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

by Joslyn Westbrook

  “A wise choice. And are you…happy?” He studied her non-verbal reaction. The biting of her lower lip. Fingernails tapping the rim of the wine glass. Eyes momentarily fixed to the ceiling.

  “For the most part, yes. But, if I’m being one-hundred percent honest, I long for love and it’s been quite the distraction lately. Which could be one reason why I’ve been blocked.”

  “Blocked?”

  “Writer’s block. And, it didn’t help matters when—only yesterday—my editor, threw a curveball, revealing I need to add sexy elements to my novel. And I’m not at all sure if I want to do that to my readers. Part of me says I should stick to my gut and keep everything status quo.”

  Dylan could see the worry, anguish, the level of uncertainty in Chloe’s eyes. He wanted to support her in overcoming whatever obstacle was in the way of getting over the slump. “Maybe I can help you…upstairs.” Dude, you’re an idiot. Without a doubt, Dylan didn’t mean it the way it probably sounded.

  Chloe’s eyes went wide, her face crimson. “What? You’d like to help me upstairs?”

  “No, not at all like that.” Dylan set his glass on the oval coffee table, met Chloe’s semi-evil glare, and said, “What I meant was, I’ve got something to show you upstairs. I think it may help. You can even wait down here while I go up and grab it, but—”

  “I trust you, Dylan. I mean, you did catch me off guard for a second”—she chuckled—“but, like I said, I trust you.”

  “Good to know. Follow me.”

  As the two reached the top of the stairs, Dylan led the way to one of the bedrooms. “I haven’t been in here for a few months,” he said while they stood in front of the door. “I’ve been meaning to fix it up, but haven’t had the time, really.” Turning the knob, Dylan pushed the door open, a subtle creaking sound breaking the silence. Then after he flicked the light switch on the wall, he entered the room, closely followed by his curious houseguest.

  “Dylan, are these—”

  “Part of my old life?” He stood hands in pockets, with a slow bop of his head.

  The spacious room, its white walls and maple-hardwood floors, was the epitome of organized chaos. Paint cans were scattered about; furniture—a desk, chair, two small bookshelves, and a cozy love seat—sat in one corner of the room. Then there were photos, some hung up, while others were positioned on the floor, propped against the walls. You’d think he’d just moved in yesterday, rather than six months ago. And even though he claimed not to have had time to fix it up, the honest truth was, he didn’t have the desire. Avoiding all things related to his past life, was the first thing, written in all caps, on his to-do list. Even if one of those things used to be his passion, his strength, his first love. Photography.

  Chloe stood in the middle of the room, mouth slackened, surveying eyes mesmerized. “All of these photos…did you shoot them?”

  There were at least twenty laid up against the walls, all different sizes, backgrounds, each silently begging to be displayed with pride.

  “Yep. I haven’t gotten around to hanging them all up yet.” He pointed to the cans of paint in the far right corner. “I thought maybe I’d brighten up a few walls first.”

  Chloe shrugged. “The pictures alone would suffice, in my opinion.” She stepped over to them, took a closer look. “They’re beautiful, Dylan.”

  Beautiful. It was a term used more often than not every time someone laid eyes on his photos. Sophisticated black and whites, color-accented by one or two items in each photo, became his uniquely identifiable signature. A couple kissing in the rain—her red shoes the only splash of color added to the photo. A woman walking in a field of daisies—yellow from just a few daisies, the only sprinkle of color. It was photos like these that got his work showcased in galleries, earning enough money for him to partner with his scumbag, backstabbing friend, and open Posed Photography Studio. He won awards, had his pictures featured in magazines, books, and was awarded a contract with a cosmetic line, which is how he met the cheating ex, Cynthia—a model recognizably known by her first name. All viable reasons why avoiding this room, even the camera equipment packed in the closet, was something Dylan did purposefully.

  At least until now.

  Chapter 15

  Chloe was awestruck. Every single photo was mesmeric, refined, stunning—evoking a warm, fuzzy feeling as she stood, eyes glued to them. Why doesn’t he seem proud of his work?

  Dylan cleared his throat, drawing her out of her fangirl trance. “How about I show you what I think may help with your situation.”

