Now wasn’t that a valid question for which she had an embarrassment of answers. No way she’d confess to being distracted by his broad shoulders, muscular back and the romantic notions his research had stuck in her mind. And she didn’t want him to feel bad about pacing. This was his home and moving around at night might be his creative process. She also didn’t want to imply that moving downstairs had been a problem and make him feel guilty. But he’d already told her she was a bad liar.
So, she gave him the truth with a twist. “I was thinking.”
His mouth curved into a slow, sexy smile. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“I don’t know,” she hedged. “Why doesn’t it?”
“Because you’re the kind of woman who thinks too much. Shakes things up.”
“In a good way? Or bad?”
“Both,” he said.
She had a feeling he wasn’t just talking about the job she was sent here to do. That maybe he was hinting at something a little more personal. The thought made her heart race and she had to stop herself from pressing fingertips to the pounding pulse at the base of her throat. He’d know why and that would show him her vulnerability and give him more of an upper hand than he already had.
“I’ve been thinking about you.” Oh, dear God, that was no better and she desperately wanted the words back.
“Oh?”
She saw the gleam in his eyes and felt a shiver clear to her bare toes. “Now that I have your attention—” She drew in a breath. “What I meant was, I’ve been thinking about what the military must have been like.”
“Civilians don’t have a clue.”
“You’re right, of course. But there are basics. You’re expected to follow orders.”
“From a commanding officer,” he pointed out.
“Right. I’m not giving orders. But I was getting at the discipline factor. You’re told where to go, when to report for duty and what job to do.”
“Chain of command is followed,” he admitted. “If not there would be chaos in the ranks.”
“In civilian life we call it a schedule.”
The look on his face said he was bracing himself for whatever she had in mind. “What’s your point?”
“A schedule.”
He moved his shoulders as if they’d tensed up, then stared at her for several moments. “Oh, you mean me.”
“Actually I mean both of us.” She curled her toes into the wooden porch. “You had discipline in the military and it would behoove you to establish that in your writing life.”
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Who says behoove in actual conversation?”
“An English teacher.”
“Right.” He folded his arms over his chest. “What did you have in mind?”
“Breakfast first. Your mind and body need fuel.” She had not expected him to be even this receptive. “Then we meet in your office for a...let’s call it a status meeting. We discuss what you’re going to work on and you can give me a list of research topics for anything necessary for the story. Think of it as punching a time clock.”
“Don’t tell me. This status meeting would be at nine in the morning.”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Just a guess.”
“So, what do you think of the idea?”
“Do you really want to know?” he asked.
“Of course. This needs to work for you. It’s all about fine-tuning your process. You’re the author.” She watched him watch her, his gaze flicking over her body, and wished she was wearing jeans and a big, bulky sweatshirt. A thin cotton nightgown and matching robe came under the heading of Didn’t Think It Through. Where was a girl’s body armor when she really needed it? “Sometimes it’s just about putting your butt in the chair. Sheer boredom will force you into doing something.”
“Doing something—” His voice was husky, deeper than normal.
Erin sensed tension in him but had a feeling it wasn’t about her suggestions for his work schedule. “Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about. Give it some thought and let me know in the morning—”
“Okay.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Permission granted. We’ll try it your way.”
“That’s great, Jack.” She was oddly happy that he’d actually listened to her. “Thank you for meeting me halfway on this.”
“This isn’t halfway,” he said, staring at her. “It’s damn near all the way.”
“What? I don’t understand—”
“For the record, it’s not fair to dress like that when you’re asking for something.” There was a ragged edge to his voice and his gaze never left her.
“There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing.” That was sheer bravado since moments ago she’d wished for body armor. Then she looked down at the eyelet cotton robe with pink accents and her cheeks suddenly burned with mortification. She realized that with the light behind her, the material was nearly transparent. “Oh, God—”
“Yeah.” A muscle jerked in his jaw.
Erin’s knees got weak and that was a first. No man had ever made her weak in the knees before. “I’m going in now. You should get some sleep.”
“Right.”
There was a mother lode of sarcasm in the single word, yet she felt it like a caress that touched her everywhere. The look in his eyes sharpened her senses and she tingled in places that might not have ever tingled before.
“Good night, Jack.” She tried to make her voice decisive, authoritative, unwavering, but was afraid the words came out weak, wishy-washy and just the tiniest bit wanton.
With all the dignity she could muster, Erin backed up to the door then quickly turned and opened it. She went to her room and shut herself in, then sagged against the door.
“What just happened?” she whispered.
There had been a moment. She was sure of it. Until just a few minutes ago, no man had ever looked at her as if he wanted her more than his next breath. Not even the man she’d taken an engagement ring from. But Jack Garner did.
