CHAPTER FIVE
I CRASHEDhard after I calmed myself down nearly an hour later. The past couple of days had taken their toll on me, both physically and mentally. Everything I believed, all the things I’d told myself I needed to keep me safe, had been called into question by a late-night phone call and the response it got.
Wearing nothing but a smile, I got out of bed and went to the kitchen for a glass of lemonade. I really, really wanted coffee, but I found that when I drank too much caffeine, my anxiety went through the roof. I cut that out of my life right away, though I still had decaf on occasion. Sugar wasn’t so bad as long as I didn’t overdo it. And I loved my lemonade. To me it had the perfect blend of tartness and sweetness. Just enough to give it pucker power. Deciding to give Sam Gribley another try, I slipped on some clothes, grabbed my favorite book, and headed for the porch, stopping to run my fingers over the work Charlie and Clay had done. The place felt safe again. Then I remembered I had asked Mr. Gianetti to order me a door. I thought about calling to cancel, but after this, I figured I could keep it in storage in case I ever needed one.
As soon as the door opened, I knew it would be a beautiful day. The air had a fall crispness to it that would fade over the course of the morning, warming to a beautiful Indian summer. I had very few chores to do, and I didn’t usually start on those until about two, so I thought I had time to read until then. The swing welcomed me like an old friend as I sank into it, providing me with warmth and comfort.
About twenty minutes later, the sound of rubber on dirt caught my attention, and I sat up straight, every nerve on full alert. Not only was it too early for Charlie, but he’d been here only a few hours ago. He’d also said he had to open the library, so it couldn’t be him coming down the way.
“Just me, Matt!” Charlie yelled a few moments before coming into view.
The breath whooshed from my lungs. I rushed inside and put the book back on the shelf, then returned to the porch in time to see Charlie as he came around the bend, a big smile on his face. He was shirtless, and I suppressed a moan at seeing his chest. He had a gray T-shirt tucked into the pocket of his running shorts, which made me wonder if he’d taken it off just for me. When he coughed, I realized I had been thinking too hard and felt my cheeks heat. He stood at the gate and grinned.
“Did you want to sit?” I asked as I took my seat and picked up the now-empty glass. I rolled it in my hands, focusing on the coolness. “Sorry, I didn’t think you would be here so early.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” he answered, a wide grin on his face. He pushed open the gate and sauntered up to where I sat. Without saying anything, he opened the bag he’d slung over his shoulder and reached inside. When he pulled out a stack of books, I gave him a curious look. “You said you’d like to read them. I had paperback copies at home, so I thought you might want them.”
When I didn’t move, his expression slipped a little. I wanted to take them, but they didn’t belong in my house. I kept trying to tell myself that the gift from Charlie shouldn’t be an issue, but it was and I didn’t know why.
He stood for a moment, then coughed. “Okay, how about if I set them down, and if you want to read them, you can? No pressure, honest.”
He put them next to where I sat. I glanced down at the cover of the top one. Two men in an intimate pose, one shielding the other. The picture appeared grainy, like something you’d see on old television shows. I guess it had to do with the genre. The title,Death Comes to Allerton, had been emblazoned across the top, with a review snippet from theLiterary Times Gazettethat promised it to be a thrill ride like no other. On the bottom of the book, the name Charles Magnus was displayed in a stylish font.
I quirked an eyebrow. “Charles Magnus?”
He blushed and glanced down at his hand. “Pen name. Charlie Carver seemed too blah, my publicist said.”
“I think it’s a nice name,” I told him. Then I realized what I’d said. “For an author, I mean.”
That devilish smirk flashed across his face. “Sure, for an author,” he teased. “So, since you have signed copies of my books, does that entitle me to a lemonade?”
I made a face. “You think my lemonade is only worth some books?”
That brought a laugh. “You’re right. My apologies,” he said, crossing his right arm over his stomach and giving a slight bow.
I flashed back on the image of him and Clay hanging the door, his tight muscles straining as they worked, the look of sheer determination on his face. He never questioned, never complained. Three in the morning, and he had come out to help Clay. That entitled him to a lot more than lemonade.
“Have a seat. I’ll get you something to drink. If you’d rather, I do have coffee. Well, decaf. I don’t do well with caffeine.”
He waved his hand. “I’d love lemonade, but if we ever decide to have coffee, I’m fine with whatever you’ve got. Some writers live off caffeine. Me? I can take it or leave it.”
“One glass of Matt’s special lemonade coming up,” I said, trying to give him a smile. I picked up my empty glass and carried it back into the house.
The pitcher in the refrigerator had enough for a glass or two, and it would take me some time to make fresh, which had been my plan for the afternoon. After I washed out the glass I’d used and dried it off, I poured lemonade for him, put the remainder back, and grabbed a glass of water for myself. When I got outside, I found him writing something in one of the books. When he saw me, he closed it quickly, set it back on the pile, put the pen in his bag, and held out his hand.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the glass from me. He drained it all in a few gulps, then wiped a hand over the back of his mouth. “You could bottle this stuff. It’s way better than what they serve at the Clover.”
My cheeks heated at his compliment. “I had a friend who worked there once, and she said they only use a powder mix.” I sat in the swing, across from the chair Charlie occupied. He put his glass down, crossed his legs, and stared at me. I squirmed under his scrutiny.
“Is the door working okay?” he asked.
“Y-yes,” I stuttered. I wanted to run and hide in my bed when I noticed the way his gaze bored into me. It seemed as though he could see right through me. I couldn’t decide if it should be comforting or terrifying.
“Can we talk about last night?” he asked, after what seemed like an eternity.
This had been the second time he’d seen me at my worst. To be honest it surprised me that he had come back at all after getting a call from Clay about a crazy man.
“Hey, how did you know to get here last night?” I asked, hoping to deflect his questions.