  Chloe whirled around and observed Dylan as he walked over to a bookshelf. “Um, okay,” she muttered, suddenly unsure if those photos should take full credit for that warm, fuzzy feeling. Just watching him strut across the room made her knees turn to water, her flesh tingle. And there they were—just the two of them—upstairs.

  In a bedroom.

  Okay, not the bedroom, but in all fairness, she hadn’t been in any bedroom with a man since, what felt like, the dinosaur ages.

  Twirling a loose strand of hair, Chloe stepped over to the bookshelf, curious about the large-sized photo album he grabbed, hoping there were more gorgeous pictures to look at.“What’s that?”

  “Inspiration,” he said all smirky-like, then tucked the album under his arm as he scooted the dark gray love seat to the middle of the room. “Have a seat, Miss Davenport.”

  It made her feel kinky. The sound of Miss Davenport as it rolled off of his tongue. Kinky in a good, throw-her-up-against-the-wall-and-kiss-her sort of way, of course.

  Heart aflutter, she obeyed his command, eased down onto the love seat, legs crossed, arms folded.

  “Relax.” He chuckled, plopping down beside her. “You seem tense.”

  You make me feel tense, intense, all the damn tenses. “I’m not tense.” Lying about the most obvious of things came ridiculously easy when she was around him.

  “Right,” Dylan replied, one corner of his mouth lifted, eyes briefly skimming her down, then back up.

  A flush surged her face when his dark eyes met hers. He knows you’re nervous.

  Turning away from his savvy gaze was the only way she could save herself from melting into a pile of lovestruck mush. “So, show me this thing you call inspiration.”

  Dylan placed the album on his lap and opened it. “As a writer, I’m sure you don’t have any trouble describing what you see, right?”

  Hunky. Dreamy. Charming. Three words that popped in her head as she looked at him. “Nope. No trouble at all.”

  “Great. Perhaps these pictures will assist with some of the scenes your editor is asking you to write. They’re of models posing as passionate couples.”

  Oh. Chloe bit down on her lower lip.

  “Sometimes, intimacy can be left up to the imagination.” He slid the open album onto her lap. “Take this couple for instance, they’re not partaking in the act of lovemaking; however, the way they appear in the picture—”

  “One would think they were about to,” Chloe interjected, eyes gleaming.

  “Exactly.” He seemed pleased she understood what he was getting at. “I figure you can use these as a way to describe, in a sexier manner, something your readers know the characters are about to do, but leave the rest off the page, as you say.

  Flipping through the album, Chloe reviewed each image, all in that signature black and white, like the others in the room, as well as the ones adorning his living room walls. Excitement bubbled inside while she studied the poses: intimate, sensual, and affectionate. “Dylan, would you mind if I take this album home with me? Borrow it for a few days until I decide what it is I want to do about my novel?”

  “You can keep it. I have the originals.”

  His thigh was pressed against hers as they somehow were seated closer now. Palms sweating, Chloe could have sworn her heart did a cartwheel when his brown-eyed gaze met hers.

  Lean in just a little closer…maybe he’ll kiss you.

  And when she did, the
sound of the wind humming had them both look toward the window. “I should probably get home. It’s late.”

  “Of course.” He stood, held out his hand, helped her off the love seat. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Once downstairs, Chloe grabbed her purse, the photo album clenched to her chest. “Thank you for this, Dylan, I’m sure it will help a lot.”

  “My pleasure.” A gust of wind whooshed by when he opened the door. “You’d better hurry and get in your place.” He stepped aside, holding the door open, his eyes following her saunter past him. “Not too sure why the wind is picking up.”

  Chloe only shrugged. Wind this time of year didn’t faze her too much, because it was often breezy in San Francisco. “Do you think I can take you up on the offer to take me around town?”

  “Absolutely. I’m available all weekend. Feel free to pound on my door whenever you’re ready.” His cocky tone and equivalent head tilt were like a match made in heaven.

  Unable to hide the smile on her face, Chloe walked backward to her door. If it weren’t so cold and windy, would he have escorted her there? Kissed her good-night?

