Lovestruck in Fortune's Bay: A Fortune's Bay Novella

by Joslyn Westbrook

  Apparently she was, too.

  Now approaching the counter—with all sets of eyes belonging to those seated at the center table watching—Chloe cleared her throat and said, “Barked? Isn’t that a tad harsh?”

  “Well, uh—”

  “Besides,” she interrupted, “I was only going to ask if you were the guy who recommended this amazing coffee shop.”

  Face, ears, neck, a shade showcasing his embarrassment, Dylan lowered his gaze from her scrutinized stare and said or did nothing but wipe down the counter with the towel his sister had tossed at him only minutes before.

  “Right. Well, I guess—”

  “You always so loud and animated this early?” His eyes landed on her again.

  “You mean like a barking dog?” She scoffed, then pointed to herself with a half-smirk attached to her hard-not-to-look-at face. “This right here, is me acting on pure adrenaline and caffeine. Had I not been so abruptly awakened this morning, I would no doubt still be fast asleep in bed.”

  “Believe me, I won’t ever wake you again.”

  “You promise?” She winked.

  “Yup,” he replied without the slightest bit of hesitation.

  “Good, because I thrive on sleep.”

  As she whipped around, prancing back to the table, Dylan’s eyes fell to her legs, tan and flawlessly shaped, as they spilled out of the pair of denim shorts she was sporting.

  “The beautiful thing about promises”—he couldn’t resist adding—“some are meant to be broken.” Dylan found himself taken further by the way she briefly turned back to face him, with a set of raised eyebrows that said “oh, really?” as if that alone was the only reply needed.

  Saying her goodbyes to her new friends, Chloe swung her purse on her shoulder, skillfully chucked her empty coffee cup into the trash bin, and walked out of the shop, never once again acknowledging Dylan.

  With a dagger-like look aimed right for him, Mitch—the no-holds-barred one of the bunch—held his cup to his mouth with a chuckle and said, “Now that woman is what a fella back in my day would have classified as trouble.”

  They all laughed.

  That is, all but Dylan.

  Instead, he threw the towel into the sanitizer bucket, feeling defeated.

  Because trouble, was the third thing he tried with all his might to avoid.

  Chapter 3

  “You need to get me a room at the Rosedale Hotel on Shelter Island.” Chloe stood, hand on hip, staring grumpily at the set of suitcases she was so unwilling to unpack.

  “Sorry hon, all booked. Besides, that duplex is amazing. You’ll be less…distracted.”

  Chloe took in a deep breath—first in, then out. In order for her to continue this conversation with her editor like a civilized human being, she would definitely need to calm the heck down. Plopping onto the edge of the bed she whined, “I can’t stay here, Libby. I need a room overlooking the water. It’s the only way I can meet my deadline.”

  “Seriously, Chloe? Have you even bothered peeking out any of the windows?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. There is nothing but a spectacular view of the street and houses.” Chloe peered up at the window behind the bed as she spoke.

  “Uh…no. The ad specifically said there was water. Lots of it, in fact.”

  Springing to her feet, Chloe walked out of the bedroom, down the flight of stairs, then turned the corner, quickly making her way into the living room.

  Behind a light blue couch sat a bay window, sunlight seeping through its closed blinds. She hadn’t time to explore the place since she arrived last night. Likewise, after this morning’s rude wake-up call, she only made time for a Google Map search of Destiny’s Brew, got dressed, then hopped in the rental car and headed straight for the coffee shop.

  Chloe walked over to the window and pulled the lever to open the blinds. “Um, sorry, Libby, but there is definitely no—” She paused at the sight before her.

  “There is definitely no, what?”

  “What an amazing view.” A curve crept up onto Chloe’s lips.

  “Uh, huh. I see you’ve discovered the ‘lots of water’ the ad mentioned?”

  Lots of water indeed. And a view so picturesque, with ocean waves crash-dancing against the sand bank.

  “Libby, is this a private beach?”

  “Private access. There should be a veranda with a gate that leads to the sand.”

