Mister Naughty: A Romantic Comedy (Small Town Secrets Book 6)

by Cat Johnson

  The crease reappeared in her forehead. “As mayor?” she asked.

  “No. As Anonymous . . . under the name Mister Naughty.” There. I’d laid it all out. Every last sordid detail. Then cringed and waited for her response.

  “You got offered a column? As Mister Naughty?” she repeated, sounding as baffled as I had been myself by the offer.

  “I didn’t take it,” I reiterated.

  “But they offered it to you.” Her face went hard. Blank. Like an expressionless mannequin. Impossible to read.

  “Yes. But I never wanted it. Harper, I don’t want to be a writer. You’re the writer. Not me. That’s your domain and you’re welcome to it.”

  Hell, all I wanted to do was correct some idiot city guy’s wrong assumption about a coop light. How that one action had snowballed and landed me in this situation was crazy.

  It didn’t matter how I’d gotten here. What was most important was making sure Harper was okay with all this. That we were okay.

  “Please forgive me.”

  She lifted one shoulder. “It’s not your fault they offered you the column.”

  “It is my fault I didn’t tell you. All of it. Right away.”

  She shook her head. “It’s okay.”

  I watched and waited, almost wanting her to be angry. To yell. To lecture. Something. Anything other than this detached, emotionless nonchalance.

  It was almost as if she didn’t care. And if she didn’t care about what I’d done, did she not care about me?

  Finally she raised her gaze to mine. “Are you coming upstairs?”

  I wasn’t sure that question was for me to answer.

  “Do you want me to?” I asked. At this point, I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  “Only if you want to.” The cold edge of her words chilled me to the bone.

  “I want to,” I said with enough fervor she couldn’t doubt it.

  “Okay.” Water bottle in hand, she spun and led the way up the staircase.

  But as I followed I had to think that things were far from okay.

  TWENTY

  Harper

  It felt like I was walking through life with a weight chained to my heart. Dragging me down. My mood. My body.

  I couldn’t sleep when I laid down at night. And I couldn’t get myself out of bed in the morning.

  I should have been half-way through buying my Christmas gifts by this time, but I hadn’t even started yet. I usually loved shopping. Not this year.

  Marketing didn’t even excite me the way it used to. I’d let my social media pages wallow.

  I didn’t want to write. Even the fun of killing off the townspeople in my book had lost its allure.

  My lack of enthusiasm for all the rest I could probably get away with, but not for writing.

  I could buy gift certificates for everyone on Christmas Eve and call it a day.

  My social media would survive on just the recurring posts that automatically went out on a preset schedule.

  But not wanting to work on the book was a problem—for multiple reasons. I had commitments. Contracts. A release schedule to maintain.

  I would have searched online for the symptoms of depression if I wasn’t too listless to open the computer. I did manage to find the remote control and turn on the television. That was enough.

  I’d told Stone I was tired last night and asked if he’d mind sleeping at home instead of with me. It was one more thing adding to the distance between us. The distance I knew he’d never meant to create but had none-the-less.

  All because of that stupid forum.

  I’d hated Anonymous before I knew the truth. I hadn’t realized then exactly how much I should have hated that stupid account. Never realized it would get between us.

  I loved him. Loved him with all my heart. And yet, right now a small part of me couldn’t help but resent him, just a little bit.

  That wasn’t healthy in a relationship but I couldn’t help it. I was the professional writer. Yet without even trying, Stone had been offered a column in the newspaper and earned himself a strong online following.

  Just like how I’d wanted to be mayor, but because of circumstances beyond his control that position too had gone to him.

  I knew to my core he’d been happy with his life before all this happened. That he’d been content being a farmer and my boyfriend. That he didn't want or ask for any of what he’d been given, yet he’d still gotten it.

  Gotten exactly the things I’d wanted.

  A column. Jeez. I would have loved that offer. But they hadn’t given it to me. I was going to have to learn to be okay with the fact they’d offered it to him and he’d said no.

  I would have said yes. I would have jumped at the chance that he didn’t even want.

  That I was drinking two-day old water I’d found in a cup on the nightstand rather than walking downstairs to face the world and quench my thirst didn’t bode well for my coming to terms with the current situation anytime soon.

  When I could push aside the dark veil of my mood and try to see the situation objectively, I knew I couldn’t blame Stone, or the forum, or even the local newspaper for how dejected I felt now.

  Before I ever saw a post by Anonymous on the forum, long before Stone had confessed to being behind the posts, I’d been struggling. Grasping for motivation to start my next book. Procrastinating. Focusing on doing anything else besides writing.

  This—what I was feeling now—originated from within me. My insecurities. My tenuous sense of identity. My self-doubt.

  What if I couldn’t sustain this as a career any longer? More importantly, if I weren’t a writer, who would I be?

  What would I do? With my time. For money. I suppose I could get a real job. But where? Doing what? I guess I could ask Brandon if I could work at the hotel answering phones and checking people in or something.

