C-26 Read online

  She reached for the leather bag, quickly shoving in the items that had fallen, but hadn’t been hit by the coffee. She was flustered when she quickly stood. It was definitely the wrong move. The sudden motion triggered off a flash of vertigo and she lost her balance.

  "Whoa!" She wobbled as she tried to catch herself, reaching out for anything that would stop the spinning, when someone caught her arm before she fell to the floor. The jerky motion nearly sent her spiraling again when she crashed into a hard body before she had a chance to go all the way down. The collision ignited sparks that jolted her so unexpectedly her eyes grew wider than silver dollar size. What the hell was that?

  Slowly, Sky regained her footing, her balance normalizing enough to stand. She looked up to thank the person who’d stopped the world from spinning when they had so quickly run to her aid. Brown met blue. As she looked into his eyes, the buzzing continued, the hum of electricity growing stronger as she was drawn into their warmth. Fireflies illuminated the strange connection and fluttered low in her belly. She struggled to breathe, her chest tightening as she stood captured by his gaze. The feeling was exciting, but it frightened her.

  Sky moved back to identify the intercessor who’d placed himself between her and the floor. Oh, God! Mister Anti-romance. He seemed to be in as much shock as she. As much as she wanted to turn away from him so she could shut down the power grid connecting them, she couldn't. A lock clicked between his eyes and hers. His pupils dilated, the gold flecks within like sparklers on the Fourth of July, in response to their contact. Though Skylar couldn't see her reflection, she was confident her own had responded in much the same way.

  "Thank you," was all the response she could summon. Through reason scratched her thoughts with the idea of turning and walking away, a strange, invisible tether lassoed them. Two people knotted at the moment of contact. Sky could tell by looking into his eyes he’d felt the link and, suddenly, he didn't feel like a stranger at all.

  She was more confused now than ever in her life. He smiled, studying her. His lips were full, and she couldn't shake the feeling she wanted to kiss them. The thought appeared out of nowhere, wholly unbidden and unwanted. Instantly, her gaze faltered. From one second to the next, her line of sight had dropped from his mouth to the floor. She found herself staring at the faded, grey carpet, unable to describe what was happening. Drained, she tried to think of anything other than what had just occurred.

  "You're welcome."

  His voice was as sinful as chocolate, and her cheeks as red as cherries. She couldn’t look at him. She had no doubt his response was sincere, but too many things happening in such a short span of time had sent her into a panic—and she never panicked. Even if he’d been a temporary knight in shining armor, she was no damsel in distress. But he did help to rescue the computer.

  As the small crowd around her zeroed in on the mishap, Sky forced herself to take in a lungful of oxygen even though she struggled to breathe. She didn't like being the center of attention, especially when air seemed to be in short supply. Helplessness didn’t look good on her.

  Grasping at mental straws, she made an attempt to regain her composure. She needed to calm the hell down and get ahold of herself. Had to pretend it was no big deal. It was critical she quickly adopt an indifferent air. Call up the few remaining, sentry-like brain cells she possessed and turn them into seasoned soldiers. At least maybe then she could protect what was left of her dignity. She inhaled slowly, taking in a deep, calming breath.

  And another.

  And still another.

  Deliberately, she lifted her chin. The handsome man's gaze hadn't wavered. He was still looking at her, and that strange, fluttery feeling reemerged.

  Feeling like an awkward teenager, Sky's stomach flipped. She looked away, feeling like a scared rabbit. Slowly she grounded herself, waltzing words in a melody of thought.

  He's judgmental.

  He's arrogant.

  He's just a guy.

  "Are you okay?" The stranger's voice skipped up half a beat as he hitched words to a smile, turning her insides to Jell-O.

  "I'm good, thanks." She shrugged, wrapping an arm around her waist to get ahold of herself. It didn't take but a moment to shift the focus of attention away from her. As she collected her things, the people who’d been watching moved on, their attention drifting back to their laptops, books, and phones. She went back to her place, which now felt like the hot seat since Vince and the man changed seats. Now she was sitting directly across from Vince while only one seat separated her from her helpful stranger. She looked from left to right and, when she was confident she was no longer the object of everyone's attention, she attempted a casual conversation so as not to appear rude.

