“Are you trying to lock me out?” he joked, bringing the engine to life.
“No, I was making sure your door was unlocked.” She held the wine in her lap, her hand gripped around the bottle neck in a way only a man could appreciate. “If you opened my door, it was the least I could do. I guess it’s silly with a new car like this, but I still drive an early-nineties Nissan truck. I have to use a key to get in.”
She was damned thoughtful. Must’ve been what small-town living did to people.
“You grew up in Blue Lake?” he asked as he drove out of town.
“That obvious, huh?” She angled her body toward him, giving him her full attention. “Born and raised. I’m the only one of my family left, though. My parents moved to Modesto after I left for college. Modesto is in the valley. About two hours from here.”
“I’ve been there. My publisher scheduled a book signing at the Barnes & Noble there last summer.” He nodded, remembering the terrible traffic through that town. “Do you have any siblings?”
She sighed, laying her head back on the seat rest. “Three. One lives in Kiss County, up the road about thirty minutes. The other two share an apartment in Long Beach. What about you? Do your parents still live in San Francisco?”
“Oh, someone read my bio.”
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She grinned coyly and folded her arms over her lap as he slowed around a bend in the highway.
“I’m not actually from the city itself,” he said. “We’re from San Mateo. My parents still live there—in different houses since the divorce—but I moved to Livermore not long after I started writing. I had to put a mountain range between us in order to keep the peace.”
He downshifted, causing the engine to growl.
“Sounds like there’s a story in there,” Georgia said. “You don’t have to share.”
But he wanted to, and damn if he knew why. “My mother always wanted me to go into journalism and ‘honest reporting.’”
She laughed, putting up her hands. “That explains everything. I’ve met a few journalists who think fiction is a waste of paper. A few have come into the store, asking for Time magazine, and then bad-mouthed every romance novel on the shelf.”
That was exactly it. Not every journalist was the same, but his mother’s beliefs had echoed loud and clear through his head. If he’d chosen to write something other than romance—political papers, mysteries, or thrillers—it may’ve been a different story entirely.
“My mother doesn’t bad-mouth my career. She simply has her own way of showing disapproval. I went to visit her for Thanksgiving to share the news about hitting the bestseller lists,” Grayson said. “She congratulated me quietly, and then didn’t make another mention of my writing the rest of the dinner.”
“Sometimes not acknowledging something can be worse than an insult.” Georgia’s voice was the most soothing sound he’d ever heard. “That must’ve been hard. What about your father? Is he supportive of your career?”
Oh, how to put it in an appropriate way? His father thought writing romance was a genius way to get into as many girls’ pants as possible. No, that wouldn’t work.
“He’s supportive of my choices, but he’s quiet about it for the most part. I saw him two months ago. He was too preoccupied with the new woman in his life to care what was going on in mine.”
“It’s crazy to me that your parents don’t know how amazing you are.” She sucked in a shocked breath. “I mean, they don’t know how amazing your writing is. You’re one of the best there is, you know.” She cleared her throat. “Did your father just remarry this new woman?”
“Hell, no.” Grayson laughed at the thought. “My father doesn’t date anyone longer than a month. But for those thirty days, everything is bliss.”
She made a cute little curious sound. “Why a month?”
How to put it…
“Long enough to fall in lust,” he said, “but too short to fall in love.”
“Ahh, I see.” She nodded, tugging her skirt over her knees. “And you follow in your father’s footsteps.”
It wasn’t a question.
And Grayson couldn’t deny its validity.
She must’ve kept up with the headlines. He’d dated more women in the last year than he could count. He stared straight ahead as the road curved around the narrow mountain pass.
“You don’t ever see yourself settling down?” she asked.
Grayson’s stomach tightened into a knot as he drove the Mustang hard. He weaved around turns and hugged the lines in the road, his fingers digging into the steering wheel. His father had cheated on his mother. Blatantly. Shamelessly. Over and over again.
When it came to dating and seducing women, Grayson had followed in his father’s footsteps. Although he’d never been married, it wasn’t a long shot to assume that kind of long-term monotony wouldn’t be a good fit for him, either.
“Marriage isn’t something I’ve ever wanted for myself.” He answered too quickly, so he fired back. “What about you?”
“Of course. I’ve always wanted a family.”
“Let me guess. Two-point-two kids, a white picket fence, and a doting husband at your side?”
She turned toward him and beamed. “I want three kids, actually. And forget the fence; they’re too standoffish for a town like Blue Lake.”
“Three kids? Talk about trouble.”
“Nah, it’d be a blast.” She sighed happily. “I’d take them to the rivers and lakes in the area, and teach them to skip stones the way my dad did with me. We’d have bonfires in our backyard, and eat s’mores until our bellies ached. Then we’d go inside, cuddle up by the fire, and watch our favorite movie.” Her words faded, though her smile remained. “It’d be amazing.”
The anxiety that’d been rolling around in Grayson’s stomach moments before quieted.
The picture she’d created did sound amazing…if it was based on reality, rather than fantasy. It was too picturesque and too perfect to be real.