  I glanced down at the glass of room temperature water, then at myself still in yesterday’s clothes. The one’s I’d slept in. I really needed to get it together.

  Fighting the gravity that seemed to have doubled in the past day, I pushed myself off the bed and shuffled across the room.

  Stone had built me a walk-in cedar-lined closet when he’d converted the attic to be my bedroom.

  It was beautiful. A masterpiece with open shelves, drawers and rods for both long and short clothes to hang. He’d even put a chair inside so I could sit to put on my shoes.

  He was great. Perfect. Except that I wasn’t sure he wanted anything more between us than what we had.

  And then there was that whole thing about him being a better writer than me. I knew in my head that was an exaggeration, but at the moment, it didn’t feel like it.

  Whether my career was finished or not, whether Stone and I would be okay or not, I still had to finish this book. It was due to my publisher on January first.

  If I were going to get to work, I needed fuel and to stop moping around.

  I glanced outside and saw the frost on the windows. It was a perfect day to bundle up in something soft and cozy. I dug out my favorite oversized cashmere sweater and pulled it on over leggings.

  After tugging on my furry boots, I was done. Ready for the world. Or at least dressed. I’d work on being ready once I got outside among the public. One thing at a time.

  There was a note in the kitchen from Aunt Agnes saying that she was having breakfast out with friends. That meant I was on my own.

  The idea of cooking for myself alone left me feeling colder than the temperature outdoors.

  Funny. I used to be good at being on my own when I lived alone. A couple of years ago, I’d preferred solitude to being around people. Mudville had changed me and I hadn’t even noticed it happening.

  In any case, getting coffee and something to eat at Bethany’s seemed much better than staying here, so I grabbed my wallet and headed for the door.

  The overcast sky matched my mood perfectly and there was enough of a nip in the air that I’d be happy to get home l
ater. It was a good day to turn on the heater and hibernate in my bedroom.

  Hopefully I’d be able to get some writing done.

  God, I hoped so, because I really needed to get words on the page and knock myself out of this writer’s block I’d fallen into.

  Bethany was working, of course. I should take a lesson from her. It didn’t matter if she was tired or sick or depressed. The bakery had to open every day.

  There was no using baker’s block as an excuse for her. She couldn’t lay around in bed all morning watching television like I had.

  Ashamed of myself and my shoddy work ethic, I tried to paste on a happy face and walked up to the counter.

  “Hey. How are you?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I lied and focused on the selection in the glass case. “Um, banana nut muffin please.”

  I figured I could pretend I was having a healthy breakfast if there were fruit and nuts inside.

  “You got it.” She smiled. “And coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” I pushed money across the counter and sighed.

  When I glanced up again it was to see Bethany watching me closely, the plate with the muffin poised in one hand.

  “What’s up with you?” she asked casually, though I could tell she suspected all was not well.

  “I’m not sure I can keep writing.” It came out in a whoosh, surprising even me and by the looks of her, Bethany too.

  “What? No.” Frowning, she shook her head.

  “Yes.” I nodded, fighting tears.

  “You’re just tired. And frustrated. You get like this every book when you get closer to your deadline. You’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t think so. Not this time. This feels different." It felt like the end.

  Looking up again I could see the deep concern in Bethany’s expression.

  I drew in a breath and forced a smile. “No, you’re probably right. It’s just the deadline. An extra-large coffee and maybe one of your cupcakes to go for later and I’ll be fine.”

  She watched me for a moment longer before setting down the plate and nodding. “Okay. I’ll get it for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, with another smile I hoped looked genuine.

  It was going to take a hell of a lot more than sugar and caffeine to get me out of this rut. But since those were the only tools I had at the moment, I might as well double down.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Stone

  The week leading up to Thanksgiving meant it was time to start harvesting this year’s crop of Christmas trees that would be sold at the Morgan Farm Market tree lot.

  Cash, Boone and I had spent the morning choosing and cutting the best trees and loading them onto the trailer to be brought to the farm market. There we’d set them up and prepare for the crowds of shoppers.

  Cell phone signal was spotty on top of the hill where we grew the evergreens we sold, so it wasn’t until I’d gotten back down to the farm stand and was about to start unloading the trees that the texts started to load.

  The phone in the breast pocket of my jacket didn’t shut up for what felt like a solid minute as the notifications kept coming.

  Boone and Cash had already started hauling trees off the trailer as I pulled the cell from my pocket.

  “You gonna help, princess?” Cash, always the smart-ass, asked.

  I’d been up on the hill tagging trees for half an hour before he’d rolled in with a cup of coffee and a yawn.

  Torn between cussing him out and lecturing him about being late, I chose a third option. I ignored him and swiped the display to read the texts and find out what the hell was going on.

  The bulk of the texts—about four of them—were from Red, with one from Bethany and two from Harper.

  I sighed and triaged what to focus on first.

  Harper’s texts, of course, took priority.

  I opened hers and saw the first one was reminding me that she might be driving downstate to visit her parents for Thanksgiving but she still had to call her mother about that. The second one was to tell me not to forget that Agnes wanted a fifteen-foot tree for the front hall and that I should keep my eye out for one that wasn’t too wide at the base.