  Ugh. Will you please give it a final rest, Chloe? This is real life. Not one of your sappy novels.

  Yet in a sappy-novel way, they said goodbye…

  “Chloe.”

  “Dylan.”

  Then slowly, closed their doors.

  “Oh, my gosh! Thank goodness I was able to book you a flight back to San Francisco. It leaves in about three hours,” a frantic Libby yelped into the phone.

  Chloe was beginning to think her editor slash once-good friend thrived on waking her up each morning. “What are you talking about?” She yawned, then groaned when she pried one eye open and realized it wasn’t even 8 a.m. yet, her plan to sleep in, now ruined.

  “The storm, Chloe. Tropical Storm Amelia. It’s all over the news.”

  Was it improbable to think this conversation was all a dream? That Libby wasn’t really on the other end of the phone, heaving, as if she were about to have a panic attack? “Storm?”

  “Uh, yeah. S-T-O-R-M. Wind. Rain. You should really come out of the writer’s cave and watch CNN.”

  Libby’s unwelcome sarcasm would have had Chloe rolling her eyes…if they weren’t still shut. “I’m not in the cave. I’m in bed. Sleeping. Like a normal human being. At least I was. And, for the record, there is no storm here.” The wind hissed by her window, clearly mocking that statement. “Um, hold on. Let me put on the news.”

  Chloe reached for the remote on the bedside table, turned on the television, and switched the channel to CNN where the top story was: The surprise Tropical Storm Amelia to hit Florida late Saturday night or early Sunday morning. Jaw dropped, she stared at the television, the map showing the swirling path Amelia was on.

  “Do you see it? It’s headed right for you, Chloe. You need to pack. Get on that plane back to San Francisco. I’ve emailed you the itinerary.”

  Leave Fortune’s Bay? Dylan? “I can’t leave. I’ve got a novel to finish.”

  “Won’t really matter if you’re washed away by the storm.”

  Chloe sat up in the bed, listened to the reporter on the news. “It’s just a measly tropical storm, not a hurricane. I mean how bad can it be?” She turned on her knees, moved the curtain to take a peek out the window behind her bed, ignored the ominous cloud-filled sky, the palm trees frantically swaying in the wind like they too were warning her to run. “I’m not leaving.”

  Libby let out a loud sigh. “This is not the time for you to be Stubborn Davenport, but suit yourself. Stay in touch to let me know you’re safe and sound. Bye, for now.”

  Chloe tossed her cell phone on the pillow, laid down, arms folded. It would be her luck Tropical Storm Whoever would show up now. No wonder the wind picked up last night. Was it even storm season? Of course not. It was two months too soon for a storm of this magnitude to come anywhere near Florida. At least according to what Chloe heard the news reporter say. She pondered taking Libby’s advice—board that plane back to San Francisco in a few hours. Play it safe. Then again, that’s exactly what no-risk-taking Chloe was bound to do. Staying put in Fortune’s Bay, would be an excellent way to prove to herself she was ready to take all the risks.

  Maybe.

  Just maybe.

  Chapter 16

  “Liam and I will start boarding up the coffee shop, just to be on the safe side,” a semi-frantic Samantha told Dylan over the phone. “I mean, I know it’s just tropical right now, but the wind gusts are expected to reach 70 miles per hour.”

  Dylan slipped into a pair of jeans. “All right, I’m on my way. I just need to check on Chloe first.”

  “That woman is sweet on you. Anyone could tell by the way she was sizing you up last night at Wilde Pirate. You, my dear brother, are sweet on her, too.” It was just like Samantha to make time for meddling, even if a storm was on the way.

  “Sam, stop it. I’ll be there soon.” Dylan wasn’t able to ignore the warm feeling brewing in his chest. The thought of Chloe showing interest had him hoping news about the storm wouldn’t cause her to flee Fortune’s Bay.

  Galloping down the stairs, he pulled on a T-shirt, then grabbed a jacket, stepped into his motorcycle boots, before he swung the door open.

  “Oh,” said a baffle-eyed Chloe. “I-uh…was just about to knock.”

