Chapter 13
As Sarah drove along Main Street in Greenville the following morning, she noted the numerous shops, restaurants, offices, and bars. Some of it was familiar, some wasn’t. Her strongest memory was of the zoo. Was it still there? She’d have to check when she had a free moment.
Sarah turned into a street off Main then glanced at the piece of paper she’d written the address and directions on. Her attention shifted back to the road. A short distance later, she found the next turn she had to take. Then it was a right onto Joan’s street.
She searched for the letterbox with the number she needed. Ah, there. She pulled her car to a stop at a plain, black wrought-iron gate. The fence that surrounded the property was made from the same wrought-iron construction, though shrubbery that reached the top of the fence stopped passersby from peeking inside. Her first impression was how ordinary it seemed. Not what she’d expected at all. Shouldn’t a romance writer have a house that was a little more . . . well, romantic?
Sarah pressed one of the buttons on her car’s armrest. A buzz preceded the slow roll down of her window. She reached over and pushed the buzzer on the intercom. A moment passed in silence. Was she at the wrong house? She checked the piece of paper and the number on the mailbox. This was the place. She pressed the intercom buzzer again.
“Yes?”
She recognized the voice even though it sounded sleepy. Her hand came to her chest. Oh. Why was he answering? Did he live here with Joan?
“Hello?” The tone was impatient now.
Sarah cleared her throat. “Uh, Mr. Morgan. This is Sarah Woodward.”
There was a brief pause, followed by, “Okay . . .?”
“Okay.” Why the confused tone? Didn’t he remember her? The possibility roiled her belly. He’d only presented her with an award, and bumped into her in the hotel’s hall, and flashed his half-naked body at her. Was she that forgettable?
She inhaled to stop her voice from sounding peevish when she spoke again, “I was chosen for the mentorship with your mother.”
“Yes, I know who you are.” Oh. Her assumption had been wrong. Her stomach calmed. “Why are you here, Mrs. Woodward?”
I must correct him on that salutation.
“Our first session is supposed to start today.”
“With my mother?”
“Yes.”
Who else did he think she meant?
“Why are you here and not at her apartment?”
Sarah drew her eyebrows together in confusion. “This is the address your mother gave me.”
There was another pause.
She frowned. Why was he acting so strangely? She almost snorted out loud. He’d been behaving strangely since they’d met. There was the stand-offish way he’d behaved at the awards dinner, then the polite gesture when he’d picked up her notepad, and staring at her in that intense way at the café. It was all so odd and contradictory. What was the meaning of it? He was hard to figure out.
Her brain refocused on the present. There still hadn’t been an answer from the other side of the intercom. Ugh. This was getting ridiculous.
She released a loud exhale, hoping it would filter through to him. “Hello?”
“Yes, yes . . . give me a minute and I’ll buzz you in. Park in the space on the right of the cottage.”
Cottage?
“Okay.”
Metallic sounds reached her ears. Sarah moved her focus from the intercom to the gate. It split in half and opened inwards. With a deep breath, she put her car into first gear and drove through the opening onto a cemented driveway. The incline on it increased the further along she drove.
She didn’t get out of first gear for fear of stalling and took it slowly so she wouldn’t scratch the car on the overhanging tree branches. Oaks, birches, cedars, walnuts, pines, and willows kept the house well hidden. Sarah smiled. That is what she’d expected of her favorite author’s house: private, a little mysterious . . . and romantic.
***
Damn. Why’d this have to happen today? Wasn’t he already taking on more than he could handle? He had a deadline. Why hadn’t his mother run this by him first? Charles stomped toward the desk near his double bed, saved the unfinished document he’d been working on, and closed down his computer. As he went to walk away, he caught a glimpse of a letter attached to the cork noticeboard on the wall above the computer.
He frowned then turned toward the bed. His pajamas were still on top of the unfolded covers. He’d managed to throw on a robe the night before but nothing else. He gathered the pajamas in his arms and stepped into the small bathroom. Although the laundry hamper was full, he squashed the pajamas on top anyway and reached for the toothbrush in a glass on the basin.
As he brushed his teeth, he glimpsed his reflection in the mirror. Black bags cushioning red-blotched eyes reflected back at him. How long had it been since he’d slept through the night? He rinsed the toothbrush and placed it back in its jar.