  Yeah, because fifteen-foot skinny evergreens were so common. I shook my head and smiled at my city girl as I punched in a reply, promising to do my best.

  Whose text to read next? I chose Bethany’s since one message would be quicker to get through than four.

  Bethany: Can you call me? It’s about Harper.

  Hmm. That was interesting since Bethany’s message had arrived earlier than Harper’s had. And Harper had sounded just fine in her messages. What could be wrong?

  I navigated to Red’s text to look for more clues but they were just a string of all-caps and exclamation points that didn’t tell me a whole lot except that she too wanted me to call her, as soon as possible, about Harper.

  Drawing in a breath, I decided to find out what was happening first-hand and swiped the screen to call Red.

  “Red’s Resale,” she answered, even though I’d called on her personal cell and not on the store’s phone.

  Cash liked to mess with her when she made that mistake. He’d put on a fake voice and ask her crazy questions about oddball items he supposedly wanted to purchase.

  I didn’t have the time to tease my brother’s girlfriend. I needed to find out why the woman and her friend had texted me half a dozen times this morning. “It’s Stone. And this isn’t your store phone.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Thank God you called. We need you.”

  “Need me for what?” I asked, wondering what had Red sounding so agitated.

  “For the intervention.”

  “Intervention for what?”

  “For Harper. She told Bethany she’s quitting writing.”

  I shook my head. “She texted me twice this morning and sounded fine. And she always acts like that when she’s getting closer to a deadline.”

  “This time is different. Even Harper said so to Bethany. Stone, Harper’s not as tough as she pretends to be. Bethany said she looked close to tears. And, uh, I did something I probably shouldn’t have.”

  Now what? “What did you do?” I asked.

  “I snuck into Agnes’s house while Harper was at Bethany’s and looked at Harper’s computer. It was open to her book. She’s only on chapter two of the book that’s due in like a month.”

  I thought back to when I’d seen the book on her computer myself. That was just about where she was before the election.

  Red was right. Harper wasn’t writing. In fact, lately she didn’t seem to be doing much of anything except obsessing over the forum or watching television.

  “So we’re planning an intervention. You, Agnes, Bethany, me. We have to convince her she’s just in a slump and help her get over it.”

  What they were planning was definitely the wrong thing to do. But an idea hit me and I had a feeling it was just what she needed. It would take a phone call to set up. And me doing something I really hadn’t wanted to do. But for Harper, I’d do it.

  “Red, please. Do not have an intervention.”

  “But—”

  “There’s no but about it, Red. Do not gang up on her. She won’t respond well to that.” I knew her better than anyone. Including her two best friends.

  “We have to do something,” Red said.

  “We will. I will. I’ve got an idea. But it’s going to take me a little while to get it rolling. Please promise me you won’t hold this intervention in the meantime.”

  “All right. But I’m still going over there later with Bethany after I close the shop.”

  “No intervention.”

  “No intervention. I promise. But I can’t promise there won’t be wine. And probably cookies too.”

  “Fine. Maybe I’ll see you later. I’ll be over Agnes’s tonight after I get all my shit done.” Shit being my way of avoiding telling Red what I had in mind to do to cheer up Harper.

  Women—Harper in particular�
�could be a mystery. But for once, I knew exactly what I had to do to make things right.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Harper

  The last thing I expected to find when I crept down the stairs on stiff legs at the end of the day was Red and Bethany at Agnes’s back door. With booze. And baked goods. And, for some reason, bags full of books.

  Granted, I was a bit bleary-eyed. I had turned off the internet connection on my laptop, put my cell on the other side of the room and had vowed to not touch either—the internet or the phone—until I had written two thousand words.

  And I’d done it.

  It might be complete crap. And it was only a drop in the bucket compared to what I still had left to write to complete this book, but at least it was words on the page.

  That was more than I could say for my daily production lately which had hovered more between zero and a couple of hundred, if I was lucky.

  I was grateful I’d reached at least my minimum daily goal so I could abandon writing more today. I could open the door to my two friends and not feel guilty I wasn’t working.

  “Hello, you two. This is a nice surprise.”

  Red’s eyes brightened. “You’re in a good mood.” She spun to Bethany. “She’s in a good mood.”

  Bethany smiled and pushed past both Red and me to set two pastry boxes and one big bottle of wine on the kitchen counter. “She’s going to be in a better mood when she sees what’s inside these.”

  I frowned. “What is all this talk about my mood?”

  Had I been such a beast lately that my friends talked about me behind my back?

  Was there a group text I didn’t know about where they warned each other if I was particularly ornery?

  But actually, I couldn’t blame them. Because of my own insecurities, I’d been cranky lately and I feared I’d taken it out on them. No more. It was time to start living my best life. I’d just have to figure out how to go about doing that.

  Red closed the door and set the bags of books she’d carried on the kitchen chair, and also on the table since there were so many bags they didn’t all fit on the chair.