Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
And with each passing second, I was sure it was. Those eyes, those hands…
I couldn’t decide if this was only mildly awkward or off the charts, you-might-want-to-call-someone-else-for-that-estimate awkward. Then again, if he had a bad memory, it might not matter.
“Well, I’ve been told I have one of those mugs,” he joked, rubbing his beard and extending his hand. “It was nice to meet you, Joe. Let me know how—”
“We’ve met,” I blurted.
Cameron cocked his head. “Oh?”
“Two months ago at Black Horse Tavern in Elmwood.”
“Elmwood?”
I nodded slowly as puzzle pieces clicked into place. “Next town over. Black Horse is your average dive bar with a jukebox that plays the same dozen songs on repeat, a dart board, and a flat-screen fixed to a hockey game no matter the season. They serve decent beer and great whisky. And every so often, you bump into someone you didn’t go to high school with…which is kind of nice.”
He opened and closed his mouth twice. “You and me?”
“Yeah. You and me. Here’s your estimate, Mr. Warren.” I handed over the sheet of paper, then picked up my toolbox and opened the office door. “See ya ’round.”
“Wait.” He tugged at my sleeve, his brow knit in confusion. “Are you saying we met?”
“No, I’m saying we fucked.”
2
Cameron
I stared slack-jawed after Joe the handyman like an idiot, my feet stuck to the floor. I could hear his gravelly voice mingled with Aunt Mary’s melodic one nearby. I had to go after him.
Problem…I didn’t like talking to people. In fact, I was pretty sure that encounter tapped out my last reserve of peopling for the day. And yes, it had been perfectly pleasant. Joe seemed like a good guy and he was easy on the eyes. He looked like a construction worker, though an urbanite sensibility clung to him. The hint of sophistication he couldn’t quite hide in a flannel shirt, ancient jeans, and scuffed-up boots. The contrast fascinated me almost as much as his dry wit and perfect ass. I’d do him in a heartbeat.
Except…I’d already done him. Maybe?
Yep, we had to talk. I sighed heavily and stepped into the hallway.
Not many people realized that being a writer was like being an actor. We created situations and people out of nothing, gave them life, and unleashed them into the world. It was exhausting and all-consuming to the point of rendering one occasionally asocial and noncommunicative.
After breathing life into fictional characters all day, dealing with the public required a separate set of skills—an engineered smile, a small list of socially acceptable topics to discuss, and most importantly…the acting chops to deliver lines without coming across like a robotic asshole. Not an easy feat.
I’d been doing this for decades and thought I’d gotten pretty damn good at switching gears. I was astute, intelligent, and known for having a stellar memory, but in a twist, I was also a fucking moron because yes, I remembered that night.
I remembered it very well, actually.
My manager had handled the purchase of my new place with my exact specifications in mind: an old house on the outskirts of a small New England town. I was hoping there was a forest and a river nearby, but those were minute details. Martin pulled through. He sent me the deed and the keys, hired a housekeeper, and furnished the home lightly—concentrating on the office and my bedroom as per my request.
Ten months later, fresh from signing a Netflix deal and a new contract with my publisher, I flew to Vermont to begin work on my next book. I rented a car in Burlington and drove south.
If I hadn’t stopped to take photos of the magnificent scenery, I might have made it to Fallbrook that night. I was tired, hungry, and had lost all sense of time. So…I’d stopped at a pretty inn with white siding, a picket fence, and the name of a restaurant that supposedly offered “the best crab cakes in town” under a vacancy sign. A hot meal and a warm bed had sounded amazing.
And then everything went a little hazy.
The bar next door, a Linda Ronstadt song from the ’70s playing in the background, and the attractive man in a dark corner nursing whisky, chatting softly with the bartender. I’d moved one stool closer to give the couple next to me room and struck up a conversation with the stranger. I’d had a glass of wine at dinner, ordered a beer at the bar, and switched to whisky when the stranger told me it would be worth the hangover.
Hazy went blurry after a couple of hours, but I remembered kissing him in the empty bathroom and walking him out to his truck soon after.
I wandered into the foyer and peeked through the lace curtain on the narrow window next to the door. Yep. That was probably the truck.