by T. K. Leigh
“You’re just going to toss out everything you wrote last weekend?” She wore her disappointment on every inch of her body.
“Not everything,” I assured her. “My editor wants me to get rid of the storyline with Jackson’s mother. She said having a parent who couldn’t remember him was too depressing.” I bit my lip, my shoulders falling momentarily before I recovered. “She had a handful of other suggestions, too. Thankfully, she extended my deadline to give me time to work on it.”
Brooklyn opened her mouth, her expression distant, as if she’d just been told her puppy died. “But it was really good.”
“I know.” I turned my gaze away from hers.
It felt like I had to cut out part of my soul to rework the pages I’d written so feverishly after running into Noah. My editor’s admonition that the pages I’d submitted weren’t what they published was all the encouragement I needed to keep my distance from him and focus on finding a new source of inspiration. I had a deadline I couldn’t miss and a book I had to rewrite.
“Hopefully this guy I’m meeting tonight will completely sweep me off my feet and inspire me.” My voice turned bright, cheerful, masking my own discouragement at tossing out what I believed to be a good story.
“I still think you met someone else and just refuse to admit it for whatever reason.” Brooklyn sighed. I could feel her studying me. She had always been able to see right through me and all my lies. When the silence in the room grew to an almost deafening level, she pointed at my closet. “Try the red dress. Guys love red.”
I walked to it and pulled the dress out, looking it over. It had a sweetheart neckline with off-the-shoulder sleeves. The bodice was fitted through the waist, then flared out slightly. It was the perfect combination of sexy and tasteful. It said “I have a nice rack” without looking like I wore a top several sizes too small.
Taking Brooklyn’s advice, I slid into the dress and paired it with black Jimmy Choo heels. I rarely wore them, but I figured going to dinner with a man who made more money in a day than most people made in a year was good enough justification to do so.
Refocusing my thoughts on my impending date, I tried everything I could to muster some sort of enthusiasm about what awaited me. Nothing worked, not even the promise of a really fantastic bottle of wine. I busied myself with applying my makeup and pinning my hair back to keep the unruly waves out of my face. Just as I took one last look in the mirror, the buzzer sounded.
“He’s here,” Brooklyn sang. I continued to stare at my reflection. Instead of butterflies flitting in my stomach, I felt sick. I didn’t feel like myself. I hated the idea of pretending to be someone I wasn’t. I didn’t know why it bothered me now. For years, I’d put on a show, usually taking on the personality of whatever type of heroine I was writing about at the time. But after getting a taste of what it was like to just be myself, attack ducks and all, I found myself hungry for more.
“What do I do?” I spun around to face her, my heart racing.
“You answer the door, Molly.” She laughed at the panic in my eyes. I took a deep breath, not wanting Mr. Timothy Vandersmith to see me so rattled, then stood up.
The buzzer sounded again, echoing through my small apartment.
“You’d better get going.” Brooklyn hopped off the bed and pushed me down the hallway, handing me my clutch. “I expect to hear all about it tomorrow.” She opened the door and practically threw me out of my own apartment.
I faced her, struggling to come up with an excuse as to why I shouldn’t go. Like what? Because I couldn’t stop thinking about my father’s doctor? I wanted to keep whatever I thought occurred last weekend between Noah and me to myself. It didn’t matter anyway.
“Molly, what is it?” She narrowed her gaze at me.
I tried to relax my nervous expression. “Can you take Pee Wee for a walk before you leave?”
She studied me with skepticism, then returned a small smile. “Of course. Have a good night.” She closed the door, leaving me alone on the landing.
Drawing in a breath, I turned back around, steadying myself before walking down the steps. I emerged on the sidewalk, my brow wrinkling when my eyes landed on a man in his fifties with graying hair standing there. A dark SUV idled just behind him. He looked nothing like the photo Debra had sent.
“Good evening, Ms. Brinks,” he said. “I’m Brody, Mr. Vandersmith’s driver.”
