path of his pursuer, the impact of their collision driving the air from his lungs and tossing him back a step.

  Sam recovered, and in a heartbeat, he had his knife jammed against the short guy’s ribs. Just then, a few things became very clear: the man he’d intercepted was tiny and thin and soft in all the wrong places. Small hands gripped his peacoat so hard, the old fabric tore, and then a voice—a woman’s voice—exclaimed under her breath.

  “Please! You’ve got to help me—they’ll kill me if they find me!”

  The clouds parted briefly, allowing the moon to illuminate the woman gripping him. The hood on her black coat was up, but bits of auburn hair peeped out as she gazed up at him with a heart-shaped face and eyes as green as a summer’s field. She looked so terrified, Sam’s arms automatically wove around her, and she buried her face into his chest, quiet sobs wracking her body.

  “Please, I beg you.”

  Sam felt a lurch, as if the Earth had grown unstable beneath his feet, and suddenly, right then and there, he knew nothing in his life would ever be the same.

  “Shhh. It’s okay,” he said, after a moment. He scanned the darkness as he guided her off the cobbled street toward the old fishmonger’s stall, his arm around her t
hin shoulders. “I’ve got you. Follow me.”

  She nodded, and they both started as a shrill whistle split the night—

  Drake stopped mid-sentence, petting Sasha as he examined the scene where his hero meets his heroine. It was okay—cliché at parts, and he’d definitely have to go back and fix that “going down without a fight” bit and find a way to show his heroine was stronger than to just dissolve into tears, but he thought the unexpected sweetness of the scene was there. He’d been struggling with how to have his American spy hero and his British secretary heroine meet, and then Kate slammed, quite literally, into his life, and he had the inspiration he’d needed.

  He felt a little guilty at using her to achieve his goal for the romance novel, but then he rationalized that she was using him to achieve her EVPLEX.

  “Besides,” Drake said, ruffling Sasha’s fur, “that’s what we writers do best. We take inspiration from our own lives to craft our stories.”

  What he’d never admit to was how real the last part of that scene was.

  Like a guilty tell, his eyes went to the box of his grandparents’ World War II love letters he’d hauled to the kitchen this morning. He’d pored over those letters for months, captivated by their sweeping love story.

  What must it be like to be carried away, just like Nana and Grandpa Matthews had been? For months, he’d yearned to write such a love story, even if he’d never lived one, but other than research…the well was dry.

  Yet ever since he’d taken Kate Sweet in his arms, his world had shifted, altered, and would take a while to set right again. He suddenly understood a little better those early letters from his grandparents—their wondrous, tentative excitement. Having Kate in his arms the day before had felt so good, even if she’d only stayed tucked up against him for fear of rabies. It didn’t mean she liked him.