Filed To Story: The Things We Leave Unfinished Novel Free
“Because I wasn’t exactly checking my email in the middle of the Andes, so yes, it’s the first time I’m seeing the new one.” The guy practically seethed as he picked up another Harrison book and held them up, side by side. Two different couples, same exact pose.
I’d definitely stick with my selection, or anything else in this section.
“They look exactly the same, that’s the problem. What was wrong with the old- Yes, I’m pissed off! I’ve been traveling for eighteen hours and in case you forgot, I cut my research trip short to be here. I’m telling you they look exactly the same. Hold on, I’ll prove it. Miss?”
“Yes?” I twisted slightly and glanced up to find two book covers in my face. Space much?
“Do these look the same to you?”
“Yep. They’re pretty interchangeable.” I slid one of Gran’s books back onto the shelf and mentally whispered a little goodbye, just like I did every time I visited one of her books in a store. Was missing her ever going to get easier?
“See? Because they’re not supposed to look the same!” the guy snapped, hopefully at the poor soul on the other end of the phone, because it wasn’t going to go well if he was using that tone with me.
“Well, in his defense, all his books read the same, too,” I muttered. Shit. It slipped out before I could censor myself. Guess my filter was just as numbed out as my emotions. “Sorry-” I turned to face him, lifting my gaze until I found two dark brows raised in astonishment over equally dark eyes. Whoa.
My ruined heart jolted-just like every heroine in one of Gran’s books. He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen, and as the now-ex-wife of a movie director, I’d seen my fair share.
Oh no, no, no. You’re immune to good-looking men, the logical side of my brain warned, but I was too busy staring to listen.
“They do not read the-” He blinked. “I am going to have to call you back.” He moved both books to one hand and hung up, pocketing his phone.
He looked about my age-late twenties, maybe early thirties-stood at least six feet tall, and his black, just-out-of-bed hair fell carelessly over tanned, olive skin before reaching those lifted, black brows and impossibly deep brown eyes. His nose was straight, his lips carved in lush lines that only served to remind me exactly how long I’d gone without being kissed, and his chin was shaded in a light shadow beard. He was all angular, sculpted lines, and, given the flex of muscle in his forearms, I’d have bet the store that he was pretty well acquainted with the inside of a gym…and probably a bedroom.
“Did you just say they all read the same?” he questioned slowly.
I blinked. Right. The books. I mentally slapped myself for losing my train of thought over a pretty face. I’d had my name back for all of twenty minutes, and men were off the menu for the foreseeable future. Besides, he wasn’t even from around here. Eighteen hours of travel or not, his tailored slacks blatantly screamed designer, and the sleeves of his white linen shirt were rolled in that casually messy style that was anything but casual. Men in Poplar Grove didn’t bother with thousand-dollar pants or have New York accents.
“Pretty much. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, tragedy strikes, someone dies.” I shrugged, proud that I didn’t feel any heat creeping up my cheeks to give me away. “Throw in some legal courtroom drama, a little unsatisfying but poetic sex, and maybe a beach scene, and you’ve pretty much got it. If that’s your thing, you can’t go wrong with either book.”
“Unsatisfying?” Those eyebrows drew tight as he glanced between the books, then back to me. “Someone doesn’t always die.”
Guess he’d read a Harrison book or two. “Okay, eighty percent of the time. Go ahead and see for yourself,” I suggested. “That’s the reason he’s shelved on this side”-I pointed to the general fiction sign-“and not on this side.” I swung my finger toward the romance marker.
His jaw dropped for a millisecond. “Or maybe there’s more to his stories than sex and unrealistic expectations.” His attractiveness slipped a peg or two as he tapped one of my pet peeves right on the nose.
My hackles rose. “Romance isn’t about unrealistic expectations and sex. It’s about love and overcoming adversity through what can be considered a universal experience.” That was what Gran and reading thousands of romance novels had taught me in my twenty-eight years.
“And, apparently, satisfying sex.” He arched a brow.
I willed my skin not to flush at the way his lips seemed to caress that word.
“Hey, if you don’t like sex, or you’re uncomfortable with a woman embracing her sexuality, then that really says more about you than the genre, don’t you think?” I tilted my head. “Or is it the happily-ever-after you object to?”
“I am all for sex, and women embracing their sexuality, and happily-ever-afters.” His voice went all growly.