  "Now that we've seen my method of researching for a novel, it's your turn. You and Vince were talking about editing." She leaned in his direction, pretending to peer over the empty seat at his laptop to see what was on the screen. "What kind of book are you writing?"

  "Me?" He acted surprised as he looked at the content on his screen. "The great American novel, I guess. Isn't everybody?" The sound of his hearty laugh filtered through her, causing a pleasant sensation.

  "Sounds like a best seller." She tucked away her earlier assessment of the man. Maybe she’d misjudged him. He seemed kind of . . . normal.

  "Right. I’ve been writing this story on and off for years. I’ll probably never publish it. It’s just something I like to do."

  She relaxed her shoulders, enjoying yet another mild jolt of electricity that his voice elicited. He didn't seem like an arrogant asshole at all. In fact, his smile made her curious. There was a bit of an edge to it. She couldn't decide if he was just playful or a wild boy.

  As she sat back in her seat, he gave her a brief description of his novel. She wasn't listening. Instead, she studied his face—for research, of course. His cheekbones were high and noble, his jaw, square and strong. And then there was his voice. Whether he was a good writer or not, she couldn't tell, but with a voice like that he should have been a singer.

  "You never know." Sky smiled. "Yours could be the next literary mega-hit. I mean, c'mon, look what happened to the lady who wrote Fifty Shades of Grey."

  On a huff, his eyes closed, and his chin dropped. A minute later, he peered up, directing his attention to the screen of his laptop with a slight wave of his hand.

  "What I'm writing has absolutely nothing in common with those kinds of books. Nothing at all. This is literature. Not erotica. It's complex. A period piece. A tale of discovery and grit. There's no kink in my story—or fluff."

  Sky bent her resolve, giving him a narrow glance with a playful but deadly message.

  "I think Ms. E.L. James might object to her multi-million-dollar babies being referred to as fluff. The only thing fluffy about the figures in her account are the clouds she floats on when she goes to the bank." Light sarcasm tickled her tone. "I guess I should add that the book we're talking about sold over one hundred twenty-five million copies. And that was just the first book. It’s part of a trilogy."

  He gave her a knowing look, his smile never leaving his face. "Have I offended you? I'm not trying to. I'm just stating the differences between a romance novel and serious literature. You can't compare War and Peace with Fifty Shades of Grey."

  "I can if the sales are there." Her comeback was lightning fast. “Lord of the Flies sold a little more than twenty-five million. To Kill a Mockingbird, a bit more than forty million. And let's not forget the darling of romance, Gone with the Wind. That little gem—thirty million." She quirked a spunky brow. "You, sir, should know your facts and figures before you dismiss something of which you, clearly, have no understanding."

  An impish grin wrinkled her forehead. She didn't mind defending her craft. Her bank account was nowhere near as healthy as E.L. James's, but she couldn't complain. Writing romance had proven to be a good career move for her, and no one could say she didn't have peer loyalty. Was he up for the challenge of a debate? Bec
ause she could play that game all night. She'd done her research.

  The rumbled laugh was robust and thick. Deep and smooth, that luxurious kind of sound came from deep down. She shivered, then chastised herself immediately. She wanted to hear it again, so she asked another question.

  "What part of the country are you from?"

  He seemed surprised she'd changed the topic from books to places. Oh, well. She was one of those people who researched exciting subject matter for a living. Everything from "where is the best place to bury a body" to "what R&B song are more births attributed to" had been typed into her web browser. Like dandelions in a garden, topics just randomly popped up in her thoughts. It was her experience that, if she didn't immediately take care of the weed, it was determined to grow stronger until she did. If he was going to write a book, he’d have to research a hundred different topics at a time too.