I gaped at him, as if my ears were playing tricks on me. I’d chosen the exact same name for Jackson Price’s driver in my book. Maybe it was a sign this was the path I was supposed to take. Perhaps this man I was scheduled to meet tonight was exactly what I needed to get back on track.
“Mr. Vandersmith apologizes for not being able to pick you up himself. He was delayed at the office this evening. I’ll escort you to dinner. He’ll meet you there.”
He stepped toward the car and opened the back door for me. I blindly followed, remaining silent as I slid inside.
“We’ll be at the restaurant shortly,” Brody said upon getting into the driver’s seat, then pulled into traffic. I watched the buildings zoom by as he navigated the narrow streets of the North End, driving toward the Back Bay area. It was a clear night, the moon beautiful against the backdrop of the large skyscrapers. My mind drifted to Noah again. It would have been the perfect evening to sit beneath the stars and watch a movie.
When the car came to a stop a few blocks away from the Common, I looked out the window at a two-story brick building, no sign out front indicating what it was. Brody opened the door for me, taking my arm to help me out of the SUV.
“This way, Ms. Brinks.”
I had to admit, it felt nice to be pampered. I could certainly get used to having a driver escort me around town, although I’d miss riding the subway.
When Brody opened the simple wooden door, I stepped into a dimly lit dining room, about a dozen tables filling the small space. Candles adorned tables covered with white cloths. The all-male waitstaff was dressed in formal tuxedos and wore crisp white gloves. A beautiful baby grand piano sat in the corner, a man in a dark suit playing ambient music, setting a romantic mood. I immediately felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I was completely out of my comfort zone in a place like this. I just hoped the man waiting for me would be my Edward…at least until I finished writing this book.
Almost instantly, a dark-haired man stood up, meeting my gaze, buttoning the jacket of his charcoal gray suit. He had a twinkle in his green eyes, a chiseled jawline, defined cheekbones, and a breathtaking smile. I’d seen his photo, but the real thing was much more attractive than any two-dimensional snapshot could do justice.
“Molly.” He approached and placed an unexpected kiss on my cheek, lingering slightly longer than I anticipated, turning the friendly gesture into one that was much more intimate, more sensual. His lips warm on my skin, a subtle shiver traveled down my back. “You’re even more beautiful in person.” His voice was tender, deep, seductive. “I hope you’re hungry.” He pulled back, a devilish grin on his face.
“Famished,” I squeaked out.
He winked, then led me to the table, pulling my chair out for me. He was the perfect gentleman, everything I’d expected him to be based on what little I knew of him. He was one of the most sought-after bachelors in Boston. He started going on about how his computer security company made him millions when he was still attending MIT. He said while he had almost everything he could ever want, something was lacking.
“And what’s that?” I asked as the waiter placed raw oysters in front of me. I couldn’t recall anyone taking our order. I suspected Timothy had ordered before I arrived. Still, I tried not to let that affect my opinion, especially since this guy could be the one to help me get this book back on track. On paper, he was Jackson Price. Rich. Handsome. Successful. I couldn’t let his minor faults distract me.
“A beautiful woman.” He narrowed his eyes at me, treating me to a hint of a smile.
I wanted to think his words were genu
ine, but I knew better than that. I’d been doing this dance for a long time. I knew a fake when I saw one, and Mr. Timothy Vandersmith was definitely a fake. Sure, he had money, charm, great looks, but I wondered if a single word he uttered was sincere. Last week, I wouldn’t have cared. He could have told me he trained unicorns in Oz and I’d still let him take me to his bedroom. Something was different now…because of Noah. I doubted he had an insincere bone in his body.
Lost in my thoughts, I barely noticed when Timothy answered his phone in the middle of our lame excuse for a conversation that lacked any depth. He’d been telling me all about his plans to take his yacht to Newport the following weekend. Most women may have been impressed by his wealth — the boats, the numerous properties he owned, the private jet. Not me. A dick was still a dick, regardless of whether it pissed in a gold-plated toilet or a porta-potty.
