Page 4 of Spellbound
“Elijah.” My name came on a long honeyed sigh and I smothered my chuckle. “How many times? Really, over the course of the years, how many times have I asked you to please not refer to me as”—I could picture her delicate cringe—“Granny?”
Countless. Innumerable. Incalculable.
I did it because it amused me. And because if there was a sixty-five-year-old woman anywhere in the world who less personified the notion ofGranny—that wiry little spitfire with a wispy knot secured to the back of her head, tied slouching in a rocker in the bed of a pickup and cackling as she cruised the freeways of Southern California—it was Abigail Cates.
“It’s been a few, ma’am. Just checking to see if you remember. Or maybe is your mind slipping again?” Something about a conversation with Miss Abigail, but the South never failed to creep back into my tone.
“Now, boy, don’t you give me your smart mouth. My memory hasn’t slipped a day in my life.”
“You got me there.” I hadn’t gotten away with so much as a mediocre test grade since I was fifteen, when a drunk driver hit my parents’ car head-on and she became my guardian.
“Right, I do. And after I saw that Internet article about your breakup with that, well, never mind, what I remember is that you promised to come visit and I haven’t seen you yet. Why don’t you slip over this weekend?”
“Love to, Mimi, but I’m about to hop a flight to”—I snatched up the itinerary and scanned it—“Florida.”Nice. I shoved everything within the confines of my suitcase and zipped it shut. “But if I didn’t need to get out of town so quickly, I’d definitely be there.” I hefted the suitcase from the bed and rolled it to the door. “You find yourself a hot young man yet?”
“Lord help me. Got all I can do to manage Esther and Harriet from one day to the next. Those two busy-body sisters keep trying to run my life. Now, what’s this about needing to get out of town? You running from something?”
In typical fashion, my attempt to distract the cagey Abigail Cates had backfired.
“Mimi—”
“Because—now, hear me out—since your season is over, I thought, well, I truly hoped, you’d come and visit this little old lady.”
I snorted. “Little old lady, my ass.”
“But you’re giving in, right? Come visit. Maybe we’ll even find you a small town sort of girl who knows how to treat a man right.”
I hated that Mimi lived alone. And Ihadpromised her a visit. Besides, the Halloween season in our little hometown was fun, community-minded. I’d still make time to hit the beach, and the beach babes. But a little detour might be amusing.
“All right, woman, you win. But no matchmaking funny business, you hear?”
“My darling boy, I have no idea what you’re going on about.”
“I’m not in the market for any kind of romance.”
She hummed quiet amusement. “As if you’ll have a say when true love bites you on the butt. Mark my words, you impudent boy. You’ll be thankful when it does.”
.
3
Emma Grayce
A brightly paintedAdirondack chair sat on my little front porch. Only one chair, but I had noticed it through bleary eyes when I arrived at my rented bungalow just before dawn. I wandered out into the clear, crisp day, a cup of coffee in one hand and my writing pad in the other. I had a story idea for a new novel and wanted to get my thoughts down before they evaporated. I made myself comfortable in the chair and wondered if the rain I smelled in the air would actually appear.
The night—or morning, actually—spent passed out on the thick quilt covering the poster bed in my rented cabin had fully refreshed me. The Tumble Inn bungalows had been recommended as homey and comfortable, and I’d done just that—literally tumbled in—after spending nineteen hours topack up my shit, run by my apartment for my suitcase that was thankfully already packed, and drive through the night.
I’d stopped once for a fast food burger—dinner—once for an oversized triple shot latte with extra foam—at hour fifteen—and twice more to pee—because way too much coffee, and only called Stephanie six times to rant.
Through the congested interstate of the big cities and over the rolling wooded hills as I headed south, I cursed Perry Thompson for being a dick, and myself for accepting assignments—far too many of those—that gave me zero personal satisfaction.
Cruising through the wee hours of the morning, I adjourned my private come-to-Jesus meeting by deciding enough was enough and my recent unemployment status was surely a blessing in disguise. From now on—or as soon as I was done being Stephanie’s wedding bitch—my future, my happiness, was my number-one mission. I was going to write what I wanted to write, stories of love laced with suspense and adventure, and dammit, I wasn’t postponing life any longer while waiting for some stuffy publishing house offer that my agent assured me was comingany minute now.
And if I never managed to stumble into love, well, I’d be disappointed but I would survive on that front too.
I’d been doodling off and on for the past hour while my thoughts wandered, nothing unusual as my hands often travelled at will over whatever paper was handy while my imagination plotted and planned. I took a good look and realized that while I’d been daydreaming of my new and improved Technicolor life, my subconscious had also been fantasizing. In black and white.
The vague figure of a man had appeared on the page, the basic outline of a narrow face and angular jaw, and so far I liked what I saw. This guy—my guy—had eyebrows that were bushy but not caveman, a nose that may have been broken at one time, high, sculpted cheekbones, and a chiseled chin. He also had eyes that glinted with intelligence, ethics, patience.