Grayson chewed on the side of his lip. “So you plan to live here your whole life?”
“Absolutely. I love everything about this place—the sights and smells, and the people. Everyone is part of a larger family.”
He definitely got that vibe, and he’d been in Blue Lake less than forty-eight hours. He’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be part of a family. But everyone in town seemed to genuinely care about everyone else.
“You forgot to mention the doting husband,” Grayson said. “What about him?”
“Oh, how could I forget Fabio?” She giggled. “He’ll be in the backyard chopping wood for the fire.” She laughed harder now, with cute strings of laughter belting out of her. “And with every log he splits, he’ll be singing my favorite song.”
“Which one is that?”
She smiled, green flecks lighting her eyes on fire. “‘It Must Have Been Love.’”
As Grayson slowed to a stop at the bottom of the Pine Cone Lake off-ramp, he turned his attention to the woman at his side. The most ludicrous feeling he’d ever had in his life struck him with the force of a lightning bolt. He had a completely irrational, yet absolutely undeniable urge to grow out his hair, throw on a pair of suspenders, and wield an ax. And if he didn’t already know the words to “It Must Have Been Love,” he was going to Google them when he got back to the bed-and-breakfast.
Anything to be part of the image she’d created in the last few minutes.
Skipping stones at the lake, roasting s’mores, watching movies curled by the fire…it was picture-perfect.
Georgia jolted him to reality by scooting back into the seat. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Nothing. It’s”—something shifted in his chest—“nothing.”
But he warmed from the inside out as the desire to see her smile that way again struck him. Something was different. She was different from any other woman he’d ever gone out with.
No, the feelings stirring in
side him weren’t nothing.
Hell if he knew exactly what they were…
It Must’ve Been Love: Chapter Four
As Grayson pulled his Mustang into Pine Cone Lake’s parking lot, Georgia fought to hide her grin. She covered her mouth with her hand and stared out the window at the frozen lake–turned–ice rink.
Today had been unexpectedly amazing. Judging from the way Grayson looked at her just now—with those sultry sky-blue eyes—tonight promised to be even better.
Deep down, she wanted more than a fling. More than a night of passion, or a Casanova who knew how to please a woman. The passion she yearned for was lifelong, and life-altering. Spending the day with a playboy like Grayson Thompson was one thing, but feeling something for him would be different. And really freaking stupid.
She’d have to be careful not to mix the two.
“You ready?” he asked, putting the car in park.
The lot was nearly empty, and a soft glare of moonlight on the ice illuminated the frozen lake. A few couples glided round and round the roped-off ice rink, while a few others spun slow circles in the center.
Something about tonight felt magical.
As if anything could happen.
Was she ready?
“Absolutely,” she said, tightening her scarf to brace for the cold.
Georgia held on tight to the wine as she exited the car. A blast of icy wind whirled over the ice and slammed into her, stealing the breath from her lungs.
“This is awesome. If I had something like this in my backyard,” Grayson said, cradling a giant paper bag under his arm, “I’d be out here all the time.”
“You ice-skate?”
“No, but the scenery’s breathtaking. When I first started writing, I could only produce quality stuff if I wrote outdoors. A place like this would’ve been perfect.”
Something about the way he spoke made Georgia think he was talking about the past. As if something changed to make him want to write indoors instead.
“Where do you write now?” she asked.
Grayson led Georgia around the rink and to the left, to the southern shore of the beach. A seating area with a large bonfire in the center had been situated on the snowy beach between the forest and the iced-over lake.
It was perfect for their first date.
Or whatever this was.
Clamping down the hope springing up inside her, Georgia picked up her pace.
“I write anywhere I can.” Cloudy puffs of air pushed out of Grayson’s mouth as he exhaled heavily. “Anywhere the inspiration strikes. I’m a slave to my muse now, I’m afraid.”
“And it wasn’t always like that?”
He shook his head.
“What changed?”
“Hell if I know.” He stared out over the ice as their boots crunched over the frozen beach. “I used to be able to find romance in everything. A song would spark a love scene. A movie would bring visions of meet-cutes. It’s not that easy anymore.”
“Meet-cutes?” She felt her face puzzle. “Is that a variation of the fruit?”
“No, those are cuties.” He chuckled as they approached the seating area.
Wooden benches covered with pillows and blankets surrounded the rock pit, lending a warm reprieve from the wet weather. The setup was romantic and serene, with snow-capped mountains rising up behind them.
“A meet-cute is the way a hero and heroine meet for the first time. Since I’ve got to hook the reader from the very start, the couple has to have chemistry, and the scene has to have tension.” Grayson took a seat near the blazing fire and set the bag of food beside him. “But that’s probably getting too detailed. Basically, the first time a hero and heroine meet, it needs to be cute. Memorable.”
Nothing like the way she first met Grayson.
She’d been high up on a ladder in her bookstore. Absolutely nothing cute about that.
Moving a large throw pillow, Georgia sat beside Grayson and drew her knees beneath her. The fire crackled and spit, fanning waves of heat over them.