I stared at the raw oysters sitting in front of me, feeling as if I were intruding, as if I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t even like oysters. Why was I eating them? To impress a guy? For what? Because he had potential to be really good muse material? What if I’d already found my muse?
As if on cue, the pianist began playing a different song. I nearly spit out the salty oyster. I listened to the haunting melody, my breathing increasing. When I heard the driver’s name, I’d hoped it was a sign I was exactly where I was supposed to be. But as I listened to the pianist play the theme from An Affair to Remember, Noah returned to the forefront of my mind…if he’d ever left. I glanced around the restaurant, an indescribable feeling washing over me. As I studied a dozen other couples feigning interest in one another, I found myself tired of putting on the same charade I had been for years.
Realization struck me, leaving me breathless, giddy, excited. Brooklyn was right. I didn’t need Timothy to be my muse. I’d already found one in Noah. He had inspired me more than anyone I’d ever met. I’d been able to write unlike I had in years, if ever. Avery and Jackson had leapt off the pages, their story alive in my mind. It had depth. It had heartache. It had pain — all things I knew my publisher would never agree to release. I no longer cared what they wanted. For the first time in years, I was going to write the story I wanted to tell.
Abruptly, I stood up. My sudden movement caught Timothy’s attention.
“Hold on a sec,” he said to whomever was on the phone. So much for him being the perfect gentleman I thought he was. “Is everything okay, Molly?”
I opened my mouth, sorting through all the conflicting thoughts circling in my head. I didn’t know what came over me at that moment. Maybe it was the ridiculousness of the situation I found myself in. Wearing a dress, pretending to be someone I wasn’t. And why?
“Molly?” He narrowed his gaze at me.
“I have to go,” I explained, laughing slightly, a wide smile brimming on my face.
“Go?” He hung up the phone and stood. “Go where? I thought we were really hitting it off.”
My smile grew even wider. I hadn’t felt this alive in years, the promise of doing something for me and no one else invigorating me.
“This isn’t me.” I gestured to my dress, then the stuffy surroundings. “I’ll be completely honest with you. I don’t just write snarky columns for a magazine, like Debra probably told you when she set up this date. I write really hot, steamy romance novels, too. I had my friend pull some strings so I could meet a hot, wealthy guy, since the hero in my book is precisely that. You’re definitely really hot. A week ago, I probably would have suffered through all this stupid small talk just to get you into the bedroom.”
His eyes widened at my confession before his gaze hooded. “I’m more than happy to indulge you in that. We can leave right now.” A carnal smile grew on his lips.
I shook my head, feeling lightheaded, but in the best way possible. “I’ve finally realized I can be inspired without having to take my clothes off.”
I whirled around, dashing out of the restaurant and onto the street, my feet not carrying me as fast as I wanted them to. I ran to the corner and hailed a passing cab.
“Forest Hills Cemetery,” I said as I slid inside, unable to hide the grin on my face. I bounced my legs, traffic seeming to crawl as the driver navigated toward the interstate. At least a dozen times during the twenty minute ride, I almost talked myself into turning around. My original plan for tonight had flown out the window in seconds. I’d hoped I could forget about Noah and find a new muse. But I couldn’t. Worse, I didn’t want to, regardless of the consequences. I was supposed to be writing a forbidden romance. What better source of inspiration than spending time with someone I shouldn’t have? I refused to believe there was any other reason I felt compelled to spend time with Dr. Noah McAllister.
When the front gates to the cemetery finally came into view, the cab slowed to a stop. I handed the driver the cash and carefully stepped onto the pavement. As I climbed the incline toward the stone pillars marking the entrance to the historic cemetery, Cary Grant’s voice found its way to my ears. I crested the small hill, seeing a large projection screen set up in the distance.
