Finding Mr. Write (Business of Love Book 5)

by Ali Parker

  Each and every shop held something new and special and I found myself drawn inside. I dropped off resumes and made small talk with sales associates who were all pleasantly friendly enough but definitely more sophisticated than me. I felt out of place in those shops, like a rose on a stem that wasn’t quite as big or full as the other roses. My petals weren’t as well cared for, either.

  I started to feel self-conscious after the fourth store and decided to avoid fashion shops after that. I doubted I’d be taken seriously in any of them and the ladies were just being nice. I had to find something else.

  Using my experience, I started popping into restaurants instead. That immediately felt like more of my element, even though the overall level of busy was infinitely more extreme than what I was used to in Waynesville.

  The tips must be incredible, I thought as I waited for a manager to come take my resume and ask me a couple questions at a casual soup and sandwich place with exposed white brick walls and black grout and plants hanging from the ceiling.

  The manager, a lean bean pole of a man with a combover and a black waiter’s apron on, plucked my resume from my hand as soon as he walked over. His eyes flicked to my name. “Briar Sommerfield…” He trailed off and read my qualifications. “Your only work experience is in North Carolina?”

  I nodded. “Yes, but—”

  “What is this place?” He pointed at the restaurant I worked at in Waynesville.

  “Julie’s? It’s a lunch and dinner restaurant. I worked as a hostess there for two and a half years. It’s a very popular local restaurant.”

  “How many tables?”

  “Um, I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not sure?” he asked sharply, looking up at me. He passed my resume back. “You’re applying for a server position here and you have no concept of how many tables you had at your old job? No thank you, Ms. Sommerfield. Best of luck to you.”

  I stared at my resume and never managed to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth as he walked away.

  Fine then. I wouldn’t want to work for you anyway.

  I maintained that attitude for the rest of the afternoon as I dropped off resume after resume. Not because I wanted to, but because every single employer had the same bitchy attitude as that manager. They clearly didn’t have much time on their hands and they saw talking to me as a burden, even though they had hiring signs in their windows.

  It left a poor taste in my mouth.

  So did getting bulldozed by New Yorkers butting in line in front of me whenever I tried to make my way to the counter to drop off a resume. I even stood in line and waited patiently but that didn’t seem to matter to the people of this city. Soon I started to strategize, and I stood with my hands on my hips and used my elbows as weapons to ward people off who got too close or tried to slip in front of me.

  Not today, motherfuckers. Not today.

  When six o’clock rolled around, I was still roughly three miles from my motel. My feet hurt, my back ached, and my legs felt like putty from so much walking. It had started to rain well over twenty minutes ago and the hood of my jacket was soaked through, as were the shoulders, and I was so cold my teeth had started chattering. Everyone else on the sidewalks had umbrellas and I felt like a dumbass for not thinking ahead and buying one.

  Everyone in the movies had them. I should have known better.

  When I spied the warm lights of a hole-in-the-wall bar spilling out onto the sidewalk, I stepped up to the door and read the menu posted on the wall. A customer came out and I got a whiff of French onion soup. My mouth flooded with saliva. I pushed my hood off my head, raked my fingers through my wet hair, and scowled down at the red stains left on them.

  Nobody had warned me that red hair dye bled for days after application.

  The pub was small and cozy. Everything was different shades of brown. The booth seats were warm brown leather and all the furniture was a glossy stained cherry color. Candles flickered in mason jars and the lighting overhead hung from old rafters and didn’t provide much light at all.

  I moved up to the bar and took a seat at one end. There was a couple sitting at the opposite end, sipping drinks and talking quietly to each other. I took my coat off and draped it over the back of the stool. The bartender, a good-looking man in his late thirties with thick arms and tattoos from wrist to elbow, handed me a menu. It was red leather and bound with gold hinges. I thanked him and flipped it open, even though I knew I wanted the French onion soup I smelled.

  I ordered the soup as well as a Moscow Mule. I needed something to take the edge off. It had been a brutal day.

  My drink arrived first and I drank gratefully. While I waited for my food, I fired off two text messages. One to the group chat that was always going between me, Riley, and Madison, and the other to my parents who I doubted would see it for a while since they were still in France. I told them all that I’d spent my first day job hunting and that it seemed promising. I did not tell them about the rain, the poor-mannered New Yorkers, or my general disappointment at how the job hunt had gone.

  When my soup arrived, my mood brightened. I warmed myself up from the inside and turned down the offer of another drink or more food. This was all that was in the budget and it had hit the spot.

  Chapter 6

  Wes

  She wasn’t from around here. That much was obvious.

  The woman who’d just walked into the bar looked like she’d been out in the rain for hours. She’d made her way slowly down the bar to claim the stool at the end, over which she draped her heavy wet jacket. Her dark red hair was wet despite the jacket having a hood and it sat heavy against her back. I imagined it must have felt cold as the wetness seeped through her shirt.

  My writing mind wandered.

  Where had she been? Why had she spent so much time out on foot in this kind of weather? Didn’t she own an umbrella?

  Every respectable New Yorker knew the value of a good umbrella.