  "The Midwest, originally, but I've lived all over the country. Up and down the East Coast, then some time on the West. I've been back and forth, once or twice."

  A stab of guilt hit her for having a combative edge in her tone. She wasn't trying to put him on the defensive, just have a conversation. Oh, for God's sake! The only way to fix this was to ease up. "So, where are you on your way to now?"

  "Back to Florida. I'm in the middle of a move from Florida to Maryland."

  The tactic worked. His expression was a little lazier. Relaxed. But a move to Annapolis from Florida? She didn't understand that logic.

  "You're moving from Florida? Why would you want to do that? Winter's coming. Maryland is so unpredictable weather wise." Intrigue swept her expression as she silently questioned the sanity of a man who would choose bipolar temperatures over toasty ones. His shrug was indifferent. "Florida's nice, but, honestly, I'm tired of it. A few years ago, I took some time off. I honestly thought I’d would settle down there. It was only for a short time, I considered it semi-retirement."

  "Semi-retirement? You're what? Thirty?"

  He laughed at the surprise in her voice. "Yeah. There is that. You can only sit on your ass for so long, you know? It ends up being the same shit, different day—I was bored. And to tell you the truth, I really like Annapolis. I missed the change of seasons, and Maryland in general. It's convenient. Kind of in the middle of everything. Three hours one way, you have the mountains. A few hours in the opposite direction, you have the ocean." His hands went up as he mimicked a balance on a scale. "Beach in the summer. Skiing in the winter. What's not to like? You know, Land of Pleasant Living?"

  She was sure she almost gaped. Retired? Out of their entire ten-minute conversation, that was the topic that piqued her interest the most. She could paint a house with all the speculations in her head. He was so young!

  Wild scenarios danced the cha-cha in her thoughts, each question two steps forward, each answer, a step back. What was he? A lottery winner? Trust fund baby? Maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he’d invested better than most people his age. Money from a dead relative? Male gigolo? The possibilities were endless and were more than enough to keep her intrigued.

  Now he really had her attention. What she wanted to say was, "Are you crazy? Last winter was brutal. Three major snowfalls. You're nuts!" but decided she might appear to be the crazy one. Instead, she was polite.

  "I think I would have stayed where the beach is warm and sunny."

  He smiled a naughty grin. "I don't think that would've worked out for me, had I stayed in Florida."

  "Really? How so?" Puzzled, she was anxious to hear the answer.

  His brown eyes warmed in intensity, competing with the mischief tickling his lips. "Because, if I had, I wouldn't have met a nice girl like you."

  Heat rushed up her neck and made a mad dash for her cheeks. Her lips made an O as surprise opened her mouth.

  "You're blushing," he said. "And it's quite a pretty, rosy shade."

  Chapter 3

  Dash was captivated. He felt the connection between them, and she would be lying if she said she didn't feel it too. Even after years of becoming jaded by sneaky bitches, he couldn't take his eyes off this girl. After experiences with women that would have taken down a lesser man, he could spot an opportunist a mile away. He'd bet the royalties from his next CD that this girl wouldn't hurt a fly if it were within her power. He'd also bet she was single. There was no way she was used to having a man in her life. It was apparent she wasn't used to having help. If she lived with a man, he would have at least taken out the trash. She acted like she was too much of an inconvenience for someone to help her pick up a piece of paper. And the blushing! He didn't think there was a woman left over the age of ten who was modest.

  "What can I say? I always blush. I'm Irish."

  Her words dismissed the topic, but the color on her cheeks bloomed. "That sounds like an apology for something you can't control. I think it's cute." He gave his approval with a wink.

  "Thanks. It's not something I like about myself."

  He smiled. Like a fish out of water, she was trying to wiggle her way back to her comfort zone. This chick might be able to write a book, but it was crystal clear she was uncomfortable with flirting. He'd give it to her though, she was giving it her best shot. He wondered if she knew how transparent she really was. Probably not. She sure as hell didn't have an inflated ego. She seemed so self-critical she couldn't even dismiss her clumsiness as an accident. As for being a writer, she was definitely an extroverted introvert. Even he could see that she pushed herself to be "out there" when she was talking to him. He had to admit, she'd honed the skill well. The thing he liked the most was that she didn't seem to recognize him. That was a plus.

