His eyes caught hers and held them for a beat. His Adams apple bobbed and he dropped his gaze to the burgers. "I could eat."
She nodded. "Please."
The restaurant was beginning to come alive, the din growing. Each bite of food brought Sophia closer to feeling like herself again, and more than once, she'd forgotten—albeit briefly—about the stress that had driven her all week.
Sophia sneaked a look at Christian. He had a ruggedness to him. Translucent sea blue eyes notwithstanding, even without his scruff, she thought him rugged. Wild. Though how a man like he could sit for hours on end and dream up stories, she didn't know. At the very least, she would have thought his novels would be action-adventure tales of swashbucklers and maidens, sword fights and freedom from oppressors. Or maybe crime thrillers with cigar-chomping detectives and bloody scenes of misdeeds followed by justice delivered.
She was surprised—intrigued, more like it—to discover his love of fantasy, fairytales, and ... magic.
Perhaps for this reason she had found him easy to like, yet difficult to know. She froze on that thought. She wanted to know Christian. What made him devote his life to writing? Why, really, had he come here, to a suite at the inn, to write his next novel? And ... how did he earn that scar on his face?
Embarrassed, Sophia swallowed her questions along with a last bite of a slider. She sipped her water and hoped he could not read her mind. She searched for something ... anything to fill the space between them.
Sophia relaxed against her chair and played with the napkin in her lap. "I was wondering if you would tell me about your book."
"The Spell?"
"I didn't know that was the title—it's, wow, I love it. Sounds beautiful." She froze again. "I mean, intriguing."
He laughed. "You could use the word beautiful. I'm a guy, but I can take it."
"I'm relieved to hear that. What has been happening with your book?"
He pursed his lips, his head tilted slightly to the side. Had she said the wrong thing? Asked an invasive question?
Finally, he said, "My agent is suing me."
Now, that ... that was not what Sophia had expected to hear. She frowned. "Why?"
He wadded up his own napkin and pitched it onto his plate, his smile rueful. "Honestly, I have some doubt that he'll pull the trigger, but he appears to enjoy making trouble for me." His sigh sounded weary, almost defeated. He caught eyes with her. "It's made this week rather distracting."
"I don't understand. Are you writing something that he did not approve? Did not agree upon?"
"No, no, nothing like that." He flashed a look at her. "Do you know why I'm here, living here?"
She didn't. Sophia shook her head to that effect.
He nodded, closed mouth. If she had to guess, the expression on his face told her he was about to lay it all out for her—no matter how it sounded. That defeated look in his eyes had suddenly turned defiant. "To put it succinctly, I came here to write without the encumbrance of my ex-agent's influence. Life had taken some detours, and your brother offered me this place to start fresh. But then ..."
"Yes, what then?"
Christian dropped his chin and sighed. He lifted his eyes to hers. "Though we had parted ways, he inadvertently got wind of the fact that I am writing the book that he and I once talked about. Our ties had been severed, and there'd been no chance of a contract for this one—and I had come to terms with that. But he decided, once he learned that I had revived the story, that he should be entitled to his share."
"Because you and he had spoken about it together?"
He sat back and she thought he might end the conversation. "'Fraid so."
"Does he have a contract? What I mean to ask is, an enforceable contract?"
Christian shook his head. "No. Nothing like that. Listen, I'm not afraid of him. I don't think he has anything to stand on regarding my book, but it's a hassle."
She nodded. "I can see that. I've turned off my own phone much of this week, so I do understand how important it is to leave all the distractions behind."
He smiled at her, the blue of his eyes a distraction of their own. "I'd love to see what you've accomplished this week while ignoring me."
"Christian—"
"Kidding." His smile turned playful. "But seriously, don't be a stranger."
A ripple of something ran through her, like a charge. She didn't respond—but didn't have to. A comfortable silence sat between them, as if they had been close for many years. Finally, she spoke. "Are you feeling a little better about it all now?"
