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She was so sick of being sad. So sick of being hurt. Ben McAllister wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t. She should be over him by now. But kind of hard to be over someone she loved deeply…
She swallowed hard and forced her attention to Shane. She looked him in the eyes. “Hearts get broken all the time. I’ll be fine.”
“Yes, you will.” He smiled then, but the smile was kind.
Reaching into his leather satchel he pulled out a card. He placed it on the table between them before beginning to gather his things. “Should you ever want to get a cup of coffee, or talk books, or teaching—I used to be a high school history teacher—call me.”
Jet watched him walk away, and take the still empty table by the bay window. He put down his tea and pulled out his laptop.
She turned to look at the business card he’d left on the table.
Sean S. Finley
Writer.
Stunned, Jet picked up the card. Sean S. Finley. The Sean Finley?
The card included a url for a website, a New York City PO Box, and a phone number.
She looked across Java Café to where Shane was spreading books around his laptop.
Couldn’t be.
Could it?
She left her table, crossed the café to reach his table. “You’re Sean?” she asked, flashing the business card at him.
“Sean is my pen name.”
“You’re him.”
“Yes.”
Her mouth opened, closed. “You could have told me.”
“I did.”
“Before I kept gushing.”
He flashed a lazy white smile. “It was kind of nice to hear.”
“I feel so stupid.”
“Don’t. Writers need feedback.”
“Hmph.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. At least she tried to glare at him but it was impossible when he smiled up at her like that. “Were you really once a teacher?”
“I was.”
“Were you a good one?”
More white teeth. His dark eyes flashed. “I’d like to think so.”
“Why did you stop teaching?”
“I sold my first book.”
“Heartbreak & Heaven?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Was that really the first one you wrote, or just the first one you published?”
“First one I wrote and published.”
“Do you ever miss teaching?”
“Sometimes.” His lips curved. “Like now. I always enjoyed the teacher staff room.”
“Yeah, me, too.” She knew she sounded mournful. “But when you’re the only teacher in a one room schoolhouse, there isn’t much of a staff room.”
“Let’s go to dinner Friday and you can tell me all about it.”
Her pulse leaped. Her stomach somersaulted. The Sheenans would not be happy if they knew she was having dinner with him but, at the same time, this wasn’t just any writer, this was Sean S. Finley. A literary rock star. A literary rock star that looked like a real rock star.
His dark eyes gleamed. His lips curved up in what could only be described as wicked. “We can swap teacher stories,” he said.
Her heart was out of control. Doubt and misgiving warred with curiosity and fascination. “I’m still pretty new.”
“And I’ve been out of the classroom for quite awhile. But we can talk books. And ideas. And what brought you to Marietta.”
She shouldn’t say yes.
She shouldn’t.
And not just because Harley and the whole Sheenan clan would have a fit if they knew, but why risk making a fool out of herself? God knew she’d probably gush again, and talk about his books until he wanted to crawl under the table and die, but at the same time…she couldn’t say no. He was one of her favorite writers. His books lined her keeper shelf back home in Visalia. How could she not want to talk to him more? Learn more about what he was working on now?
She smiled ruefully. “Okay.”
“Where do I pick you up?”
“This isn’t a date. Maybe I should meet you there.”
“I was thinking we could go to Livingston. Have dinner at the Gallatin Steakhouse. Heard it’s good. Have you eaten there?”
“No. But I’ve heard good things about it, too.”
“I’ll make a reservation, and there’s no point driving separately. Unless, you’re more comfortable, and if that’s the case—”
“It’s fine.” She hesitated. “I’m not uncomfortable. I’ll text you my number and my address and then you can let me know what time the reservation is for, and when you’ll pick me up.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
He shouldn’t be doing this.
He shouldn’t involve her.
Shane gave his head a slight shake as Jet walked away and he opened the Word document on his computer, the one labeled DR 17, his personal shorthand for Douglas Ranch, Chapter 17.
But he didn’t start working immediately. Instead he found himself staring blankly out the window, at a distant point across Main Street.
She wasn’t what he’d expected.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. It was obvious to all, she was pretty—cheerleader, homecoming queen pretty—with thick, gleaming, brown hair that hung past her shoulders, and light golden brown eyes with very black lashes. Her cheekbones were high and her lips were full and she had a flawless cream complexion. He’d anticipated that she’d sound much the same…a sweet, rather bubbly young woman without much to say.
But the moment Jet had opened her mouth she’d talked books and writing, and she proved to be well-read, too.
She had a mind of her own. Opinions. He liked that she was interested in history, as well as the world around her.
He liked her.
Which made him kind of hate himself for using her.
He was taking her out Friday to get information. Their dinner wasn’t about her, but about her connection to the Sheenans, specifically Brock Sheenan.
Jet’s sister, Harley, had married Brock Sheenan, the oldest of the five brothers, a couple years ago. The Sheenans were a wealthy, ranching family and had been ranching in Paradise Valley since the turn of the century, and Shane was living in the Sheenan homestead now, having leased it for a year. The lease would be up end of March, and at that time Shane would return to New York to finish his book. The book hadn’t come together yet, there were pieces missing, but Shane was finding it difficult to focus on the Douglas ranch murders when there was another story surrounding him, one far more personal, one that had begun to haunt him night and day.
Shane exhaled slowly, aware that his pulse had quickened.
The Sheenans.
He could never think of them without a hard, tight knot forming in his gut. His chest was just as tight. Anger rolled through him, but then it was always there these days…simmering.
He hated them. Despised them. And yet after nine months living in their house, he was almost consumed with them.
They were far too compelling. But after all this time he shouldn’t find them so compelling. Their mystery should be gone. The strangeness and novelty fading.
But the opposite had happened.
After spending nine months in Montana, he was more intrigued—and conflicted—than ever.
