Finding Mr. Write (Business of Love Book 5)

by Ali Parker

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” I chuckled.

  Briar’s cheeks turned neon pink and she gripped the edges of the table. “I have read all of your books, Wes. And I mean all of them. And I’ve definitely done plenty of not-safe-for-work things while I was reading them. You—you—” She shook her head. “You have a way with words. Let’s leave it at that.”

  The thought of Briar being intimate with herself while she read one of my books made my skin burn with lust. How had she done it?

  In the bathtub perhaps? Had she surrounded herself with flickering candles, put on a romantic playlist in the background, sank down under the bubbles, and clutched the book in one hand while she touched herself with the other?

  My pants were suddenly too tight.

  Shit.

  My mind continued to wander.

  Had she done it in bed? Had she lain with her thighs open, knees resting against the mattress, a vibrating toy pressed to her clit?

  Had she filled herself up with—

  “This is so not what I expected,” Briar whispered. “One minute, I’m walking around in the pissing rain, feeling sorry for myself, and then I’m rescued by a man who lets me believe he’s a struggling artist, and lo and behold, you’re the guy whose books I’ve been reading when I need to, well, take care of things if you know what I mean.”

  I cleared my throat and sipped water. “I know what you mean.”

  Briar started giggling. “Sorry.”

  I tugged at the collar of my shirt. “I’m glad there’s a napkin on my lap.”

  She rested her elbows on the table and giggled into her hands until it morphed into full blown laughter that spilled over into me. Soon, we were both snorting and laughing our asses off with tears streaming down our faces while she proclaimed that her ribs hurt.

  Thankfully, our food arrived shortly after that.

  Briar licked her lips as she stared at her plate. She hadn’t been shy about ordering what she wanted once she realized I had the funds to cater to her desire for a steak with mashed potatoes and broccoli. She told me she hadn’t had a meal like this in months because she’d been saving for her plane ticket and her time in New York, and it felt good to buy her something that hadn’t been an option for her recently.

  She ate like it was her last meal.

  Every bite was savored. She chewed slowly, washed every second bite down with a sip of wine, and switched bites between everything on her plate. A little of this, a little of that—it was all balanced. She truly made the most out of her meal, and when she sat back in her seat to finish her wine, her plate was empty.

  “That was so good,” Briar said. “I haven’t eaten like this in ages.”

  I liked how humble and grateful she was. Briar was a nice change of pace compared to the women I’d entertained dating before her. Then again, all of those “dates” were a long time ago indeed. I’d been living the single life for quite a few years, chalking it up to not having time to write and give energy or affection to another human. However, Briar had kickstarted my writing process after weeks of struggling to put any words on the page.

  Maybe having a someone in my life wasn’t necessarily a distraction.

  We corked the bottle of wine and took it with us when we left the restaurant and embarked on our long walk back to the car. Central Park was just as beautiful to walk through at night. Lights lit up the tree canopies, lined pathways, and reflected on the water beneath the couple of bridges we crossed.

  It was magical.

  Story-worthy, one might say.

  Just like Briar was.

  She was unique in the sense that she was inspiring and brave. I didn’t know many people who were willing to pack up only their clothes and start over in a city where they didn’t know anybody and didn’t have a plan. She’d come here with no job and no place to live. She’d thrown herself into it, trusting herself to figure it out along the way.

  And she’d done it within a matter of days.

  That took sacrifice and guts. Two things Briar clearly had plenty of willingness to exercise.

  “Thank you again for dinner,” Briar said as she strolled along beside me. “I had a really nice time.”

  “So did I. Maybe I can take you out again sometime soon?”

  “I’d like that, Mr. Parker.”

  I chuckled.

  “Can I ask you something?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Why are you being so nice to me? Why do you want to spend so much time with me?”

  I shrugged. “It’s simple really. You’re an impressive woman. You’re brave, and funny, and intelligent. And I like being around you. You also happen to be the sort of woman I would like to write about one day.”

  She blushed. “So I’m a case study?”

  “You’re more than that.”

  Briar hid her burning cheeks from me. “Is that a line you use on all the pretty girls you like?”

  “It’s not a line. It’s the truth.”

  Chapter 15

  Briar

  Riley and Madison would never believe me if I told them that W. Parker took me out on a date in New York City.

  Hell, I doubted anyone would believe this. I hardly believed it myself and I was the one whose hand he was holding as we approached the parking lot. Did I feel all giddy inside because of who he was, or had I felt this way since before I found out?

  You’ve felt this way since Thai food.

  That thought was true. There was something so disarming and kind about Wes that he’d effortlessly wandered into my heart and started making a residence there. It was a little unnerving how quickly I’d started to like him, and learning his real identity wasn’t making it any easier for me to keep my head on straight and approach this with one baby step at a time. I didn’t like moving quickly in relationships. I believed in little steps so that we could savor each stage of the relationship.

  I almost laughed at myself.

  Who was I to go off thinking I knew how to properly court someone like Wes? The only guys I’d dated were younger than him by at least five years, and I hadn’t been in a relationship in over three. Which meant I was applying logic I’d used when I was in my early twenties dating men who were also in their early twenties.