He nodded. "I am, but I haven't told you the latest."
She felt both of her eyebrows raise in anticipation.
"Burns—he's my former agent—Burns announced on Facebook that he's representing my book. Even posted the cover." That rueful smile was back. "The plot thickens, eh?"
She tightened her hands into fists, unexpected anger rising. It hit her like a hurricane. "Why would he do that?"
Christian shrugged. "Who knows why jerks do what they do? Could be anything. He might think that by doing me a favor—offering some pre-order promotion—that I'd come running back to his agency. Or, he might be fishing for a contract. He's already said that one publisher who originally passed on it is suddenly interested. All I know is that he's made it mighty hard for me to extricate myself—and my book—from his clutches. At least in the public's eye."
"But you won't allow him to represent you, right?"
"No, I won't. But once something's on the internet, it's there forever."
"A distraction of a different kind."
He nodded, their eyes engaged, that sad smile shaping his mouth. "Exactly."
"Promise me you'll fight him."
Both his smile and his eyes lit. "Look at you, little fighter!"
"I'm very serious." Even she did not know exactly what it was that created the storm inside of her. All she knew at this moment was passion ... for justice. "You fight this, Christian. I will be the first one to buy your book. I promise."
He laughed into the air. "For you, a free copy."
"Will you sign it?"
"You mean so it'll be worth less?"
She frowned.
Christian reached across the table and laid his warm hand on top of hers. "Thank you for pulling me out of that deep dark place of self-loathing. I needed it."
Sophia couldn't bear to pull her hand away until he did. His touch enveloped her, ignited her, surprised her. She longed for their hands to linger there entwined, a thought that surprised her as much as the simple act of his touch soothed her.
Another human rushed up to their table.
"Very sorry to have kept you waiting." She pulled her hand away just as Wade bent down and kissed her on the cheek. He smelled of high-end cologne and hurry. He reached over and shook Christian's hand. "Thank you for keeping her company."
Christian's manner was the epitome of calm, yet beneath the scruff of his beard, she detected a hardness to his jaw. He slid out of his chair and stuck a hand in his pocket. "No problem."
Wade took the seat that Christian had vacated. "Glad there's something left." He singularly focused on the remaining slider. "I'm starved."
Sophia gave Christian a little smile, but he only nodded and walked away.
Chapter 9
After Christian's odd exchange with Jackson the week before followed by his encounter with Sophia—and Wade—soon after, he found he needed a change of scenery. A hard truth to explain should he have been asked. Because as breathtaking and accommodating as his suite at Sea Glass Inn was, staying there to write had proven a distraction he didn't need. Nor one he could afford.
Besides, he reasoned, eating, sleeping, and working in the same small space—no matter the view from that space—could have a crippling effect on creativity. He felt certain of this. So he had spent a few days writing from various sunny spots throughout the city, including a courtyard shop that served up coffee and acai bowls and a brewery with Wi-Fi. He’d made s
uch great progress, that after another day of wandering, he finally found himself ready to stay “home” for a while.
Laptop in hand, Christian strolled back into the inn through the front doors, sending a nod to Thomas at the bell desk as he did. After days and hours spent writing off-site, he welcomed a little human interaction—not enough to pull him completely out of the story in his head, but enough to give his mind and body a respite.
"Afternoon, Christian," Trace said. The concierge desk, which had been surrounded by guests this morning when he’d strolled out, had quieted considerably. "Chef's serving yummy strawberry shortcake in the cafe today. They grow the strawberries near here, you know. You should stop in."
He patted his stomach. "You trying to make me fat?"
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, up-lease. Guys don't have to watch their figures the way we women do." She took another bite of her dessert, which she'd been hiding beneath the counter, and shook her head. "World is an upside-down place."
The concierge phone rang and Trace stashed her shortcake back into its hiding place. The clip of Meg's heels stormed up behind him. "Christian, have you heard?"