  “I see it! Oh, Libby, this is—”

  “Everything you need to get that novel done. Twelve weeks. That’s all you’ve got left to finish.”

  By now, Chloe had heard finish that novel for almost a year—it seemed nothing would woo her out of a brutal case of writer’s block. Even the few months she spent in beautiful Napa, California, hoping to draw inspiration from the city, the wine, the residents, had been a flop. Maybe this strain of writer’s block was incurable? Nevertheless, Fortune’s Bay had to be the answer. Hopefully.

  “I’m almost done with it.” Chloe closed the blinds, then spilled onto the linen-covered couch. Of course she wasn’t really almost done with the book. But these days she clung onto a mind-over-matter philosophy as if it were a security blanket.

  “Done with what? Wait…your novel?” Libby giggled. “Yeah, right. Okay then…read me the first sentence.”

  “Fine…once upon a time, two people, who lived in Fortune’s Bay, met and predictably fell in love. The end.”

  Libby unleashed a pity sigh and Chloe was sure she would offer nothing more. Her rants were something Libby was used to, especially when a deadline crept closer.

  “Why even bother to fill in the middle of the story? I mean, readers know the heroine and hero will live happily ever after. Maybe I should write a cozy mystery instead. A good whodunit always keeps the reader guessing.”

  “Now we both know you’re on contract to finish the Lovestruck series…which leads me straight to a topic I planned on reaching out to you about later today. Look Chloe, JBM Publishing contacted me with some news late yesterday.”

  “News about what?” Chloe murmured through a lazy yawn. She lay down on the couch, her head nestled cozy on top one of the throw pillows, sleepy blue eyes struggling to stay open. The stimulating effects of Destiny’s Brew coffee had begun to wear off.

  “Well…” Libby sighed, “it seems as though you’re not sexy enough.”

  Chloe’s eyes sprang open as she huffed out the words, “I beg your pardon?”

  While she may never be on a front cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, she was still sexy, damn it. Plus, why the hell would her publisher be concerned about her overall appeal?

  “Your books. JBM polled your readers and, well, eighty-five percent said they want sexy times on the pages.”

  “Oh, you’re referring to my books.” The revelation came as a relief to Chloe. For about five seconds anyway. “Wait. What do you mean my readers want sexy times? Lovestruck has always been a sweet romance series. I don’t and never will include s—”

  “Sexy heat between the sheets is what the market is thirsty for.” Libby cleared her throat. “Look, I know your signature niche has always been on the lines of Hallmark. Nothing more than kissing. However, JBM wants their star author to crank up the heat.”

  As if her books were cold? She was JBM’s best-selling author, for crying out loud. Why try to fix something that’s not broken?

  “So, what exactly are you saying?”

  “Yeah…you’ll need to add some spice to this book. JBM wants you to end the series with lots of heat.”

  “Like Fifty Shades heat?”

  She’d probably need a ghostwriter, if that were the case—erotica was definitely a far cry from what she was used to writing. Well, reading too, for that matter. In fact, her style—both in reading and writing—much mirrored her personal life. A life that didn’t include much heat between the sheets even before she and her boyfriend of five years, decided to call it quits thirteen months ago.

  Libby chuck
led. “Not that hot. Yet, they are expecting at least two or three scenes in which the hero and heroine engage in detailed sexy times.”

  Chloe pulled the throw pillow over her face. Detailed sexy times? The thought made her want to puke.

  How was she to pull this off?

  Or better still, would she be able to pull this off?

  “Libby, I don’t think I’ve got enough experience to fulfill this type of a demand.”

  “By experience, you mean you don’t have any in writing sex scenes, right?”

  Head still buried under the pillow, Chloe practically whispered, “No. I mean experience.” The admission made her want to run and hide. At twenty-five, she’d had only one boyfriend, one intimate partner. And to be honest, he hadn’t been the best at rocking her world.

  Libby’s silence on the other end of the phone only magnified the sound of Chloe’s own rapidly growing heart rate. Why make such an admission? All she had to do was simply agree to the publisher’s demands, then conduct copious research.

  And what exactly would research entail?

