Gypsy Love: A Gypsy Beach Novel

by Jillian Neal

  “What kind of moron complains about that?” He scoffed as he continued to read that Chase found it disturbing that Arley wanted him to be more dominant in bed, and that she’d once suggested visiting a sex shop on the outskirts of Birmingham. He’d alleged that he didn’t feel his mother would approve of such activities and had therefore ended the relationship.

  “Okay, ass wipe, now you’re just making us all look bad. I bet you still live at home with your mama, don’t you?”

  No wonder she’s sworn off men. He shook his head. Her declaration was incorrect. She’d sworn off prepubescent assholes that wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like Arley Copeland in bed if she wrote them out a scene of detailed instructions and a script of dirty talk. No, it wasn’t men she didn’t want—it was boys. She needed a man that knew what the hell he was doing, not some moron with an anemic cock and half a brain cell.

  Determination armored itself in his chiseled musculature. He could be that for her. He’d make her forget she’d ever let whoever Chase Masters was anywhere near her beautiful body.

  He’d take her to all new heights, in bed and out. She needed to be worshipped like the goddess she was. He could sure as hell be dominant, but only after he found out if that’s really what she wanted. Something inside of him told him that Chase hadn’t been lying. He was looking to make a quick buck off Arley’s slight success and wanted to get back at her for more than likely pointing out that he was nothing more than a virgin schoolboy with no clue what to do with a woman in bed. He wasn’t creative enough to have come up with that on his own, but he was clearly a vindictive asshole. If John ever had the pleasure of running into Chase …. A wicked grin formed on his features.

  Slamming the laptop shut, he set out to make certain that the next two weeks of Arley’s life made up for just a few of the ones she’d endured in the past.

  Too frantic to do anything but pace, Arley checked the clock on the mantle again. What was the likelihood that somehow the universe had delivered her the world’s most perfect man and that he could help her get the rights back to her books? It all seemed too good to be true. She fluctuated between John being some kind of heavenly gift sent to her by her father and him actually being some kind of lowlife reporter that was here to somehow prove Chase’s claims and further her utter humiliation.

  “Wow! How egotistical are you? You aren’t nearly famous enough for someone to do that to.” Oddly, that thought brought her comfort. The only people who’d even cared about Chase’s interview had been her family and the tiny town of Tilldale, who were thoroughly shocked that one of the Copeland girls would want such things or would write the kinds of things Arley wrote.

  Shaking her head, she went back to what to do about John. She was already falling for him and that would only lead her to more heartbreak. She wasn’t sure she could survive anymore of that. Her weary heart couldn’t withstand one more blow.

  If she allowed John Rowan to entertain her for the next two weeks, what happened after that? Could they still be friends? Would he still want to work with her on her contract insanity? She thought that he would. He was logical and extremely intelligent. It was herself she was worried about. Her heart got involved far too easily. Maybe this time, she could really take it a day at a time and not get in over her head. Whatever happened would happen. The prospect of going through the next few weeks without John was very bleak, so why not enjoy his company, and maybe even his bed? With a resolute nod, she vowed that she would not fall for him.

  Just as she made herself that promise, he knocked on the door to her room. She smoothed her dress checked her make-up. “We’re just having fun, figuring out my career options, and talking literature.” She ordered herself in the mirror.

  When she opened the door, every single order and vow she’d made sank right to the floor, along with her stomach. John Rowan, dressed in the perfect summer suit, stood holding a beautiful bouquet of pink tulips.

  “Thank you. You didn’t have to get me flowers. They’re beautiful.”

  “You look drop-dead gorgeous, Arley, and I wanted to bring you flowers. I started with pink roses but that seemed clichéd. I will, however, vow not to make the two-lips on the organ joke about these.”

  She giggled in spite of herself. John looked very pleased as she stepped back and he entered the room. His eyes swept over her suite as he situated the flowers on the mantle near the clock. Something about her suite pleased him.