  I watched from my dark corner booth as she put in her order and slumped forward on the bar to sip on her Moscow Mule.

  I liked this place. I’d been coming here for the last few years. Apparently, they made good business, but every time I was here, it was always quiet, like tonight. There was usually something to watch, too. Rowdy guys watching a sports game. Husbands bitching about their wives. Old men squinting at their phones. Middle-aged loners hiding from the responsibilities of what waited for them at home.

  It was rare, however, to see a woman as young and beautiful as this newcomer. She didn’t fit the bill of the usual clientele, and I wondered why she’d picked this place of all the places on this street to stumble into for some rest and fuel.

  There was a story in this woman. I could feel it.

  Where had she come from? Did she travel a long way to get to New York? Was it recent? Why did she come here? For a job? A man? Was she running from something? Did she have demons in her past? Was she looking for something?

  I averted my gaze when she looked slowly around the bar. I kept my eyes down on my open notebook until I saw her face forward out of my peripheral.

  The bartender ducked into the kitchen and returned with a handled bowl of French onion soup. Steam wafted up from the rusty-orange-colored bowl, and when he set it down in front of the woman, she leaned over it and breathed in the steam. He asked if she needed anything. She shook her head and picked up her spoon and he brought her a cup of water.

  She cut into the bread and cheese on top with her spoon. I watched as she blew on it and sealed her pink lips around the spoon and ate. She took her time. Every bite was savored. Nothing was wasted. She finished the soup, pushed the bowl away, and sat back after taking a couple sips of water. A moment passed, and another, and once her bowl was cleared away, she leaned forward, rested her forehead in her hands, and stared down at her feet.

  Either that or she’d closed her eyes.

  I looked around the little tavern-like bar. Nobody was paying her much attention. Too curious f
or my own good, I got up and brought my notebook over to the bar. She didn’t hear me coming until I’d sat down on the stool beside her.

  She lifted her head from her hands and looked at me out of the corner of her eyes.

  They were the same color as the bottle of mint liquor behind the bar. Her stare was inquisitive, sharp, and bold. I saw a thousand thoughts race through her mind as she considered me. Then with a slight inclination of her chin, she said, “If you’re here for my number, you can move along. I’m not in the mood for sharing, and even if I was, I’m too tired to remember my own number.”

  I chuckled and set my notebook down on the bar. “I assure you that’s not what I’m here for.”

  Her expression remained unchanged, but she made a soft, dissatisfied sound in the back of her throat. “I can’t decide if I’m offended or relieved.”

  “Well, does it make you feel any better to know that I haven’t asked a stranger for her number in half a decade?”

  Her eyebrow arched ever so slightly. “No, it doesn’t. If anything, it makes me suspicious.”

  “Suspicious?” I shifted in my seat and flagged down the bartender. He nodded, acknowledging that he’d seen me as he poured drinks for the couple at the opposite end. “Well, I can’t blame you for that, I suppose. New York is a big place. This is a mediocre bar. You’re alone.”

  She straightened. “You’re not making me feel any better, you know?”

  I smiled and hoped it looked trustworthy and unthreatening. “I’m sorry. I just… well, I saw you come in and you looked rather defeated sitting here by yourself. I can spot someone new to the city trying to get their bearings and I’d say you had a hell of a day today. Am I wrong?”

  Her green eyes flicked back and forth between mine and she pursed her full lips. “No, you’re not wrong.”

  “Then let me make up for how hard my city was on you today. Let me buy you a drink. Charlie here makes the best Old Fashioned in the state. It’ll take the chill out of your bones.”

  She licked her lips and glanced down the bar at Charlie, the bartender. When her shoulders dropped a little, I knew she was going to agree before she even nodded and said okay.

  When Charlie made his way down to us, I ordered the two drinks. He went about pouring them and I left my credit card on the bar beside my notebook. He took it after he dropped off our drinks. I slid one to the pretty stranger beside me and tapped my glass against hers.

  “Welcome to the big apple,” I said.

  She smiled in earnest this time. “Thank you.”

  The first sip of the drink tingled on my tongue. She grimaced, sputtered for a minute, and went back in for a second sip which I always found went down easier than the first. She nodded appreciatively at it and set it down.

  “Not bad,” she said.

  “Right? New York can be a torturous bitch. But a stiff drink fixes everything.”

  “A torturous bitch,” she mused. “You hit the nail on the head.”

  “Tomorrow morning before you do anything else, get yourself an umbrella. Then you’ll be ready to face whatever the city throws at you. Rain, hail, snow, general douche-baggery of the human variety—whatever it is, an umbrella will help. Trust me.”

  She held her hand out to me. “I’m Briar.”

  “Wes.” I shook her hand. Her fingers were small and cold but her palm was warm.

  Briar turned to face me squarely on her stool, crossed one long leg over the other, and nodded at my notebook. “So what’s with the notebook? Are you one of those brooding dudes who likes to sit in dark corners and write poetry about dying trees?”

  I grinned. This girl had an edge to her.

  I liked it.

  “Poetry? No, but I am a writer.”