  “Sweetie,” Libby finally muttered, “I know for a fact you’ve got a sumptuous imagination. I’ve got faith you can pull this off. And if you need help, Google to the rescue. Anyway, I’ve gotta hop on a conference call. Call you tomorrow.”

  Hours later, after a lengthy nap, a somewhat relaxing shower, and time spent writing the first chapter of the manuscript she decided to label Project Sizzle, Chloe connected her laptop to a portable printer. While writing, she preferred to review hard copies of what she’d written, then make red-inked edits before moving on to the next few chapters.

  After collecting the pages that spilled out of the printer, Chloe moved from the desk to the couch, armed with her red marker. The cool ocean air, streaming throughout the room via the open bay window, seemed to mollify her anxiety, as did the sound of the waves crashing in the distance. Libby might be on her shitlist for saying she needed to add heat to her novel, but there was no denying the demanding editor at least had rented prime space. Completely furnished, the two-story, with an ocean backdrop, was tidy and cozy, flecked with charming, yet simplistic, nautical décor. The pantry was even stocked with a few essentials to prepare a small meal until she was able to get to the grocery store.

  Wherever that was.

  She’d make it a point to get out and explore Fortune’s Bay tomorrow. People watch. Make more friends who were willing to share the scoop about themselves, much like the four she met at Destiny’s Brew earlier. She had a knack for extracting information out of folks—a talent honed in college while majoring in investigative journalism.

  Perusing over the first chapter, Chloe couldn’t ignore her yawns, tired eyes, or…the sound of loud music.

  What the hell is wrong with the people on this block?

  First the motorcycle noisemaker. Now this?

  If all the racket was going to continue, Chloe would never get her novel written. Not that she was confident it would get written without distractions, anyway.

  Her characters doing the bed boogie?

  Not. Her. Thing.

  Lovestruck was a classy, sweet, tug-at-your-heartstrings series. A breath-of-fresh-air escape to nothing but pure romance. Sure, the books had been compared to Hallmark movies, but that’s what she was known for. Now, in order to meet the publisher’s demands, Chloe would most likely need to change her style of writing.

  Adapting to change was never one of her strong points.

  And neither was adapting to a noisy environment. Music—definitely coming from next door—seemed to get louder.

  Would it be so wrong for her to march over to the place a few feet away, pound on the door, and ask, “Do you have to blast the music?”

  Not so wrong at all.

  Pacing the living room floor, pages of Project Sizzle clutched to her chest, Chloe mentally reviewed reasons why it made sense for her to ask the neighbor to lower the music. But what if the neighbor was one of the town Pirates she’d read about?

  Pirates don’t really live in duplex units facing the beach, do they? All overactive imagination aside, the pirates in this town were supposedly cordial, refined—and long gone.

  Hopefully.

  Fed up, Chloe stomped over to the front door, breathed in and out, before rallying up the nerve to open it and take ten—tiptoed—steps over to the door across the way.

  And why exactly was she tiptoeing? It wasn’t like anyone could hear her footsteps over the…concert—another Luke Bryan song, this one called She’s a Hot One.

  Does everyone on the block like Luke?

  Standing right in front of her—hopefully-not-a pirate—neighbor’s door, Chloe found herself humming and swaying to the tune.

  Such a great song.

  But way too loud.

  She raised her fisted hand, preparing to pound the hard wood, then quickly lowered it, pure apprehension taking over.

  Come on Chloe, don’t be a wuss; unless, of course, you’d rather spend the next twelve weeks of your life with a noise-cancellation headphone appendage.

  She hated when catty inner-thoughts popped in her head like a voice over in a comedic movie.

  She also hated noise cancellation headphones. Too bulky.

  Boom. Boom. Boom. Pounding on the door made Chloe feel tough, as if she were the law, following up on some noise-ordinance infraction.

  Forty seconds passed and nothing. No lowering of the music, no pirate (or whoever) swinging the door open.

  Boom. Boom. Boo—

  The music ceased, followed by the click, click, sound of locks that came as a start to Chloe, but when the door flew open, the man standing before her was far more than what she’d mentally prepared for.