“Everything about this place is enchanting,” he said. “It’s even better than the pictures I saw earlier. Rhonda has a few brochures set up in the foyer of her B&B. Once I set my eyes on this place, I knew I wanted to have dinner out here tonight.” He paused. “I’m glad you were free to come with me.”
Her heart fluttered, and then slowly returned to its natural rhythm. “Me too.”
Digging through the paper bag, Grayson pulled out two burgers and two bottles of Dasani. “The guy working the front—Harold, I think his name was—said you like cheeseburgers with the works. I hope I got it right.”
Her stomach growled as she took her favorite burger from him and unwrapped. “It’s perfect. Thanks.”
He unwrapped his own burger—bacon and avocado on a sesame seed bun—and started grubbing. “Do you come out here often?”
“Every now and again. I like quiet nights like this one.” She took a hearty bite and lifted her gaze to the heavens. “When the stars shine like crushed diamonds, and the smell of the ice tickles my nose. When I can hear the wind whisper through the trees…that’s when I come running.”
When he didn’t respond, Georgia brought her gaze back to his. His jaw slackened and his lips parted. His brows pinched together slightly, causing a crinkle to form above his nose. Did he know how unbelievably sexy he was? How the light of the moon highlighted the chestnut strands in his hair and caused a dark shadow to fall over the right side of his handsome face? His jaw was wide and strong, setting the stage for a set of irresistible lips. And those eyes—she could barely breathe when he stared at her that way.
“If you can come up with things like that off the top of your head,” he said finally, “I think you’re the one who should be writing books.”
Actually…
She finished off her burger, crumpled up the wrapper, and balled it in her fist. “Can I tell you something?”
“Anything.”
God, his voice was dark and deep, a delicious rasp that made her tremble deep down in her belly.
“I’m writing a book,” she breathed, and fought to hold eye contact with him.
“Really?” He looked genuinely surprised, his thick eyebrows arching high. “That’s great!”
She scrunched her nose. “You think so?”
“Of course. What’s it about?” He tossed his garbage into the bag, removed the two glasses, and started uncorking. “I’m assuming it’s a romance?”
“No, actually.” She sighed, mustering up every last ounce of confidence she had. She’d never squeaked a word of this to anyone. “It’s a murder mystery.”
“Okay, now I’m doubly intrigued.”
Grayson tossed the cork in the bag and poured. Hints of buttercream and hazelnut hit her nose as the wine sloshed round and round her glass.
“How far are you into it?” he asked.
Suddenly nervous, Georgia fidgeted with her scarf and stared at the stars twinkling overhead. “I’ve got a hundred pages,” she said. “But it’s slow going. Sometimes I think it’s not going to form into anything good.”
“That’s the process.”
Hope sang through her. “It is?”
“Absolutely.”
“Not for you, though, right?” She took a drink and moaned as a subtle apple flavor hit her tongue. “I can’t imagine you having trouble writing.”
Grayson was her favorite author of all time. Hands down. His books flowed seamlessly, beautifully, as if the words wrote themselves.
He sighed as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. And then he tipped back his glass and drank every last drop of wine. “I haven’t written in eighteen months. Not a word since ‘The End’ of Dear Rapture.”
“What?” She couldn’t have heard him right. “What do you mean?”
He raised his glass. “I’m empty. There’s nothing left to write about.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Want to see my blank Word
doc to prove it?”
“No, I believe what you’re saying, but it’s—”
“Disappointing?” he blurted.
“No.” That wasn’t it at all. “It’s…strange.”
He stared and pushed out a husky laugh. “You’re beautiful, independent, smart, funny, and you’re brutally honest. Tell me again why there’s not a lovesick puppy dog following you around?”
Her cheeks burned, and her heart soared. But if she was such a great catch, so beautiful, independent, smart, blah blah blah, why was she single? And why wasn’t Grayson making a move if he thought those things?
She shook her head as reality crumbled down around her. Grayson didn’t want to be her lovesick puppy dog. Of course not. It was the classic “you’re going to be great for someone, but not for me” line.
She’d heard it a million times.
He didn’t want anything serious. He didn’t want to live in Blue Lake and romance her the way she’d always dreamed.
They had tonight, and that was it.
“How do the words just vanish?” she asked.
As she swept her tongue over her bottom lip to lick off the traces of wine, Grayson’s gaze followed. He looked hungry…desperate. Almost like—no, that couldn’t be right. She must’ve had crumbs on her mouth, and he must’ve been too embarrassed to tell her so.
“It doesn’t make sense.” She swiped her hand over her lips, just in case.
“You’re telling me, but whatever happened, I’ve got to fix it soon. I’ve got two months until the next book is due and I’ve barely started.” He rested his arm on the seat-back of the bench behind her. “I think I need more of this.”
“Of what?”
“All of this. The snow, the trees, the town. Blue Lake has been a surprising refresher for me. I feel rejuvenated somehow.” He squinted as if he was searching for the words. “I think I’ve been missing the spark in my writing. That probably doesn’t make sense.”
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