  "I'll let you get back to what you were doing."

  Her sweet smile was a pleasant contrast to the antics of most people he met. Darren "Dash" Barrows couldn't remember the last time someone didn't recognize him. In another circumstance it would have been a blow to his ego. His band, Disordered Fate, was all over the airwaves. Everywhere he went people came up to him. It probably helped that he’d cut off his long hair and taken his beard back to scruff. Even the guys in the band hadn't seen the new look. After playing with them for a few years, he’d decided a move was in order. His Florida memories weren't always happy ones.

  The band had started playing together roughly six months after his mom's death. It was just a coincidence he’d caught up with several old friends in a bar on Anna Maria Island. He'd known the guys since they were kids. Once they’d graduated high school, they’d parted ways. While he’d made considerable money freelancing up and down the East and West coasts, three of his friends had kept together the garage band they'd started when they were younger.

  He asked them if they’d join him, and they took him up on the invitation. Their unique sound quickly caught on. It was a mix of classic rock and roll with a San Francisco sound that was popular back in the '80s. Before they knew it, success hit. They were playing bigger and bigger venues. Their gigs sold out, forcing them to look at larger sites. When festivals overflowed with fans and concerts started selling out in a day, they caught the attention of a record label. Three years later, they were still with the same company. They'd come a long way since their days playing for the neighborhood kids.

  Where some people would let the fame go to their head, he didn't buy into the bullshit. He simply considered himself a musician, not some lyrical demi-god. As long as he could support himself on the money he was paid for his music, he felt like he’d made it. That was his definition of success.

  Girls, booze, and drugs seemed to be the indulgences of choice when it came to his bandmates, but he was wise with his money, investing it so it could grow. That put him into a different headspace than most of his friends. In the early days, while they pissed away their dollars, he’d planted his in the stock market—and it had grown into a tidy little nest egg. Once the guys got wind of his talent with investing, they asked him for advice. Now they were living off their dividends. Well, all of them except
their lead singer, Ian.

  A light, feminine laugh trilled through the air, and Dash found himself taking in Skylar. The catastrophic cutie commanded his attention with the way she was so unassuming. She had no idea the guy whose interest she’d piqued had been all over the world and found her the most fascinating person he'd met in years. Their conversation about books and literary merits was engaging, but he politely faded into the background when her companion drew her back into a discussion about editing. He wondered what the guys would think of her, especially Ian. His lead singer would have been highly insulted if he weren’t recognized.

  His thoughts sobered. He didn't even like thinking about Ian being near this chick. It wasn't that he begrudged his friend a good time, he just believed that Ian's drinking and drugging ways would be a real put-off for this girl. Then, again, if his friend didn't change his ways, there wasn't a chance in hell that they'd ever meet—if he could figure out a way to keep in touch with her before their flight ended. If his instincts were right, keeping in touch with her held some future promise. His instincts about Ian said he'd be dead in a few years. It was a shame, too, because he was so talented, but talent didn't save you from a hole in the ground.

  A strange rush ran through him. Thinking about continuing his contact with Skylar afforded him a pleasant sensation. After suffering several high-profile breakups, Dash had quickly caught onto the fact there were always more than enough parasites to go around. Most were waiting to make a quick buck with a bogus lawsuit or a false positive pregnancy test. He'd seen it happen to other guys in other bands. Compared to them, he, quite literally, kept himself clean. Nothing snorted up his nose or shot in his veins, not to mention no sex without a raincoat. He didn't have time for any of that shit. These days he was all about the money game. How to plant it and how to grow it. Life on the road was hard. If he kept on the path he'd been following, he'd be able to reap the benefits of investing well while he was still young enough to enjoy it.