“Then those definitely aren’t the books for you, because the only thing they embrace is universal misery, but if that’s what does it for you, enjoy.” So much for leaving behind the Ice Queen. Here I was, arguing with a complete stranger in a bookstore.
He shook his head. “They’re love stories. It says so right here.” He held up one of the covers that happened to have a quote by Gran. The quote. The one her publisher had begged Gran for so often that she’d finally relented, and they’d made do with what she had to say.
“No one writes love stories like Noah Harrison,” I read, a slight smile tweaking my lips.
“I’d say that Scarlett Stanton is a pretty well-respected romance writer, wouldn’t you?” A lethally sexy smirk played across his face. “If she says it’s a love story, then it’s a love story.”
How could someone so devastatingly handsome annoy the shit out of me so thoroughly?
“I’d say that Scarlett Stanton was arguably the most respected romance writer of her generation.” I shook my head, filed Gran’s other book back where it belonged, and turned to walk away before I completely snapped at this guy throwing Gran’s name around like he knew the first thing about her.
“So it’s safe to take her recommendation, right? If a guy wants to read a love story. Or do you only approve of love stories written by women?” he called after me.
Seriously? I pivoted at the end of the aisle, my temper getting the best of me as I turned back to face him. “What you don’t see in that quote is the rest of it.”
“What do you mean?” Two lines appeared between his eyebrows.
“That wasn’t the original quote.” I glanced up at the ceiling, trying to remember her exact words. “What was it… ‘No one writes painful, depressing fiction masquerading as love stories like Noah Harrison.’ The publisher edited it for the blurb.” That was a step too far. I could almost hear Gran’s voice in my head.
“What?” It must have been the way he shifted under the fluorescent lights, but it looked like his skin paled.
“Look, it happens all the time.” I sighed. “I’m not sure you noticed, but here in Poplar Grove, we all knew Scarlett Stanton pretty well, and she was never one to keep her opinions to herself.” Guess that’s genetic. “If I recall correctly, she did say that he wrote with a flair for description and was…fond of alliteration.” That was the nicest thing she’d said. “It wasn’t his writing she objected to-just his stories.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Well, I happen to like alliteration in my love stories.” He walked by with both books, heading for the checkout. “Thank you for the recommendation, Miss…”
“Ellsworth,” I responded automatically, flinching slightly as it left my lips. Not anymore. “Enjoy your books, Mr….”
“Morelli.”
I nodded, then walked away, feeling his gaze follow me out the door as Mrs. Rivera rang up both books for him.
So much for getting some peace. Worst part of that whole little spat? Maybe he was right, and the books Gran wrote really were unrealistic. The sole happily-ever-after I knew of was my best friend, Hazel, and, since she was only on year five of her marriage, the verdict could hardly be determined.
Five minutes later, I drove onto our street, passing Grantham cottage, the closest of the rental properties Gran owned. It looked vacant, which was the first time since…ever. Only being a half hour or so out of Breckenridge meant rentals never stayed empty for long around here.
Shit. You didn’t make the arrangements with the property manager. That was probably one of the dozens of unheard voicemails, or perhaps one of my thousand unread emails. At least the voicemail box had stopped accepting new messages, but the emails continued to pile up. I needed to pull myself together. The rest of the world didn’t care that Damian had broken my heart.
I pulled into the driveway of the house I’d grown up in and parked. There was already a rental car at the apex of the semicircular drive.
Mom must be here. That ever-present exhaustion swelled, sweeping over me.
I left my suitcases for later but grabbed my purse before heading toward the front door of the seventy-year-old colonial. The flowers are missing. Perennials popped up here and there, all rather desiccated, but there were no bright splashes of color in the beds that usually lined the drive this time of the season.
The last few years-when she’d been too fragile to spend that much time kneeling-I’d flown out to help Gran plant. It wasn’t like Damian had missed me…though now I knew why.
“Hello?” I called as I walked into the entry hall. My stomach churned at the stale scent of ash in the air. Had she been smoking in Gran’s house? The hardwood looked like it hadn’t been mopped since winter, and there was a thick layer of dust on the foyer table. Gran would have shit bricks to see her house like this. What had happened to Lydia? I’d asked Gran’s accountant to keep her housekeeper on payroll.
New Book: Returned To Make Them Pay
On her wedding anniversary, Alicia is drugged and stumbles into the wrong room—straight into the arms of the powerful Caden Ward, a man rumored never to touch women. Their night of passion shocks even him, especially when he discovers she’s still a virgin after two years of marriage to Joshua Yates.