by Melissa Tagg
Well, Colton’s bedroom for the past almost-two weeks. But hers once more for the moment—because if she was going to face that email from Gil, she needed the familiarity.
Even without Colton home, though, this room tingled with his presence. The hoodie he always wore draped over the corner of the antique vanity’s mirror. A pair of running shoes, laces splayed, abandoned next to the bed. The brace he slipped over his knee when he went running.
She remembered thinking that first night that Colton was way too big for this small room. And this small room way too pink for such a . . . man.
But now, looking around the room, it wasn’t the pink she saw, but all the ways he’d settled in. And it wasn’t just here in this bedroom he’d made himself at home, but here in Maple Valley. In less than two weeks, he’d become a fixture at the house and the depot, Seth’s restaurant and the coffee shop, the hardware store, even church.
Colton Greene, the professional football player from California, had carved out a place for himself in her hometown, of all places.
“I get the feeling you’re not listening, sis.” Her younger brother’s usual patience carried over the phone, and the box springs creaked as she shifted to cross her legs.
“Sorry. You’re right. Start over?”
“Basically, it’s a contract in which both parties agree about the specs of the IP—intellectual property—and about the value. You would, in essence, be saying ‘I no longer claim any ownership or right to this story idea, what’s been written so far, or any further development of the story.’”
Intellectual property transfer. It sounded cold and impassive. Empty of emotion.
But if she was going to grant Gil his request, that’s exactly how she wanted it.
Kate reached for the mug of Earl Grey tea she’d carried into the bedroom with her. The teabag string still sagged over the edge of the cup, and the water-warmed glass heated her fingers. As she took a drink, the email she hadn’t meant to memorize replayed itself.
I wanted to talk to you about this in person, Katie. I’ve called you, your agent, even your father. I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk to me. Please believe me, I wouldn’t insert myself back into your life if it wasn’t important.
It’s about that script we were writing together when . . . everything went down. With your permission, I’d like to finish it. But it was your script as much as mine. So I’d like to do this the right way.
All this time—the phone calls, the voice mails, the emails. And all he’d wanted to talk about was a writing project. Cruel déjà vu—that’s what this was.
“Assuming both parties agree on the terms, it would be a fairly fast process,” Beck was saying now. “But if you feel the IP is higher in value than the other guy or if you want to add a bunch of conditions to the agreement, I suppose it could become more drawn out.”
With one hand, Kate balanced her mug on her knee. “No, if I do this, there isn’t going to be anything like that. I want quick and easy. Open and shut. Bing, bang, boom. Done and done.” She tapped her fingernails against her mug with each phrase. “Over and out.”
“You done?”
“Yes.”
“So this is a script we’re talking about, right? Screenplay?”
She sighed, replaced her mug on the bedside stand, and flopped backward into the pillows behind her. “Yes, it’s a script.”
A half-written script that Gil had apparently dug up a few weeks ago when he was cleaning out his old office. She’d been so tempted to immediately delete the email. Just like that, make it disappear from her inbox and hopefully her memory.
But something stopped her as her finger hovered over the key. Why this script? Why now? And why was he going to such great lengths to get her permission to finish it?
“So why are you transferring the rights of something you’ve written? Why hand it all over to the co-writer? Wouldn’t the writing credit be good for your career?”
The subtle, spicy scent of Colton’s aftershave lingered in the sheets and comforter beneath her. “Beckett, I’ll be honest with you if you promise not to flip out.”
“Why does it matter if I flip out? I’m in Boston. I can’t do too much damage.”
She pictured him, probably sitting at the antique desk in his apartment, catching up on work. Except for his glasses and the slight curl to his hair, Beckett looked so much like Dad did in photos at that age.
“The other writer is Gil.”
His pause was a wordless lecture. “You’re serious. Gil. That slimeball?”
“Slimeball might be a little over the top.” But she smiled all the same.