"I ... heard what?"
Jackson's wife was petite and powerful in her fitted suit. She carried a clipboard and wore a worried frown.
"Excuse me, Meg?" Trace leaned across the desk, her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. "There's a phone call for you. She says her name is Priscilla. You two met in, uh, somewhere in Italy."
"Priscilla?" Meg glanced from Trace to Christian and back again. "Please tell her to hold just a moment." She swung a look back at him. "I need to take that, but talk to Sophia, if you haven't already. You're an artist—you can help!"
He hesitated as she jogged in those heels around the concierge desk, took a seat, and answered the phone. No, he hadn't spoken to Sophia today. In fact, other than an occasional wave from his neighboring balcony, he hadn't seen the elusive fashion designer all week.
He huffed a sigh. The real reason for his need of a change of scenery exposed. On his way to the bank of elevators, one of which would take him to his temporary home, he pivoted and headed to the bar instead. Christian slid onto a barstool, ordered up a bowl of the seasonal shortcake that Trace recommended so highly, and spent some time avoiding ... her.
Johnny served him his dessert followed by a shout to someone behind him. "Hello, Mr. Riley. What can I get for you?"
Jackson took the stool next to Christian's and gestured to the voluptuous bowl of strawberries and cake and fresh whipped cream in front of him. "One of those would be great. Thanks."
Christian didn't turn, but lingered on a bite, swallowing it slowly. Jackson's presence turned on a proverbial light bulb in Christian's mind, especially as he replayed the implications from their last conversation.
"Come here often?" Jackson asked.
"I pay my bills, if that's what you're asking."
Jackson scoffed. "Good thing."
"What's up?" He refrained from asking if he knew what had spooked Meg where Sophia was concerned. If Jackson wanted to tell him, he would. Still, curiosity clawed at him, leaving his insides raw.
"I assume you've spoken with your neighbor recently."
Christian gulped his water, washing down a large bite of cake. "Can't say that I have. She's a busy lady, I hear."
Jackson squinted. "What's wrong with you?"
Christian took another bite and ate it slowly. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Guess I could ask you the same question."
Johnny served Jackson the cake, conversation between them silent. But instead of taking a bite, he said, "She's my sister. Maybe I should have thought out the implications of ... of everything."
"You mean like housing your jailbird friend next to her?"
"Knock it off." Jackson placed both forearms squarely on the bar in front of him and swung a look at Christian. "She's vulnerable. And beautiful ... and somewhat naive."
"Is that why you've set her up with Grandpa?"
"You really are a jerk. You know that?"
Christian smiled evenly. "So I've heard."
Jackson groaned. A dollop of whipped cream slid down a massive strawberry, but he ignored his dessert. "For the record, I haven't set her up with anybody, Wade included. Though, I'm not opposed to that."
"Of course you aren't."
"She needs someone stable. Especially after all she's been through, but I didn't bring her here to play matchmaker or to run her life in any way."
"But you want her to stay here, in this town."
"I hope so. I want that—Meg wants that too. We don't have a ton of family, either of us."
"I wouldn't hurt her, you know."
Jackson gave him a pained look.
Christian stabbed his dessert, which was quickly becoming a melted swirl of cream and syrup. "I'm not a monster."
"You have a temper."
"You don't think a person can change? Can learn from their mistakes and rewrite their future?"
"I thought you had."
And there it was. The root of Jackson's conflicting behavior where Christian was concerned. He may have been a hothead when he was younger. Jackson had certainly seen that in him. But he had changed and his life showed that. Or it had until he made a serious misstep and clocked that ignorant reviewer. He'd had his reasons, and he'd paid his dues. But how many chances did one person receive?
Christian gave him a pointed look. "Are we all destined to wallow in our failures, in your opinion?"