  “Shall we?” When he gallantly offered her his arm, she knew she was in deep trouble.

  He guided her out of the Inn after shooting warning glares at Ryan, who was sporting quite a smirk. “So, he’s gonna give you hell the next time he sees you without me, right?” She couldn’t help but giggle.

  “Leave it to an author to notice every little thing. Should’ve known that; I guess.” He opened the passenger side door of his Porsche, and her mouth gaped.

  “I’ve never ridden in a Porsche.”

  John smirked. “Just like any other car … only so much better.”

  The ride in his fancy car didn’t last very long. There really wasn’t much to the town.

  “Look! They have a bookstore!” She exclaimed as she pointed to the now-darkened Bandana Books that sat past the dock and entrance to Havens’ Charter Boat Rentals.

  “We’ll have to explore the town a little.” He guided her towards the dockside restaurant. “Ryan’s helped rebuild most everything here. He redid this place a few months ago. They added on a new dining room out over the water and a bigger kitchen.”

  Arley studied the restaurant as she stepped inside. Ryan had done an outstanding job of keeping the eclectic qualities of the charming town while expanding the space to suit patrons looking for a nice meal on the water. She was fairly certain that John slipped the maître d two twenties while he thought she was distracted. They were seated quickly in a quiet, intimate corner with a stunning view of the incoming tide and the brilliant sunset over the soothing waters. Giving in to just a moment of self-care she stared out at the incoming tide and longed once again to somehow live on the water at some point in her life. The water used to help her write. She’d tried a little this afternoon, but had gotten nowhere fast. Shaking off that feeling of impending doom yet again, she moved her focus to John.

  “This is really nice. I’ve been surviving on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the last few weeks.” She saw no point in lying. It was the truth, and she had little to no money. She was trying to conserve her meager savings, and didn’t want to run up her credit cards. This trip alone was going to eat up what was left in her checking account.

  “Since you brought that up—and by the way, if it’s okay with you, I’d love a lunch and dinner date for the next week or two, my treat—tell me about your father’s will. You said your aunts had contested it?”

  “I can’t let you pay for all my meals, John.”

  “I’d enjoy the company, and once you’re past the age of like seven, PB&J’s get old pretty quickly.”

  “They’re good with Lay’s potato chips.” She wrinkled her nose.

  He laughed. “Agreed, but I’d still like the company.”

  “Maybe sometimes.” She conceded.

  “So, what happened with the will?”

  A waitress appeared at their table before she was forced to get into the hornet’s nest that was her family.

  “Want some wine, sweetheart?” His eyes smoldered over hers like he wanted very much to taste the wine from her lips.

  Arley’s breath tangled in her throat. Wow, sweetheart. He skipped right over babe, honey, and sweetie, and went straight for sweetheart. She fought not to squeal. A fevered heat blossomed from her womb and then poured out towards points just south. It took her a long moment to remember that he’d asked her a question and that the waitress was waiting on her to respond.

  “Oh, uh, only if you’re having some.”

  John shot her a look that said he knew she was trying to keep her order less expensive t
han his, and that he wasn’t pleased. His eyes scanned the wine list quickly. “Fine, we’ll each have a glass of your best Cabernet.”

  The waitress was suddenly far more interested once she realized that her tip that evening would be more than average. “Yes, sir. I’ll be right back with your wine and bread. Let me know if you’d like an appetizer.”

  His piercing blue eyes turned back on her as soon as the waitress made her exit. “I asked you out, Arley. Please, get whatever you want. Let me take care of you.”

  Her eyes flashed with heat. She was fairly certain he’d meant that in every possible way. She swallowed down raw need brought on by his commanding tone. It had been a very long time since anyone had taken care of her, and the last man that had ever cared enough to take care of her was dead and gone.