“He led you on, his student, almost ten years younger than him, for almost a year.”
“I wasn’t his student by the time we actually started dating.”
“He wined and dined you. Convinced you not to take that internship in DC and move to Chicago. And then, pow, one day he surprised you with the news that he was already married.”
Her muscles tightened and a lump in the mattress underneath poked at her side. “I don’t need a history recap, Beck. I was there.”
Besides, Beck didn’t know everything. He didn’t know, for instance, how much Gil had helped her on her book. She’d worked so hard on it throughout her senior year of college, an almost frenetic desperation to finish it before Mom died. Gil had revised scenes and proofread and gotten it into the hands of that editor he knew.
For all the ways he’d hurt her, it hadn’t all been wining and dining.
She reached under the comforter to pull out whatever it was bunched up underneath her. Another hoodie. How many did Colton own?
“Yeah, well, now that I know this piece of info, I say you make Gil buy you out of your part in it. I’ll rep you. If he really wants the script, he can have it. But we’ll make him pay. We’ll make him pay good.”
“Lawyer Beckett, you frighten me.” She tossed the hoodie to the end of the bed and sat up. “Look, this was just an initial info-gathering phone call. Gil wants to talk. Figured I’d like to go into the conversation prepared.”
“Why talk to him at all? Let your agent handle it.”
“Thanks for the help, Beck.” She closed her eyes. The long day had sapped her energy . . . and her desire to argue this out.
“Is that your way of telling me to butt out?” When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “I know I’m just your younger brother. It’s Logan’s job to give the advice.”
“And yet, you’re the one I called.”
“Right. So just be careful, okay? Be smart.”
They hung up minutes later and she lay back on the bed. Maybe Beck had a point. Maybe contact with Gil was a bad idea. It’d taken so long—sooo long—to let him go after finding out their relationship was nothing but a sham.
She closed her eyes again. It felt so good to be in her own bed. She could fall asleep here . . . felt herself drifting . . .
The sound of the front door closing rang through the house. Kate jerked. Darkness dimmed the room, and warmth from her bed’s comforter, her pillow, enveloped her. She’d fallen asleep. What time was it?
Dad had said he was working late at the depot. Had Raegan come home?
Footsteps sounded down the hallway, longer strides than they would be if it was Raegan.
Colton . . . She jerked up in the bed. She couldn’t let him find her in here, waking up from a nap . . . in his bed. But the footsteps were nearly to the door.
She jumped from the bed and slipped into the bathroom connected to the room.
Whyyyy? Why are you hiding?
Because she didn’t think well two seconds after waking up—that’s why.
Colton’s steps sounded in the bedroom.
Just explain to him you had a silly yearning to visit your bedroom.
Right. That didn’t sound ridiculous at all.
She heard Colton walking toward the bathroom. Shoot. Shoot, shoot, shoot. She jumped into the tub and pulled the shower curtain over the opening.
Hiding in the bathtub in her own bathroom. This was one for the family vault of mock-worthy memories.
Colton walked into the bathroom. Paused. Maybe he was just grabbing a Kleenex or something. He’d be leaving soon . . .
Except no, because suddenly his arm snaked into the shower and reached for the faucet. Water rushed over her feet, and then—oh no—he twisted the knob to start the shower.
Water squirted at her face and over her clothes, and it was all she could do not to scream or sputter. And panic welled in her. She couldn’t stay here. Not with Colton on the other side of the shower curtain, probably getting undressed. Undressed.
But where could she go?
Bad idea, Walker. Bad, bad idea.
But before she could figure out what to do, the shower curtain flung aside and she immediately closed her eyes. “Don’t do it, Colton.” Her voice pitched to a squeal. “Don’t get in.”
“Chill, Walker. I’m dressed.”
She opened one eye, gaze traveling from the floor up. Bare feet. Jeans. Shirt. Smirk. “Y-you . . . you knew I was in here.” Water streamed over her face and slicked down her arms.