  Said men had another name. Boys.

  Our dates were movies and make-out sessions on futons in bedrooms that smelled like gym socks and instant noodles. The nicest restaurant a boy had ever taken me to was the local steakhouse back in Waynesville, and even that place wasn’t all that glamorous. There were moose heads mounted on the walls and a sports game of some sort constantly playing on the TVs behind the bar, which meant the attention of the boy was never entirely on me but on the screens behind me. At the time, I’d just been delighted to be sitting down to dinner with them. I’d relished the opportunity to get dolled up and put my best foot forward.

  But I’d always gone home disappointed.

  That wasn’t going to happen tonight. I’d quite literally been swept off my feet and the night had only gotten more magical as time went on. Strolling through the park in the early evening had been beautiful as the sun set. But now, as the lights twinkled on the still surface of the water and lit up random tree trunks in the forested areas, I was quite sure I’d never been on a date that felt so whimsically perfect.

  We reached the parking lot just as the night started to feel too cold to be outside. Wes opened my car door and stood by as I got in the car. He made sure my feet and hands were clear before closing the door and making his way around. I put my seatbelt on and sat with my hands crammed under my armpits until he started the engine and cranked the heat for me.

  “Thank you,” I muttered. I should have dressed warmer. I was going to have to figure out a way to still be stylish in New York with my limited budget. Back home in Waynesville, I’d just throw on a Mac jacket or something like that, but I doubted many people would take me seriously
if I showed up in a men’s fleece-lined flannel work jacket.

  Wes reversed out of the parking spot, and by the time we pulled out of the lot, the car was hotter than the Sahara Desert. I turned down his heat to the lowest setting and unwrapped my scarf from my neck.

  “Thank God,” Wes said. “I was sweating bullets.”

  “Your car heats up so fast. I didn’t expect that.”

  He gave me a look I couldn’t read and turned his attention back to the road as we pulled away from a red light. “Do you have things to do back at the new apartment, or would you like to come over for a glass of wine?”

  He wanted to spend even more time with me?

  What had I done right to attract the attention of a man like Wes Parker? Whatever it was, I hadn’t been doing it deliberately. Was what he’d said about me being the kind of woman he’d like to write about true? Or were those cute little words he knew would make me want to say yes to his invitation for more wine at his house?

  Either way, I wanted to go with him. I wasn’t ready to say goodnight, and if I was being perfectly honest, I also didn’t want to turn down the chance to get an up close and personal look at the place W. Parker called home.

  “I would like that,” I said.

  Wes hid his boyish grin and took the next right. “Then we don’t have very far to go at all.”

  Of course, he lived close to Central Park. I should’ve expected that. He was a world-famous author, after all. With all the books he’d published and the popularity he’d accrued over the last several years, I could only imagine how much money he actually had. He played the part of a cool, modest cat, but something told me Wes was drowning in riches.

  His car suggested I was correct.

  We looped back toward Central Park, and when we took a left off of Central Park South onto a narrow residential street lined in near leafless trees and more white lights wrapped around branches and trunks, I found myself gazing out the window at the beautiful homes on either side of the street. They were mostly townhouses, three stories high, with brick faces and gothic black doors and tiny front yards sectioned off the sidewalk with black wrought-iron fencing. These places were old, probably at least fifty years, maybe more, and I’d seen the likes of them in movies dozens of times over and always wondered how much they would cost.

  In the millions, I always assumed.

  Wes parallel parked the car in an open spot on the side of the street. We got out and I tightened my leather jacket and scarf around myself as the chill bit into me once more. Wes joined me on the curb and walked with his hand in the small of my back past three homes before opening the gate of the fourth.

  “You can’t be serious,” I breathed.

  “What?”

  “You live here?”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “A bad thing?” I asked incredulously. Then I laughed. “No, not at all. I’m just waiting to wake up in my shitty motel room and realize the last twenty-four hours were all a dream.”

  “Are you calling me dreamy?”

  He held the gate open for me to walk through, and I narrowed my eyes and stuck my tongue out at him as I passed. “I’m calling my life dreamy, Shakespeare. Don’t get too cocky.”

  He chuckled and closed the gate behind us. We climbed the ten stairs up to his front door and my stomach flooded with butterflies as he slid his key into the lock.

  He shouldered the door open and we stepped into the foyer. I stopped and stared around slack jawed as Wes locked up behind us and helped me out of my jacket. It was cozy and warm in there, but the comfort wasn’t what stopped me in my tracks.

  This place was stunning.

  The ceilings were about fourteen feet over my head. They were black, reminding me of the night sky, and broken up by dark blue rafters. I felt as if I’d stepped into a different world. The walls were all exposed white brick, the original from when the place was first built, I assumed, and the floors beneath our feet were a dark polished hardwood. There was a long runner that ran down the foyer and led through a hallway. At the end of the hallway was where the rest of the house began, and it made sense that every second townhome was staggered this way. One had most of the living space at the back while the neighbors had it at the front.

