And Then He: A Rogue Mountain Billionaire Novel

by Kateri Collins

  “Jeb?”

  He turns back to me, a knowing look on his face. “Yes, Miss Watson?”

  “I…,” bark, bark, bark again. “I…,” bark, bark, incessant barking.

  He closes the distance between us. His strong firm finger rests on my upper lip. My eyes meet his. Wondering. Waiting. Wanting. “We have all the time in the world, Miss Watson. Trust me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  My eyes flash open. A blur of blue hovers over me. I close my eyes. I must be dreaming.

  “Tiff, what are you doing with Jeb?”

  I hear the anger in her voice, a thousand questions storming through her veins, and the judgement she will surely lay on me when it’s all said and done. I roll away from her. “Nothing,” I grumble, “go back to sleep.”

  She rips the covers off. “Get your ass up!”

  Cold assaults my bare arms and legs. I claw for the blankets, keeping my eyes closed, but they’re out of reach.

  My body flops against the mattress. I peek one eye open. “What’s the big idea Cass? What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on?” She clutches the blankets to her chest as if she will tear them apart by sheer force. “What’s going on?” She paces back and forth at the foot of my bed, shaking her head. “I woke to someone knocking at your door at 6:29 a.m. on a Sunday morning. When I opened it, that son of a bitch Jeb was standing there with coffee and pastries.”

  A goofy smile spreads across my face, as I roll over to face her. “Is he still here?”

  “Hell no, I slammed the door right the fuck in his face.”

  I jump off the bed. “You did what? Is he still outside?” I push past her on my way to the door, calling out his name.

  “He’s gone,” she says from the bedroom doorway, her hands on her hips. “Tiff, why the hell is he bringing you breakfast? Did something happen between you and Drew?”

  The weight of her question drops me to the sofa. I bury my face under the crook of my arm. An uncomfortable silence fills the room. In the quiet, I swear I hear the tick tock tick tock of Mrs. Sullivan’s cuckoo clock next door. I definitely hear Cassie huffing in and out. Her anger grows with each passing inhalation. I can’t avoid her question any longer. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  The sofa dips as she sits down next to me. She drapes the soft chenille blanket across my legs. I nestle in a little more.

  Ten fingers wrap around my wrist. I try to fight her, but she manages to pull my arm away from my face. Her round, sky blue eyes brim with the enough shared secrets to fill a dozen closets—soul sisters ‘til the end. “Tiff, what is Jeb doing in Wellsboro, Pennsylvania? I thought he was some world traveler.”

  I fidget with the seam of the blanket. “He is, or he was. He opened an outfitter in town a few weeks ago. He came into the Diner, and we’ve bumped into each other here or there.”

  Hot erotic bumping.

  She crosses her arms. Her knees bop up and down. “Humph, he opens a shop in Bum-fucked Egypt? Well, that’s a lovely coincidence. Does Drew know about him?”

  I study the palms of my hands. The first hint of guilt I’ve felt in days weighs heavy on me. “No.”

  She strums her fingers on her leg. Her pinky lost its press-on. “What are you doing, Tiff?”

  I chew the inside of my lip for a long time. She already knows the truth, but I need to say it aloud. “I don’t know.”

  With my confession, she shifts her attention to her now exposed pinky. The nail becomes fair game to her old gnawing habit. “I don’t like him.”

  “What?”

  “I think Jeb has an unhealthy obsession with you.”

  I can’t believe my ears. Cassie has lived her life, prided herself really, on the ability to move from one bad relationship to another without an ounce of regret or a desire to change. “Really Cass? Do you think you’re the best person to dole out unwanted relationship advice?”

  I stand up from the sofa. The blanket falls to the ground, slipping off her legs too. “Your phenomenal judgement of character, almost got you raped last night, and wait, who was it that saved you? Hmm, let me think.” I scratch my chin. “Oh wait, that’s right, it was Jeb.”

  She picks up the blanket and repositions it over her legs. “Easy Tiff, don’t take offense. I just know you wear your heart on your sleeve and you wind up getting hurt. It took you a long time, a really long time to get over Cody.”