Colton bent over to turn off the water, then pointed above her. “Light does this crazy thing, Rosie. It’s called forming shadows.”
“You knew I was in here and you still turned on the water.” She shook her head in slow motion, eyes pressed to slits. “You’re mean.”
“But at least I’m not wet.”
“Why, you—” She lunged for the bottle of shampoo on the shelf inside the shower and in one smooth motion had it open and pointed at him, soapy liquid blasting him in the chest.
“Miss. Walker. How could you?”
While he was still looking at the soapy mess she’d made on his shirt, she reached for the faucet and turned the shower on, then angled the nozzle at him.
“You’re getting the whole bathroom wet.”
“I’m saving you a load of laundry.”
He climbed over the tub edge, laughter bouncing off the tiled walls, and fought her for the nozzle, both of them now completely soaked and bubbles floating in the air.
“Never start a water war with a Walker, Colton.”
He barreled against her, pushing the nozzle away from his face. “You forget I’m a lot bigger than you.”
She was giggling like a kid, completely trapped against the shower wall. He reached behind her to turn off the water, the strawberry scent of the shampoo filling the space and steam clouding the air around them.
And so much laughter.
Until, finally, they quieted. Only the dripping of water and the sound of the bathroom’s overhead fan.
And her heart suddenly hammering in her chest.
She looked at Colton, saw the rapid pace of his breathing. What were we thinking? And why was Colton looking at her like—
“I should go.”
She clambered out of the tub, grabbed a towel from the shelf on the wall, wrapped it around her shoulders, and all-out fled from the room.
She reached Beckett’s bedroom door just as Raegan’s voice called for her.
“Hey, sis, did you—” She broke off, staring at Kate’s wet clothes. “What happened?”
“Long story.” Or not so long. But “I just had a water fight in the shower with Colton” would invite more scrutiny than she could handle.
She took in Raegan’s appearance then, the slump of her shoulders and the frown pulling at her mouth. “What’s wrong?”
“They’re planning to close the depot. The city council decided to put it to a vote. All Dad and Colton’s work will be for nothing.”
9
Dad? What in the world are you thinking?”
Kate’s words came out sputtered and uneven as she jogged from her car to the cover of the train depot’s jutting overhang. The depot’s recent paint job made it fairly glow against its hilly backdrop. Flecks of autumn color—red and yellow and orange—were just beginning to poke through the canopy of green and brown covering the landscape.
And there was Dad, denim-clad legs visible halfway up a ladder perched on the wooden platform in front of the depot. The overhang hid the rest of him.
Kate slipped the hood of her sweatshirt from her head as she reached the depot. She still wore her pajama pants. Hadn’t even taken the time to put in her contacts. She’d hoped to find Dad this morning before he left the house, but a torrent of emotions mixed with overnight storms had kept her tossing and turning past midnight.
Do not think about Colton. Do not think about water fights in showers.
This morning rain still twirled downward from portly clouds—their underbellies lit by stray lightning and a pastel sunrise. She stopped at the foot of the ladder, nudged up her glasses and tipped her head. “Really, Dad? Working on outdoor light fixtures in a storm? Aren’t you asking to get electrocuted? And with one arm in a sling?”
He grunted, unscrewed a bulb, and glanced down. “Catch.”
Next thing she knew, the old bulb dropped, and she jerked to catch it.
“And for the record, young lady, the sky’s barely making a peep right now. More chance of me falling off this ladder and breaking a leg than getting electrocuted.”
Kate propped one slipper-clad foot on the ladder. “That’s comforting.”
About as comforting as hearing this old depot and museum might be closing. Would be, according to Raegan and, apparently, the city council.
How could they just give up on the place? After all the work Dad had put in. All the history this little building housed.
Metal scraped against metal as Dad screwed in the new bulb overhead. He nodded his head in satisfaction and climbed down the ladder. Faded jeans and a flannel shirt—so different from the military uniforms and tailored suits he used to wear.