It seemed odd to host movies in a cemetery. However, judging by the number of people in attendance, it was apparently rather popular. I thought it would be disrespectful to the families of those buried here, but as I drew closer, I realized the movie was being shown in an area of the cemetery where there were no graves.
Approaching a roped off grassy area, I stood on my toes, wondering how I’d even find Noah among the sizeable crowd. As if able to sense my presence, a pair of striking blue eyes swung to me from ten yards away. He shot to his feet, completely ignoring all the shouts from others in the audience to get out of the way.
I slowly walked toward him, taking my time so as not to trip when my heels sank into the grass.
“You’re here,” he declared, swallowing hard. His eyes locked on mine, his broad chest heaving.
I nodded, excited, nervous…happy.
“What happened to your date?”
“I didn’t want to be there and pretend to be someone I wasn’t,” I admitted truthfully, surprising myself.
He grinned, his smile reaching his eyes, lighting up his entire face. “Come on.” He held out his hand. “You can always just be yourself around me.”
I took his hand, his large fingers intertwining with mine, and allowed him to lead me to a blanket spread out on the grass. After slipping off my shoes, I lowered myself to the ground. A small tingle traveled from the tips of my fingers to my toes when Noah draped an extra blanket across my shoulders, his arms keeping me warm in the brisk spring air.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“SO WHAT DID YOU think of your first movie experience in a cemetery?” Noah asked as we followed the crowd out of the front gates. Some crossed the street toward a makeshift parking lot on the grass, others headed down the block to the closest subway station.
I gave him a sideways glance, grinning. “You’re close to proving your hypothesis that it does pay to try new things.”
Tonight was exactly what I needed. Sitting under the stars and watching one of my favorite movies with someone who was quickly becoming one of my favorite people was a pleasant turn of events. We’d barely spoken a word to each other, but in that silence, I felt like Noah shared pieces of himself with me. Too many times, I’d stolen a glance to see him mouthing the words to some of the lines…the same ones I mouthed the words to.
“Good,” he said, then faced me, both of us slowing our steps. As if able to read my mind, he asked, “Are you tired?”
I shook my head, keeping my eyes glued to his.
His lips turned up into a smile. “Where’d you park?”
“I took a cab.”
“Good. Let’s go.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me along. Heat radiated throughout my body as I savored the feeling of my hand enclosed in Noah’s, our fingers intertwined.
“Go where?”
“You’ll see.” He winked. “I’m not ready for this night to be over just yet.�
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I struggled to keep up with his long strides. Noticing my difficulty, he slowed down, beaming at me as we walked through the rows of cars. He led me to a black Mercedes and opened the passenger door, helping me in. My body hummed with excitement, a lightness in my limbs.
When I was getting ready tonight, if you had told me I’d end up ditching my date, who happened to be worth somewhere in the eight figures, to watch a movie in a cemetery with my father’s neurologist, I would have laughed. I’d sworn to do everything I could to forget about Noah. This just felt right, regardless of how wrong it was for me to have any sort of physical relationship with this man.
After a silent, yet comfortable drive, Noah pulled up to an unassuming brick building a few blocks from Massachusetts General. A valet attendant approached the car and opened my door, helping me out. Noah ran around to meet me, then grabbed the ticket from the attendant. I peered at the one-story building in front of me. It didn’t look like much, but the jazz music coming from within caught my interest.
“What is this place?” I asked as Noah held my elbow and steered me toward a pair of doors manned by two very large bouncers. They nodded at him, allowing us to enter.
“My college roommate told me about this club. He studied mechanical engineering, but played in a jazz quartet during his free time. After I came with him one night, I immediately preferred it to the rest of the college bars in this city.” He led me into the darkened interior. The sound of a trumpet and saxophone playing incredible jazz riffs grew louder. Regardless, Noah was still able to talk without having to shout. “It used to be a speakeasy during prohibition. Thankfully, someone felt the need to preserve its history. I was surprised it was still here when I came back. Things seem to change too fast around here. Some of my favorite restaurants in college are now all nail salons or grocery stores.”