  Hands shoved in his pockets, Dylan leaned on the doorframe and quirked a brow. “Really?” He didn’t bother to mention he was on his way out to knock on her door, too.

  Chloe jerked the hair out of her eyes as wind swooshed by. “There’s a storm coming. I’m not sure if I should leave.”

  Leaving was the last thing he wanted her to do.

  Not now.

  No. He wanted the woman who made his heart dance, the one who gave him all the freaking feels, to stay. Storm or no storm.

  Dylan swallowed, easing the lump in his throat. “Don’t go. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

  Her gaze slid down to his boots. “Are you headed out? On your motorcycle? In this mad wind?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I need to go help Samantha board up Destiny’s Brew, then stock up on a few supplies, some food, you know—enough to ride out the storm.”

  “Surely you can’t take Tamale. It’s too windy.”

  Dylan dished a dismissive shrug as he brushed past her, headed for the steps leading to the sidewalk. “I gotta do what I gotta do. I’ll be back soon. You should stay put—”

  “We can take my rental car.” Chloe gripped his shoulder.

  Dylan slowly pivoted to face her. “We?” As in the two of them? The one-syllable word had a nice ring to it, after all.

  “I want to help. Board up the coffee shop. Get some supplies.” She blinked up at him, long lashes fluttering, hair all in her face from the wind. “Please?”

  He thought for about half a beat. “Fine. Go grab a jacket and put on some shoes, other than those flip-flops you’re wearing.”

  Dylan beamed when her eyes brightened and he couldn’t hold back a chuckle when she darted into her place, then returned almost seconds later, purse in hand, wearing a jacket and tennis shoes.

  “You ready?”

  “Yes, sir.” Chloe tossed him the keys to the two-door Prius. “You drive.”

  Thirty minutes later, there they all were, Chloe, Dylan, Samantha, Liam, along with the Early Brew Crew, all coordinating, in a team-like manner, to get every window and door of the coffee shop boarded up. This wasn’t their first storm. They’d been through worse, and had a systematic routine each time.

  “Do your customers always help board up the shop?” Chloe held up a thick piece of wood against a window while Dylan hammered away.

  “Oh, you mean The Crew? Marge, Mitch, Hillary, and Dan are almost like family. Lifelong friends of my aunt and uncle.

  “The ones who used to own this shop?”

  “Yep.” He stepped back, surveyed the window. “Looks like we�
��re all done here. Let’s go check on the rest of the gang. Brew us all some coffee, have some muffins.”

  “Apple pie muffins?”

  It was a crazy kind of cute the way her face flushed and her eyes lit up, whenever she spoke about food, as if it brought her excitement. The sort of excitement he used to feel about a new photo venture. For a few seconds, he wondered how it would be to photograph her. That face. That smile. That body. Dylan had to get a grip, hold back yet another inclination to hook his arm around her waist, kiss those delicious-looking lips. “You sure are adorable, Chloe Davenport.” Way to go, smart guy. He didn’t mean for his mouth to spill out what he was thinking.

  Chloe cupped her hands to her mouth and blew into them. “I haven’t been called adorable since I was like…five.” That half-smile she often sported—the one that made it hard for his heart not to beat faster—grew wider.

  “I believe your sassiness is just as adorable.” He winked, held the door open, and motioned for her to walk back inside Destiny’s Brew.

  With all the doors and windows boarded up, The Early Brew Crew, Samantha, and Liam were seated at the rectangular communal table, chatting away. “Why don’t you join them? I’ll bring us all coffee and muffins,” Dylan suggested to Chloe as he walked behind the counter.

  Mitch waved a beckoning hand. “Yeah, come join us. We all missed you yesterday.”

  From behind the counter, Dylan watched Chloe ease onto a stool and jump right into conversation with the group, as if she’d known them her entire life. And when the coffee was all brewed, he carried a carafe, cups, and a box of pastries to the table, sliding an apple pie muffin over to Chloe as he lowered himself onto the stool beside her. “Miss Davenport, your favorite.”

  “Davenport?” Samantha’s face was all decked out in curiosity.

  Oh, no. Did Dylan just blow Chloe’s cover? He tossed her an I’m sorry glance.