  Refusing to agree with his request just yet, she drew an audible breath. “Let’s see here. You already know that I’d signed my contract before my dad died.” She tried to speak the words that always left her short of breath. He was the only person that had ever understood her. He was so proud of her work. He never batted an eye at any of her scenes. He even helped her improve them in the beginning. He taught her how to write and how to live. It killed her that she was certain he would be disappointed in the turn her career had taken recently.

  John reached across the table and took her right hand in his. “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to. I was just thinking a contested will is much easier to solve than a Chapter 11 filing.” The warmth and substantiality of his voice and his caress allowed her to continue.

  “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind. I just really miss him, you know?” She swallowed back another enclosure of emotion that had settled in her throat.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Anyway, my sisters and I were supposed to each get a few hundred dollars a month from his estate. He left everything else to my mom. Savannah and Charlotte get their checks each month, but my Aunt Judith is married to the probate judge in Tilldale, and they’re all so appalled by what I write that she picked some line out of the will about having to act in a manner my father would see fitting to continue to receive the check to hold up my inheritance.”

  John rolled his eyes, but then another one of those sexy smirks formed on his lips. “Wait, wait, wait, your parents named you Savannah, Charlotte, and Arley.”

  “It’s ridiculous! Isn’t it?” She was thrilled someone understood the insanity of that. “My mother insisted that we all had to be named after Southern cities. Daddy used to joke that they named us where they conceived us, but he just said that because my mom freaked every time he joked that way.”

  Laughing over her tale, he shook his head. “Well, I mean, it could be worse. They could have named you Demopolis or Beaverton.”

  It felt so good to laugh, Arley dissolved into giggles over the thought of that.

  When she settled down, he was grinning at her sweetly. “Okay, Miss Southern City, your uncle is related to you, therefore he cannot preside over a hearing over the will.”

  “Yeah, but this is Tilldale. He’s the only judge. We don’t even have our own police department.” She sighed.

  “Then I will have a hearing moved to Birmingham, baby doll. That is not a problem, and we’ll get you your inheritance, but it didn’t sound like that was enough to get you back all of your rights.”

  “No, it won’t be, but it’s something. I could maybe get the rights back to my last release that was pulled off the market before it really went anywhere, and then pay off a few bills and figure out what to do next.”

  Why did heartbreak and hope have to live so closely together in her beautiful hunter green eyes? It wounded him. He longed to stand and guide her into his arms, to vow to keep her safe. She’d been through so much. He bit his tongue to keep from asking her about her ex. Reminding himself that he wasn’t supposed to know about Chase Masters, his jaw clenched in an effort to keep his knowledge to himself. Why did she have to be so easy to talk to?

  “Okay, so you’re all right with me filing to move the hearing to Birmingham, Monday? Your family will be notified. If they’re going to show up to continue their argument, they’ll have to know where to be and when.”

  John studied her closely. He didn’t want to do anything to cause her more pain. Determined resolve set her delicate features. She dug deep in that moment. He watched her chest rise and fall in a deep breath as she dipped into a stubbornness he knew had given her the grit to do all that she’d already accomplished. “I’m okay with that. They’ll get over it.” She wanted him to believe that, but John knew better. What he didn’t know was any other way to get her the inheritance she rightfully deserved.

  “Think about it over the weekend. If you change your mind, I can try to come up with something else.”

  “No, I’m not going to change my mind, and my mother and the bitch trifecta aren’t going to run my life anymore.”

  John cracked up. Damn, but she was a spitfire. His cock twitched out its adamant approval. His mind offered him stunning imagery of coaxing out her wild side in his bed. Oh, hell yeah, he was going to do this. “The bitch trifecta?”

  Arley giggled again. A melodic sound that heated his blood. “My mom has two sisters. They’re ever of the opinion that they all know how everyone else should run their lives. When I was about sixteen, I nicknamed them the bitch trifecta, but you’re the first person I’ve ever said that out loud to.”

  The blood that wound seductively up from the low cut dress and settled in her cheeks had John fighting not to groan from the need to strip her out of that sexy little dress and locate the source of her internal fire.