She didn’t know whether to high-five herself or crawl into bed and pull the covers over her head. Then an even more off-putting thought struck her. Was that the way she’d looked at him when they first met? When he’d said they weren’t sleeping together as if that’s what she’d been thinking.
How was she going to face him tomorrow morning?
* * *
Jack sat across from Erin at the kitchen table and finished his omelet. It was becoming clear that she was very good at making them. Spinach, tomatoes, mushrooms and cheese—he couldn’t say he’d ever had a better one. The eggs were fluffy and filling. The company...not so much. Since he’d come downstairs for breakfast, the cook had barely looked at him.
Barely was most probably the reason why.
She’d been practically naked on the porch last night and his gut still hurt from the effort it took to keep his hands to himself. The high color in her cheeks was a clue that she was still embarrassed about it. She’d admitted to having a long-term relationship, but there was an innocence about her that was inconvenient. Since coming downstairs for breakfast he hadn’t done anything except eat. There had been nothing to take the edge off the tension. If he left it alone and let her feel uncomfortable, maybe she would take off back where she came from.
He sneaked a look and there was something sweet and vulnerable about her that made him feel like a buffalo at a tea party. Damn it. Probably he was going to regret this, but...
“Breakfast was good.” There, silence broken.
Erin stopped pushing the food around her plate without eating it and looked at him. “Really?”
“Yeah. Coffee’s good, too.”
“Thanks, I’m glad you liked it. Some guys think vegetable o
melets aren’t very...well, masculine.”
“What guy?”
“My fiancé.”
Jack bit his tongue to keep from saying this fiancé was an idiot. Not only was it bad to speak ill of the dead, but a remark like that would also undermine what he was trying to do in erasing her embarrassment. All he said was “His loss.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Jack.”
“Not really. I’m not a nice guy. It’s just the truth.”
Whatever else he was, wasn’t, or had done, he always tried to be honest. Mostly he was successful, but probably not always. “You’re a good cook.”
“It’s just something I like to do. Guess that’s half the battle. When I was a little girl, I stayed with my grandmother a lot because my mom worked. Grammy let me help when she cooked or baked. I got to roll out dough, cut out cookies and help make soup.” There was a faraway look in her eyes and the corners of her mouth curved up in a small smile. “Those are good memories.”
“I never knew my grandmother.” Now, why the hell had he said that?
“Singular? You only had one parent?”
He looked at her for a long moment, kicking himself for going soft and letting that out. It was too much to hope she’d miss the slipup. “Obviously at a certain point I had a father, but he was nothing more than a sperm donor.”
“You never met him?”
The pity in her eyes made him want to put his fist through a wall. “She always said he was a magician. When he heard my mother say the word pregnant, he made himself disappear.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s a first. But if you feel compelled to comment, just don’t say you’re sorry. I never needed him.” Jack learned a code of honor in the military and did his best to be honest, but that statement closed in on the line that separated truth from deceit.
“You are many things, Jack, but I would never describe you as someone to be pitied.” Then she pointed a warning finger at him. “And don’t tell me I’m patronizing you because I’m not doing that.”
Since that’s exactly what he’d been about to say, he almost smiled but caught himself just in time. That was annoying, one more way she tempted him. Enough of this. After pushing his chair back from the table, he said, “I have to get to work.”
She glanced at the funky pink princess watch on her wrist. “Oh, wow. It’s getting late.”
Only if one was on a schedule, which he’d agreed to in a weak moment when he’d been unable to look away from her practically naked body. “Yeah. It’s closing right in on nine.”
“I’ll clean up the kitchen.”
Jack knew he should offer to help but this time was able to hold back the words. Washing dishes with her was domestic and he didn’t do domestic. Not anymore.
Without another word he walked to the front door and Harley followed from wherever he’d been dozing. They went out onto the porch then up the stairs to his office.
Jack sat down in the chair behind his desk and looked at the blank computer monitor for a while. He patted his leg and said, “Harley, up.”
The dog did as ordered then made a circle before settling on Jack’s lap. He scratched the animal’s hairless back and hoped the mindless activity would stimulate something creative or useful. Ten minutes later he still had nothing.
There was a knock on his office door before Erin stuck her head inside. “Rough commute. Am I late?”
If only. “Nine o’clock on the nose.” Damn it.
She took a seat in front of the desk. “Okay, let the status meeting begin. Where are you in the book?”
“Where am I?” he repeated. Harley chose that moment to desert him and jump down and pad over to her. “Well, let me think. That’s kind of hard to say.”
“Yeah. I can see where it would be. Why don’t you start by telling me what you have so far.”
“What I have... Let’s see.” He leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers over his abdomen. “Wow. Where do I begin...?”