  Hot Motorcycle Coffee Shop Guy, in nothing but a bath towel hanging loosely around his waist—hair wet, body glistening with droplets of water.

  Holy mother of all things godly.

  “Can I help you?” The sharp tone that spilled out of his mouth matched his look of annoyance.

  “Oh,” Chloe’s gaze trailed from his face, to a dreamy muscle-planed chest, then all the way down to a finely sculpted six-pack. It had been a long drawn out while since a half-naked man was this close to her. Chloe Davenport was just about speechless. Thankfully she remembered what led her to pound on the door in the first place, even though her span of concentration was limited to a glorious set of abs. “Do you have abs—uh, I mean…” she paused again, losing her train of thought, “abble pie?”

  Leaning on the doorframe, her almost-naked neighbor said, “Abble pie?” Letting out a chuckle, his look of annoyance quickly transformed into a look of amusement, equipped with two raised eyebrows and a smirk that undoubtedly made Chloe’s heart flicker—that is, when she finally flicked her gaze from his lower body, back to his face.

  “Apple pie. Do you have any apple pie?”

  Awesome recovery, Chloe. Because everyone pounds on a stranger’s door in search of apple pie. If only there were a mute button for that mean-girl-style voice-over conscience.

  “So…you hammered on my door looking for apple pie?”

  Chloe’s awestruck eyes traveled back to Naked Chest Man’s face, meeting his dark browns head-on. “So…you make it a point to answer the door in nothing but a towel?”

  “Only when I’m in the middle of taking a shower and someone practically bangs my door down. I actually believed it was a matter of life or death.” Arms folded, head cocked to the side, he glanced at the papers Chloe had clutched to her chest. Little did he know, she held on to that manuscript to keep her hands from reaching out and touching his chest as she silently chanted look, don’t touch. “Wait. Is it an emergency? Some sort of an author thing? You need apple pie to write, Miss Davenport?”

  Did he just say my name? And wait…he knows I write?

  “You know my name? How—”

  “I’m the owner and acting landlord of this duplex. The contract, non-disclosure, and fees: all sent to yours truly.”
He offered a handshake. “I’m Dylan Hawke. My sister’s a huge fan, by the way. Mom is too, actually. And don’t worry, I take that non-disclosure thing seriously.”

  Chloe pursed her lips, unsure of exactly what to say. But she did ponder whether or not ‘he truly’ took the non-disclosure seriously.

  “Apple pie muffins.”

  “I’m sorry?” The struggle for Chloe to keep her eyes from moving southbound was real.

  “The closest thing I have to an apple pie are apple pie muffins. We sell them at Destiny’s Brew and lucky for you, I’ve got some here in the fridge. Why don’t you come on in.” He moved aside, motioning for Chloe to step inside his abode. “I’ll get dressed, then grab the muffins.”

  What harm could it be? It wasn’t like she would be accepting an invitation from Jack Sparrow. Plus, she was hungry. Apple pie muffins did sound good after all.

  Real good, in fact.

  Chapter 4

  Dylan stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, dutifully reprimanding, “Simply hand over the muffins, dude, and send the woman on her way.”

  The feat should have been easy, considering he wanted nothing to do with members of the opposite sex. It was too soon.

  Too soon to trust. Too soon to care.

  And way too soon to fall in love again.

  He pulled on a pair of Levi’s, slipped into a white T-shirt, combed fingers through his towel-dried hair, then braced himself. The woman he left standing downstairs in the living room was far too easy on the eyes for him not to be concerned that keeping his distance would prove to be a most difficult task. Especially since she’d be his neighbor for the next three months.

  Yet in all seriousness; in this instance, all he needed to do was stick to the plan: just give her those damn muffins. Ignore the gorgeous set of blue eyes, the kissable Marilyn-Monroe-style beauty mark, pinned slightly northwest of her heart-shaped lips, and definitely eschew the body that was tempting him to abort mission—give up the whole, stay-away-from-members-of-the-opposite-sex gig he had going on.