Same grin, though, even if weathered by surrounding lines.
“So?” he asked, one eyebrow raising—a trait he’d passed on to only Beckett. Kate used to spend hours in front of the bathroom mirror, attempting to pull off the same expression. “What has my night owl up so early?”
She tipped her head toward the building. “This place. You. Wondering what you’re going to do.”
His lips pressed together, and he reached for the ladder, wood clacking as he folded it together. He hefted the ladder with one hand, and Kate jumped in to secure its other end.
They carried the ladder around the corner of the building, toward the shed attached to the side of the depot, where they stopped as Dad dug in his pocket for the keys.
“You are going to do something, aren’t you?”
Lingering raindrops slanted in, dotting her sweatshirt. She waited while Dad put the ladder away and relocked the shed. When he turned, she recognized the determination in his expression. Oh, he might dress differently, might’ve retired from government service years ago. But he was still solid as a tree. Like that oak giant in the town square that’d refused to bend in the tornado.
“It’s the council’s decision, Katie. It’s expensive to keep up the depot—maintain the rail and the cars. And now with all the damage . . .”
“But you and Colton have been working like crazy. Colton said he thinks you can have it ready for Depot Day.”
“If they vote to close it, there’s not going to be a Depot Day this year.” A windy gush hurled wet air their way, and Dad patted her shoulder, turning her toward the depot’s back entrance.
“But surely the businesses in town will be upset. The depot’s a tourist draw, Dad.” The scent of lemon and pine enveloped her as she entered the building.
“A tri-county draw, at best. And unlike the antique stores, it isn’t even open all year round.”
The light from frosted glass sconces along the walls mingled with soft sunlight to showcase the work Dad and Colton had done in recent days. Pale green covered the upper half of the walls wrapping around the room, while rich walnut wainscoting reached up the lower half. One end of the room opened into the small, now-dark eati
ng area where the depot served ice cream in the summer and hot cocoa and apple cider during chilly fall months.
The wooden floor still showed nicks and grooves from decades of foot traffic and the recent storm. None of the glass display cases had been replaced yet, and the walls seemed empty without shelves full of knickknacks, old passenger books, and railroad paraphernalia.
But it was beginning to look as she remembered.
“Come on back to my office. You haven’t had your morning coffee yet.”
“How can you tell?”
Dad grinned. “Your forehead’s all pinched.”
She followed him past the raised ticket booth that had windows open to both the inside and outside. “That’s because I came here hoping we could come up with a plan to save the depot. Instead you seem . . .” Completely at peace, actually. And it didn’t make sense.
He led her into his office in back—little more than a closet, really. No oversized mahogany desk and matching hutch like he’d had back when they lived out east. Barely room for a small rolltop and a couple padded chairs.
She lowered into the chair edged into a corner while Dad pulled a mug from atop the desk.
“I’m surprised Colton isn’t here yet. He’s been getting here by seven most mornings.” Dad peered inside the cup, then used the edge of his shirt to wipe it out.
Kate smothered a smirk at his cleaning method. “I’ve been worried the time we’ve spent working on his book was taking away from his time helping you.”
“Not at all. He’s a hard worker, that one. And more than a little handsome, according to Rae.” Dad reached for the coffeepot at the corner of his desk. “Though, truthfully, if I was going to pair him with one of my girls, it’d be you.”
“Dad.”
He turned on an innocent smile and handed her the mug. “What? I’ve thought the two of you would make a good match from the start. Can’t a man make an observation?”
“Play matchmaker, you mean?”
“Potato, po-tah-to.” He poured his own cup of coffee. “And for the record, by ‘from the start,’ I mean since I first met him—Parents’ Weekend at Iowa. Logan called up a couple days before to ask if we could include Colton in whatever we ended up doing that weekend—seeing as how he didn’t have family visiting and all.”