Really, he wanted to say. Where? Did he open the story with unknown assailants ambushing Mac and leaving him for dead? Or with a mysterious stranger who contacts him for help because word of his exploits in rescuing the ex-girlfriend’s kidnapped kid from a vicious drug cartel had spread? The best first line would be something like “The pretty, green-eyed woman with sun-streaked brown hair smiled seductively before telling him to forget the book and take her to bed.”
Erin waited patiently for him to speak. When the silence drifted into awkward territory she said, “You know, Corinne Carlisle had a hard time talking about her story, too. It could be an author thing because you’re more comfortable with the written word than the spoken one.”
Helpful of her to gift-wrap an excuse for him. “Yeah, I think you just nailed it.”
“Are you a pantser or a plotter?” she asked.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Do you write by the seat of your pants? Or do you know every detail ahead of time when you sit down at the computer?”
Right this minute he wished to be a plotter but was pretty sure the first one described him best. “That’s really hard to say.”
“Okay.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Then let’s talk about your characters.”
Oh, boy. He could really use an interruption about now. A phone call, package delivery, or a little rocket attack. “The thing is, I don’t have all the characters set in stone yet. Still trying to flesh them out.”
“You have Mac,” she pointed out.
Good old Mac. “I do have him.”
“What’s happened to him in the time since we left him at the end of book one?”
“That’s a good question. I’m glad you asked.” Not.
She waited for him to elaborate. So it was safe to say she wasn’t an interrupter. Boy, did he wish she was.
“So,” Jack said. “He’s been kicking around.”
“In Los Angeles? Or has he gone to Dallas, Topeka, or Micronesia?” The perky, trying-to-be-helpful tone was missing in action from her voice.
“He hasn’t moved.” And that was Jack’s fault because he hadn’t moved his main character.
“In the last book he had just left the army and had no plan for his life before being pulled into that case involving his dead buddy’s younger brother, who was married to his ex-girlfriend.”
“Yeah.” Funny how the no-plan-for-his-life part sounded a lot like Jack.
“How is he supporting himself?”
“Odd jobs. This and that.” And in a military operation when you wanted to avoid direct confrontation with an enemy that had superior firepower, a good soldier created a diversion. He took a piece of paper from the printer tray beside him. “I put together some things for you to research.”
Erin’s eyes narrowed as she took it from him, then scanned the list. “Meteors? Dinosaurs?” She met his gaze. “You probably already know that Jurassic Park has been done.” She looked down again. “Jet Skis?”
“All things I’m considering incorporating into the story.”
With careful, precise movements she folded the single sheet several times before slicing him with a look. “What’s going on, Jack?”
“I need you to look stuff up.”
“No, you don’t. You’re trying to distract me and it’s time for you to cut the crap.”
“Is that any way to talk to your employer?”
“Technically I work for the publishing house, specifically your editor. So, yeah, it’s a very good way to address a man who is not forthcoming.”
“What makes you think something’s going on?” Besides the fact that he kept dodging her direct questions?
“Classic avoidance. And to quote Shakespeare—‘let me count the ways.’” She
held up her fingers. “You won’t talk about the story, characters or what your hero has been doing. I’m pretty sure that means you have no idea. And every time I push for information, you come up with a distraction. Some ridiculous research stuff that has nothing to do with your genre. One hundred and one ways to be romantic—really, Jack? You even threw me out of my room and kicked me downstairs.” She took a breath. “So call me paranoid and neurotic—”
“Don’t forget punctual,” he added helpfully.
“—but I’m suspicious,” she continued without missing a beat after his interjection. “Your editor would welcome an outline of the project. Not details, necessarily, just the beginning, middle and end of the story. Possibly a one-line characterization of the hero.”
Jack met her gaze, stare for stare. Her perky, cheerful interrogation might have given him a sense of her being a pushover. Now he saw the error of that assumption. She was sunshine and steel.
Still, he couldn’t resist trying one more time. “There’s nothing to be suspicious about. I’m in the process of pulling all the threads together.”
“Then let me see your pages.” She suddenly stood and moved around the desk to look at his computer monitor. “It’s not even turned on.”
“That’s easy to rectify.”
“Okay. Let me see the work you’ve done so far.”
This time Jack did squirm, and Harley had disappeared down the hall so there was no way to keep Erin from noticing. “The work needs editing—”
She held up a hand. “There’s something wrong and I want to know what it is. I’m here to help you finish this manuscript and I can’t if you’re hiding something.”
Her relentless questions were like water dripping on a stone, wearing away the outer protection. Jack was at a crossroads. He knew what it looked like because he’d seen it before in the heat of battle when there was no wiggle room left. Almost always a course of action revealed itself and this situation was no different. Her counteroffensive left him no choice. He had to tell the truth or lie to her and he couldn’t do that.
“So quit stalling and turn on the monitor, Jack. Let me see your work.”
A Word with the Bachelor Page 4