  “Oh, I like it. They sound very aptly named.” He winked at her and watched her delicate neck contract in a harsh swallow.

  Her eyes lit a moment later. “A few months ago, my Aunt Ruth said to my face that because I was an author I was incapable of being able to tell the difference in reality and fiction. She basically called me a liar and then deemed herself a saint because her reasoning for my inability to tell the truth was my sinful career. Playing judge, jury, and executioner is their M.O.”

  “Damn.” John shook his head. He was stunned. How did she go on with no support? How had she gone on and accomplished what she’d accomplished without her father to jetty the hurricane tides thrown her way? She was the kind of woman that would walk over glass and right through the fire and still smile because she knew she was real. She was somehow a hardcore survivalist wrapped in a beautiful, delicate package. Her heart was certainly wary and her soul weary, but she refused to give in. He’d never seen survival painted so beautifully.

  The longing startled him momentarily. He’d never before felt the need to protect someone as adamantly as he felt it with her. He’d always longed to take care of everyone he reached, but this was more. This was different.

  “I’m really, sorry, Arley. That’s rough. I think I would have given up.”

  “Believe me, I’ve thought about it dozens of times, but then I sit down at my laptop and the characters start talking, and it’s kind of like I transcend all of the crap thrown my way. I used to never feel more alive than when I wrote.”

  John’s brow furrowed. “Used to?”

  Her blush deepened. “Yeah,” she glanced away uncomfortably, “I think I might have writer’s block. I can’t seem to get anything out lately. It kind of terrifies me.”

  Her confession spoke volumes that never took on word. With all of the heartbreak she’d experienced lately, nothing frightened her more than not being able to write. Tapping into her passion allowed her to live, and she was currently being smothered by legalities and familial discord. He wouldn’t allow that. He’d find some way to bring her passion back to her.

  “So, do the stories attack you, or do you attack the stories?”

  “What?” The slight grin she gave him said she suspected he understood more about writers than she’d originally given him credit for.

  “In my experi
ence, successful writers fall into one of two categories. Either the characters attack them, wake them from their sleep, demand that their stories be told. The others go after inspiration, characters, and plots with a club. Both are successful, but you’re usually one or the other.”

  Arley’s beautiful smile lit his soul. “Yeah, you’re right. In the beginning the stories attacked me, I guess. I used to make up stories for my sisters when we were growing up. I rewrote lots of books that I read to make them the way I wanted them to be. After I was published, I could hardly keep up with the characters and stories. They came on so fast. In the last year or so, I’ve had to chase more of them down. I guess I was sort of getting burned out. I don’t know.”

  “It sounds like the past few months have been rough. And as much as I’m sure you appreciate advice from a lawyer who last wrote a decent sized work his Senior year of college, but have you tried to write something lately that you didn’t want to get published? I just wonder if the stories got harder to hunt when you started writing for a public instead of for yourself.”

  “I never really thought of that, but the idea of writing something just for me sounds heavenly. I’m just afraid I can’t write anymore at all.”

  “Hey,” John reached and cradled her face in his right hand. He gently lifted her chin until her eyes met his. “You’ve been walking through hell lately, sweetheart. Let me help you get to the other side. You’ll write again. Talent doesn’t just get up and leave. If you have it, it’s there. You just need to relax a little and let it surface again. Trust me.”

  “I do.” Arley had no idea why she trusted him, or even how, but in that moment she knew that she was going to trust John for as long as he was willing to stick around. She highly suspected that it was going to end up with her having a permanently broken heart, but she simply couldn’t walk away. Arley, my beautiful baby girl, if you don’t live fully, never have a broken heart, never experience true pain and true joy, you’ll have nothing to write about. Her memory offered her a precious gift. Her father’s advice in his own voice. She closed her eyes in an extended blink, just to try to bring his face, aged with wisdom, to the forefront of her mind.