With the water still running, he splashed the coolness over his face. His hands brushed the bristles of his growing beard; too bad he didn’t have time for a shave. He turned off the faucet and patted his face dry with the hand towel hanging at the side of the basin.
Taking a deep breath, he shook his body to life. His gaze went back to the mirror where he took a few seconds to rake his fingers through his hair. A knock at the door startled him. She was there already.
He yelled out, “Just a minute,” then bolted to the chest of drawers beside the computer table.
The first drawer was empty. So was the second. And the third. The fourth too.
“Dammit.”
All his clothes were in the hamper. He tugged off the robe he still wore, placed it on the back of the computer chair, and rushed back to the bathroom. He dug through the hamper for the first thing that seemed half clean: dark blue jeans and a black T-shirt.
Dressed, he made his way to the front door. He spotted the old, comfortable, tan-colored loafers he’d kicked off by the door the day before. He slipped them on, straightened, and smoothed out the crinkles in his shirt with his hands. Now to take care of Sarah Woodward. The thought of her name sent an involuntary ripple through his stomach, followed by a realistic vision. Sparkling brown eyes. Sleek dark hair. The gentle lines of her neck, leading the way down to a pair of round, full . . .
He shook his head, Oh no you don’t.
If he didn’t want the secret to be revealed, he had to remain standoffish, uninterested, and in control. If it was leaked to the media . . .
No. He wouldn’t let that happen. It had been too close last year. He drew in sharp breaths until the ripples left his stomach and the image in his brain faded. Feeling normal again, he stepped with forced indifference to the door.
***
As she waited––he was taking a long time to answer––Sarah glanced over the cottage’s exterior. The white, wood panels were fresh, with no flaking paint. Cheery, yellow drapes covered windows, which appeared dust free.
To the right of the door was the modern double carport she’d parked in; to the left was a series of pruned, head-high shrubs, creating a type of natural fence leading from the driveway to the front of the house. Overall, it seemed well cared for.
The dark wood front door opened. Sarah stared up into the face of Charles Morgan. His hair had the occasional piece sticking up at various angles. Sexy bed hair. I did not just think that.
She moved her gaze to his. Her stomach did a little flip. Then she noticed the redness in his eyes. Had he been awake all night? The one-day growth she’d seen around his chin on Friday night was now a four-day growth. Had he been too busy to shave, or was he growing a beard?
Her gaze lowered further. The clothes he wore were creased. There was a general tiredness about him, but she had to admit, tired looked good on him.
And now she was taking too long to respond.
She swallowed, “Er, hi.”
“Hello.” It sounded strained. “Come on, I’ll drive you to Mom’s.”
She frowned, “What do you mean?”
“Mom’s not here.”
“But I thought––”
“I know, sorry. She must’ve gotten caught up with writing. She does that sometimes. I can give you a ride to her place now.”
Wait? He wanted to drive her? Why? Technically, he was still a few conversations short of the “acquaintance” category. And her mother had always warned her about handsome strangers. Could she trust him? Could she trust herself with him?
She raised an eyebrow. “Or you can give me the address and I can go by myself.”
He sighed––it made him appear even more worn-out. “I’m not Jack Barrett; you can trust me.”
Her heart felt like it stopped. Did he say Jack Barrett? As in the antagonist in her novel? The name had been a thin attempt at concealing Jacques Barnard, the ex-boyfriend the character was based on. She felt her eyes bulge as a sudden conclusion came.
She blurted, “You’ve read my novel?”
He gave a quick nod then changed the subject, “The directions to Mom’s place are confusing. It will save time if I take you.”
All right . . .
He didn’t want to talk about her novel. Why? Had he read it and thought her undeserving of the mentorship? Or did he think, because she wrote romance, that her writing wasn’t “serious”? Surely that wasn’t it. His own mother was famous due to romance novels.
The only other meaning was that he thought she was undeserving of the mentorship. That she wasn’t a good writer. She pressed her lips into a thin line as the conclusion formed a knot in her stomach.
His gaze narrowed on her, “Mrs. Woodward?”
She hadn’t responded yet. She nodded, knowing if she opened her mouth to speak, she might say something he’d regret.
He stepped from the cottage and closed the door behind him, “Let’s go.”
As she followed him, a dark thought came: throughout history, how many crime writers had ended up being serial killers?