  Her eyebrows inched upward. I enjoyed her facial expressions. A lot of people were good at hiding their emotions on their faces. I’d gotten good at searching for micro-expressions and slight suggestions that might hint to what a person was feeling or thinking. I was good at catching the slightest twitch of the lips, a hair raise of an eyebrow, a scrunching of the nose. All of it pointed to an emotion.

  But Briar?

  She didn’t have micro-expressions. She wore her emotions boldly.

  “No shit,” she said, surprised. “Sorry about the writer crack. I didn’t actually expect you to be one.”

  I chuckled. “Personally, I have no soft spot for poetry, so you can go right ahead and say whatever you want about those pretentious wordsmiths.”

  Briar giggled.

  The sound bubbled out of her like a joyful tune being strummed on a harp. It made me smile and instinctively lean in toward her as she leaned back, sweeping a drying strand of red hair over her shoulder.

  “What do you write?” she asked.

  “Oh you know, a little of this, a little of that.”

  Briar clasped her hands together. “This and that, huh? Wow, sounds fascinating. You must be terribly talented and well paid to write about such precise, relevant subjects.”

  She was the definition of the perfect muse. Inspiration seeped out of her and I wanted to harness all of it and channel it onto the page. Her attitude was charming and the playful banter made it easy to go back and forth with her. She was still guarded, that was easy to see, but so was I.

  Then again, this was the first time I’d ever told a stranger that I was a writer. Usually, I played that close to the belt with someone I didn’t know. I never wanted to risk them finding out who I was. It complicated things every damn time.

  Briar rested her cheek in one hand. “You’re really not going to tell me what you write? Not even the genre?”

  I shrugged. “Guess.”

  Her lips curled in a devilish smile. “I like guessing games.” She sat up a little straighter and scrutinized me like I was a chess board. “Suspense.”

  “No.”

  “Horror.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Science fiction?”

  “Nope.”

  Briar removed her hand from her cheek and drummed her nails on the bar. “Non-fiction?”

  “I’m offended.”

  She rocked back on her stool and laughed. It made me smile in turn, and when she collected herself, she took a sip of her drink. “You’re good company, Wes. I’m glad you came and sat with me. I needed a laugh today. It’s been a rough one.”

  “You know,” I said, “there’s only one thing writers are really good at besides writing.”

  “Oh, and what’s that?”

  “Listening.”

  Briar rolled her eyes but smiled. “Is that so?”

  I nodded earnestly. “It is. So, if you’d like to talk about it, I’m all ears.”

  “Promise you won’t put it in a book?”

  “Why does everyone think their life is so interesting that writers want to put them in their books?”

  Briar crossed her arms. “Why are writers so good at evading questions with more questions?”

  I chuckled. “All right, all right. I won’t put it in a book.”

  Chapter 7

  Briar

  I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something about Wes that just made him easy to talk to. He sat in rapture, leaning inward, eyes fixed on me, and all the while, I blabbed about my last forty-eight hours, including the very beginning when my friends were late driving me to the airport. He sympathized and scowled and shook his head at the unfair tidbits of the story, and nodded with what seemed like pride when I told him how I’d spent my first night alone in a motel.

  “You weren’t lying,” he said. “You’ve definitely had a rough go.”

  Having someone else acknowledge how hard my day had been took a weight off my shoulders. “I know, right? And here I was naively thinking everything would work out in my favor and I’d fall into a well-paying job and find an apartment all within my first day.” I smirked at my own foolish optimism. “Stupid, right?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re just
being nice.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  I laughed and so did he. Wes had a nice laugh. In fact, he had a nice everything. When he first came and sat down next to me, I hadn’t been sure what to think. My guard had been up because every guy who ever made a move on me in Waynesville had done so after having one too many drinks. Those fools thought they were charming as hell as they slurred about how pretty I was and mispronounced my name and tried to order me shots of tequila.

  Wes didn’t have any of that small-town classlessness to him that I’d grown so used to. He was polite and calm, and he had a disarming smile that made me want to trust him and believe he was good to his core.

  Not only that, but he was quite handsome.

  He was quite tall. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and his eyes were hazel, almost gold. Beneath his thick dark brows, they almost looked like they were glowing in the dim lighting of the bar. His features were shockingly symmetrical, his jaw sharp and square but not too wide and shadowed by a day or two’s growth of stubble. He had dimples that were absolutely swoon-worthy, and his hands were large, his fingers long, his wrists thick.

  Maybe it was his good looks that had made me wary of him at first. Men with good intentions never looked this good. Men with bad intentions? Well, they were much more likely to be this attractive. It opened doors for them.

  “Are you going back to job hunting tomorrow then?” Wes asked.

  I nodded and swirled my drink. Wes had ordered us a second Old Fashioned and it was going down even easier than the first. My hair had long since dried out and my clothes no longer clung cold and damp to my skin. “Yep, I don’t have a choice. I only have so much savings to last me a couple of months and I don’t want to blow through it all. Who knows what kind of deposits I might have to make when I find a place to rent? You know all about it, I’m sure. An artist’s life, am I right?”