  Crystal chandeliers lit the way overhead as Wes led me into the belly of his home. I still hadn’t found my voice, and when I stepped down three steps at the end of the hall into the living room, I realized there were no words for a home like this.

  The living room was a sprawling masterpiece filled with simple pieces of furniture and minimally decorated. The fireplace, a grand marble beast of a structure, was the focal point, and it stood in the middle of the room. On the other side was the dining area, and past that the kitchen. All along the back of the house were accordion-style black-trimmed doors. All of them opened, creating an indoor-outdoor living vibe onto the back patio. The yard wasn’t large by any means, but it was surprisingly private with a covered deck, plunge pool, hot tub, and large seating area.

  Wes moved to his glassed-in wine cellar. The door opened with that familiar sound of being unsealed, like a cooler in a grocery store, and Wes fished out a chilled bottle of red.

  “What do you think?” he asked, nodding around at his place as he went to the kitchen to get a corkscrew.

  I couldn’t stop staring. Bookshelves lined one wall of the living room. There wasn’t a single inch of open retail space on said shelves. Every section was full and boasting thick covers of a variety of books. None were Wes’s books, I noticed.

  “It’s the most incredible home I’ve ever set foot in,” I said softly. “How long have you lived here?”

  “About two years,” Wes said as he managed to pull the cork free of the wine bottle. He filled up two wine glasses. “It doesn’t quite feel like home yet but we’re getting there. It’s private, which I like. I didn’t want to live right on South. Too many people trying to look in windows, you know?”

  I frowned. “No, I don’t. But I can see now that you say that how much of a problem that could be.”

  He brought me my glass of wine. We tapped our glasses together before taking a sip.

  “Where do you usually write?” I asked.

  “Here. I have a home office upstairs, but sometimes, I’ll work in the living room or dining room. Or outside, but I’m more likely to get distracted out there.”

  I nodded like I understood perfectly well what he was saying. A big part of me wanted to see what his bedroom looked like. But that would be a big move. I doubted we’d leave the bedroom if we made our way up there right now and I wasn’t ready for that kind of exercise.

  “Well, color me impressed, Mr. Parker,” I said.

  Wes rubbed the back of his neck. “I usually don’t have people over.”

  “How come?”

  He shrugged and looked around. “It’s always felt like a little much to me. A bit extreme. Like I bought this place thinking I was someone I might become but never did. Sorry, I realize that doesn’t make any sense.”

  I blinked at him. “You feel like an imposter in your own home?”

  Wes laughed. “I’m a writer, Briar. I feel like an imposter in every facet of my life.”

  That made my heart hurt. He was exceptionally talented. He’d earned what he had, fair and square. Couldn’t he see that? Couldn’t he see the beauty in the life he’d created? He wasn’t rubbing it in anyone’s face. He wasn’t bragging. He was humble. Grounded.

  I stepped a little closer to him. All I’d have to do is stretch to the tips of my toes and I could have kissed him. “Did you feel like an imposter tonight at dinner with me?”

  His hazel eyes slowly shifted back and forth between mine. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Do you feel like one now?”

  He swallowed. His Adam’s apple slid up and down his throat and I watched it before noticing the soft flutter of his pulse under his jaw.

  “No,” he whispered.

  I pressed a hand to his c
hest and gazed up at him. He smelled like mint and spices. “How close do I have to get before you kiss me, Shakespeare?”

  Wes plucked the wine glass out of my hand, set both our drinks down at the side table behind him, wrapped an arm behind my back, and pulled me against him with strength I didn’t realize he had. Under those clothes was a body I wouldn’t mind seeing. His lips crashed against mine and he forced my head back as need rippled through him. His fingers pressed into my spine and his other hand cupped the back of my neck, where his fingers inevitably slipped into my hair.

  I moaned softly against his kiss as my hands curled into fists in the front of his shirt.

  When I’d lain in bed at night, alone and desperate for someone to touch me as I read one of W. Parker’s books, this was the kind of kiss I’d dreamed about. It was the kind of kiss Wes wrote about.

  Deep and full and desperate enough that it felt like my lips were burning.

  So were other parts of me.

  Chapter 16

  Wes

  Briar clung so fiercely to the front of my shirt that the collar dug into the back of my neck and my tie was practically strangling me.

  I didn’t give a damn.

  Her body crushed up against mine was all that mattered. I slipped a hand up the back of her shirt and felt the heat of her skin against the tips of my fingers and my palm. She didn’t protest as my touch wandered up her spine, tracing her strong back and pausing when I reached her bra. She let out a fluttery breath as I pinched it between my thumb and finger and flicked my wrist. The bra snapped open and Briar giggled against my lips.

  “I have moves,” I breathed.

  Briar released my shirt and cupped my face in her hands. It might have been the nerves, but her fingers trembled as she ran them along my jaw. “So it would seem you do.”

  I moved my hand from her back to her hip and then up her side until I cupped her breast in one hand. Her breath hitched in her throat and the tiniest sound escaped her. I was gentle and she melted into my caresses after her brief hesitation. She pressed more fiercely against my body as if begging for more, so I turned her around and lowered her onto the sofa.