  My mouth drops. “Cody died. He broke through the ice and died. So, forgive me, if I don’t think that using Cody is the best example of how I get over love.”

  I shrug on a pair of yoga pants from the laundry basket and grab my Rock sweatshirt from the back of the armchair. Fischer scurries to the door with his leash in his mouth.

  “Where are you going?”

  “For some fresh air.” I slam the door shut behind me.

  A decision I will regret for the rest of my life.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  When I get back, I find Mrs. Sullivan at the top of the stairs wringing her hands. “Sweetie, oh sweetie, I’m glad you’re okay.”

  Fischer pulls me over to her and shoves his wet nose into her occupied fingers. She smiles as she indulges him in a good scratch behind the ears. “Mrs. Sullivan, why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  “Oh honey, I heard all sorts of banging and loud noises coming from your apartment. I came over to see if everything was alright, but you didn’t answer,” she says, her voice breaking. “I didn’t know you were out with Fischer. I must have been hearing things.” She gives Fischer another pat on the head.

  “Noises from my apartment? That doesn’t make sense. My friend Cassie’s here. I’m surprised she didn’t open the door for you.”

  I twist the door knob, but it’s locked. Great! She’s playing that game. I reach above the door frame for the key, but it’s not where I normally keep it. My fingers slide back and forth across the molding.

  If that bitch took it…

  Sweat beads on my forehead. My temples pound against my skull. I drank way too much last night to work this stinking hard first thing in the morning. There should be rules against loud noises and unnecessary ruckus until at least 5 p.m. and extra sugared coffee and high caloric baked goods should be delivered to your door.

  Something silver spirals to the floor and clangs against the metal door stop. Fischer sniffs it, leaving a trail of slobber.

  “Dear, you really should move that key…,” she says.

  I bend down. “I know, Mrs. Sullivan. I’ll talk to you later.”

  One thing I have to say about my neighbor, she knows how to take a hint. She shuffles to her apartment. Her stooped frame guilts me far more than my mother ever could. “I’m sorry Mrs. Sullivan. I’m just in a bad mood.”

  She turns back to me. “It’s okay dear. Stay safe.”

  From my crouched position, I wink at her. “I’ll do my best.”

  In the crack of the door jamb, I can just make out something hot pink and sparkly. I shove a finger in, but the space is too tight. My fingers can’t reach it.

  Fischer shoves his nose into the crack. When that doesn’t work, he starts scratching at the door. His paw scrapes the apartment key across the floor into the middle of the hallway.

  “Fischer, you’re brillant!”

  I swipe it across my pants to remove the doggy slime before shoving it the door jamb. Luckily, it’s just long enough to knock the pink thing out. As the object skitters across the floor, I realize it’s Cassie’s lost fingernail.

  Her signature pink and black diamond studded fingernail makes me smile. Any anger I felt disappears as soon as I rest the fake nail on my pinky.

  To my surprise, the nail overhangs both edges of my finger. I thought she lost her pinky nail, but maybe not. I switch it to my middle finger and it fits perfectly.

  I unlock the door and return the key to its proper place. Fischer pushes past me on his way inside. His nose waves back and forth, sni
ffing the air.

  “Did Cassie let one go boy?”

  His hackles raise, and he darts into my bedroom. A deep growl fills the empty space. My body stiffens as I realize someone must be in the apartment. Maybe Mrs. Sullivan really did hear something.

  Fischer returns a moment later. He paces back and forth trying to catch the scent.

  I grab the golf umbrella from the hall basket. It’s either that or a baseball bat. You need room to swing a bat, and there’s a lot of tight spaces in my apartment. “Hello?” I call out. My voice breaks as my nerves twist into tight cords. My eyes roam around the living room.

  Nothing looks out of place: turquoise blanket folded and draped across the back of the sofa, throw pillows set on the chairs and sofa, magazines fanned across the old steamer trunk. If anything, its cleaner than when I left it, certainly cleaner since Cassie arrived Friday evening. Then I realize why. All of her clothes, makeup, and shoes are no longer scattered across the sofa and floor.