Jackson seemed to ponder this, to weigh Christian's words, perhaps in light of his own life. He rubbed his forehead with his hand and leaned into it, as if holding himself up. "You know what's really weird?" he finally said. "Sophia has managed to bring out something in me that I didn't even know existed."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
“Well, you know what? I could say the same thing about your sister."
Jackson stared blankly toward the back of the bar. His jaw clicked several times, and for the briefest of moments, Christian understood. Or at least he thought he did. Why wouldn't his old friend be protective of the sister he never knew? Of a woman who shared his DNA yet had not been given the privilege of sharing in that knowledge until recently?
And what if he had not taken such a stance?
Christian knew what he would have thought about that—he would have wanted to shake his friend for that error in judgment. He swallowed down a bite of dessert along with his pride. "Jackson, I'll honor your wishes," he said, quietly. "I'm not going to now, or ever, expect anything more from Sophia than friendship." Even as he said the words, his gut twisted.
"We may be new to each other, but she’s my sister. I want to protect her. She may overrule my opinion and do whatever she pleases. But I appreciate you steering clear so she doesn't have that option where you’re concerned." He swung a look at Christian. "I'm sure you understand, under the circumstances."
Christian flipped a glance at his old friend, elbow on the counter, spoon dangling over his half-eaten dessert. He looked like a drunk who had just bellied up to the bar and spilled his guts. He pitied him.
Despite the promise he'd just made to his old pal, one he intended to keep, a very real part of Christian hoped that what pleased Sophia included ... him.
Sophia sank into blackness, the song of the sea her lullaby, the caress of salt air her embrace. She submerged into the void, sensing herself letting go, her fingers uncurling, releasing from the tether of self, creation ... ridicule.
"Sophia?"
She hardly knew she'd been drifting until his familiar voice interrupted her descent. Sophia lifted a corner of her sleep mask and peered out.
Christian.
With one strong arm as a brace, he hopped over his rail onto her deck. Always scared her half to death to see him do that way up here, so far from the ground.
He pulled the other lounge chair closer to hers and sat. "What's been happening?"
She frowned. "I
suppose you already know."
"If I knew, I wouldn't be asking you."
She stared at him for a beat, then gave her head a tight little shake, reaffixed her sleep mask, and crossed her arms across her midsection.
Christian lifted the mask from her face. "Sophia—hey, is this a gel mask?"
She smirked. "Yes."
"Fancy," he said. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"
Sophia pulled the mask off her face fully and flung it onto the small glass end table next to her. The glare of daylight accosted her, so she covered her face with the back of her forearm. One "woe is me" joke and she'd be throwing him out. Or maybe just asking him to leave. "This isn't my best moment, Christian."
"Well, if we're going to be friends, you're going to have to invite me to your pity parties on occasion. I can pout just as well as any of your friends."
"Men don't pout."
"Really. Is that what you think?" He swung his legs onto the lounger, laid back, and scratched his beard, as if giving thought to her words. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I don't pout. But I can brood with the best of them. Might be helpful for a while—but too long and I find it impossible to pull myself out of it." He turned his chin toward her and nearly whispered, "Friends don't let friends go down that road."
Sophia turned onto her right side, knees bent to a nearly fetal position. The sun made her eyes squint. "Everything was going so well. The samples are done. The line sheets have been revised. Raven helped produce a press kit and emailed it to hundreds of bloggers."
"And?"
Her eyes clouded into puddles. "I received the worst review ever. It might possibly be the most scathing review I have ever seen for a design." She didn't want him to see her cry, did not care to elicit sympathy, so she flipped over onto her back, her eyelashes fluttering. Regardless of her struggle, a tear slipped out of her eye and down her cheek.
"I'm sorry."
She closed her eyes. What else could he say? He couldn't fix this—nobody could. A blogger had actually called her design childish. Ill-fitting. Ugly. Not worthy of a fraction of its price tag. That alone could cut to the deep, but the words rang eerily close to words written long ago, by someone she loved. She sniffled, forcing back more tears.
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