  “Hello!” I call out again. I take a tentative step forward with the metal umbrella sticking out. I doubt I’d have the courage to stab anyone with it. I almost hit a squirrel once with my car. I still haven’t recovered.

  “Cassie?”

  No answer.

  “Cassie?” I check behind the sofa, hoping to find her suitcase, but it’s gone.

  Clutching the umbrella, I walk down the hallway. Fischer paces back and forth beside me. His tongue lolls out panting.

  My comforters and sheets are still on the floor from this morning when Cassie so rudely woke me. She’s not asleep on the bed like I thought she’d be.

  The bathroom’s empty too, including all her crap on the vanity, except for one lonely tube of lipstick—Moonlit Red. She packed in a hurry if she left her favorite lipstick behind. Jackets? Sure. Clothing. Of course. Shoes? Most definitely. Underwear? More times than I care to remember. Lipstick? Never. Her speed-packing must have been the banging Mrs. Sullivan heard.

  I check my pillow for a note, but there’s nothing but the lipstick stain from my drunken night smeared across it. I peek under both pillows, between the sheets. I even shake out the comforter, but there’s no note anywhere.

  We always leave notes for each other even when we fight—it’s what we do. It’s what we always do.

  Our fight barely registered on the Richter Scale. I was only gone for an hour or so. She must have called a taxi as soon as I left. She’s not supposed to fly out until tonight. If I hurry, I might be able to catch her before she gets too far out of city limits. We’ll have plenty of time to makeup and figure out what I should do about Drew and Jeb. She doesn’t know about my fight with Drew and his week-long phone silence after the biggest fight in our relationship. She knows nothing about Jeb and all the thoughtful things he does for me. If she knew him like I do, she’d understand why my life has grown so complicated.

  I belly flop across my bed and reach for the phone. The chair next to my bed looks especially tidy. My dress, bra and panties from last night aren’t strewn across it. I roll off the bed, sidestep Fischer, and check the floor and the laundry basket. The dress is nowhere to be found. Neither are my shoes. “Humph.”

  As I check under the bed, Fischer shoves his nose into my cheek searching for some loving. I push him out of the way. “Not now, Fisch.”

  A dust bunny the size of a small pony whooshes across the floor as I push the bedskirt away. There’s not a shoe, not a stray sock, not a chew toy, and definitely not a dress.

  “Bitch.” I grab the phone and stab the power button, but the screen stays black.

  I shove the nightstand aside and discover the power cord’s unplugged again. “Fisch, what the hell do you do in here that knocks the plug out?”

  I ram the connection prongs into the base of the phone and press the power button. Nothing. I wait thirty seconds, then jab it again.

  “Ahhhhh!” I fling the phone across the room. My weeks-long emotional roller coaster hits me like a fucking hurricane.

  Fischer whimpers on the floor. He waits for an invitation to join me, but I’m in no mood for company—even the four legged kind. I need some fucking sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Darkness and a wet nose shoved in my face. That’s what I wake up to at 9:00 pm Sunday night. I missed my afternoon shift. I missed daylight. I missed the half dozen calls that Cassie probably made since she landed in Orlando.

  I must make at least a dozen calls and texts in the next five minutes if I entertain any hope of a fast and painless reconciliation.

  I toss aside bras, panties, and old t-shirts in my frantic search for my phone. Finally, under a bra cup, I find the rectangular piece of plastic and buttons. In a desperate attempt that the power miraculously restored itself, I press the tell-all key. My optimism drops to the power level of my phone. Zero percent.

  I double-check every line, every wire, and every plug. If I don’t call Cassie tonight, I’ll have hell to pay.

  “Ready to eat boy?” Fischer pushes past me in the narrow hallway and stops in front of his food bowl.

  Once he’s taken care of, I fill the tea kettle. The shortbread cookies Cassie brought have my name written all over them. Her loss, my gain. I still can’t believe she left without saying goodbye.

  And what’s up with Drew? He hasn’t called since our fight Thursday night.

  The most reliable person in my life is the person I just met.

  Drew. Cassie. Jeb. Drew. Cassie. Jeb. I hopscotch between them unable to decide which person to tackle first. Each square opens a mother lode of emotions I’ve compartmentalized for more than seventy-two hours. An unknown expiration date looms in my future.

  Drew.

  Cassie.

  Jeb.

  Drew. Cassie. Jeb. Drew. Cassie. Jeb.

  The whistle of the tea kettle interrupts the rhythm of my chant. As I pour the water, all the comments, all the jabs come rushing back to me.

  Tiff, you haven’t written a word since moving to Wellsboro.

  It’s time to get a real job.

  I’ll get a flat in the city.

  Did something happen between you and Drew?

  It took you a long time to get over Cody.

  Tiff, I think Jeb has an unhealthy obsession with you.

  Jeb. Jeb. Jeb.

  I steep the tea bag in the cup of boiling water. Brown slowly seeps into the clear liquid, reminding me of the countless emotions swirling around my brain. Eventually, all the water turns the same shade of brown, defenseless against the inevitable change. I study the contents of my cup for a long time, feeling utterly helpless to stop the ebb and flow of life.

  I look around my apartment. The turquoise throw I bought from the clearance rack hangs over the back of the purple sofa my stepmother gave me because she bought a new one. The geometric designs on the area rug I bought at the second hand shop in town reminds me of the old wool Persian rugs in Professor Ben’s office. The blue-green paint I picked for the walls reminds me of the ocean. Though the underlying scent of bacon grease and stale coffee permeates through every piece of fabric and upholstery, this place feels like home. The first I’ve had in a very long time and I’m not ready to leave it yet.

  As I reach for the sugar, I notice the brown leather journal on the table with a pen on it. I pick up the silver Cross pen with the initials TBW. Cassie gave me the journal and the pen for graduation. I put the journal on the bookshelf next to the refrigerator when I moved in and haven’t touched it since.

  I open to the first page and smile. The inscription she left me in her loopy handwriting captures the beauty of her essence in a way no text message or email could ever do.

  Dreams are the only hope we have.

  --Best Friends 'til the end. C.S.

  I remember the night of my fourteenth birthday slumber party. All the other girls had fallen asleep hours before, but I wanted to watch the sunrise, so Cassie stayed up with me. We talked about boys, and dogs, and evil step families. Then she asked me what
I wanted to be when I grew up. I whispered, “A writer.” She didn’t blink, or laugh, or tease me. All she said was, “Well, I expect your first novel to be dedicated to me.”

  The metal Cross pen grows warm in hand, becoming an extension of me. I turn to the next page no longer daunted by impossibility.

  Sometimes all you need is the courage to open the door.

  —T.B.W.

  I date the page and begin my journey. I may not know where the path will take me, but it’s time to begin.

  Words pour onto the parchment, spilling from my pen as if from enchantment. Ten months without writing a word, erased in one evening the heroine’s story begging to be told.

  Chapter Thirty

  Loud banging wakes me.

  Is this my life now? Random people rip blankets off me or call me in the middle of the night or bang at my door?

  A page of the journal sticks to my face. I gently pull the dried drool cemented paper away from my cheek while the banging continues. After a weekend of questionable decision making, I’m not too keen to find out who’s standing on the other side of the white paneled door.

  “Tiffani, open up!” Walter grunts.

  Walter, thank god. Never in a million years did I ever think I’d prefer Walter to Jeb. According to the microwave, it’s 9:00 a.m. Twelve hours after I started writing and two hours late for work. Groaning, I pull my hands across my face, stretching my eyelids and cheeks. My entire body feels tight and cramped like I slept in the upright position all night, but some stiffness is a small price to pay for the discovery of one’s craft.

  He bangs on the door again. “Tiffani, I know you’re in there!”

  I raise an eyebrow. He’s bluffing. He has no idea if I’m here or not. “If you don’t get your ass down to work in fifteen minutes, you’re out of a job and an apartment.”