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“Don’t like it?” I try to read her face.
“It’s just a bit strong,” she answers.
“Strong? Tell me you’re kidding, have you ever even had a drink before?”
“I can add more Coke if you want,” Owen offers, starting to stand up, but Mary stops him.
“No, I’ll drink it.” She gives me a look. One that tells me she’s very aware that I’m watching her. She takes a bigger mouthful, swallowing it down without flinching. “There.” She eases back on the sofa. “No problem at all,” she answers defiantly.
“If you’re sure, it’s no biggie for me to add some soda?” Owen asks again.
“She said she’s fine. God, stop babying her,” I growl. I like seeing this side of her. This, jutting out her jaw and trying to show me she can hold her own side. It’s got a bit more sass than the boring Martha Stewart knock-off impression.
“Okay, whatever.” Owen relaxes and slugs back another gulp of his own drink. “Anyway, Hardy and I come from a long line of lumberjacks, but the trade isn’t what it used to be. Now it’s all big machinery chewing up the land. There’s no selective cutting the way it used to be. It’s taking out a huge swath of land and then, if it’s a ‘responsible’ company,” he uses air quotes to mock the term, “they come in after and plant a billion of one kind of tree and then they act like they’re some kind of forestry heroes or something.”
“That’s not how you guys do it then?”
“No,” I interrupt. “We do it the same way our grandfathers did. We actually give a shit about whether our kids will have clean air to breathe. The only thing is, it’s hard to make a living that way now. You just can’t compete. That’s why we specialize in rare cuts of wood. That way we can do our job the way we want and still put food in our mouths.”
“Wow, that’s awesome.” Mary fully relaxes between us now. She pulls her feet up under her and sips some more of her drink. That rosy blush kisses her cheeks again, trying to make her skin match her fiery hair.
“How about you? How long have you been writing romance?” Owen asks her. My eyes drift over the room and I don’t really focus on what she says because they fall onto the cover of one of her books. Over by the armchair, it’s shoved down between the cushion and the side, but I can see her smiling face and those distinctive blue glasses on the back cover.
“Wait, is that one of them?” I stand up and lunge toward the chair, tugging the book free. “Look at that, will ya? Over a million copies sold.” I point to the big black letters on the novel.
“Give me that, you don’t need to…” Mary tries to jump up and grab it from me but I pull it away from her reach.
“No, no.” I crack the cover. “Let’s take a lookie here. What is it that you think real guys think like?” I thumb through the pages until I land a little more than halfway through. I scan the page and clear my throat, reading a passage out loud. “Grant knew then that his life would never be the same. After swearing he’d never find love again, his heart told him he was lying as it whispered her name, keeping him up at night. With each beat, it murmured, Ann.”
“Seriously, just give me the book. That’s the first one I ever wrote, don’t mess up the pages.” She tries unsuccessfully to get it again.
“Oh, come on. Is this for real? No wonder women are never happy. They’ve got people like you telling them that this is what men act like. How they talk. How they think. I hate to break it to ya, kitten, but a real man doesn’t say or think those things.”
“Like you’re some kind of romance expert, huh? You’re just beating the women off with a stick, are you?” she counters, her cherry-red lips twisting up.
“She’s got your number there.” Owen laughs and walks over to us. “Give her the book, man.” He plucks it from my hand and places it gently in hers.
Mary just stands there, motionless. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s a little pissed off at me. “You know what,” she turns and points her finger in my face, “you aren’t some kind of real man expert. A real asshole expert, sure, but that’s about it.”
Owen laughs but he stops when his eyes fall on my face. I can feel my temper rising. She wants to challenge me? This little romance writer with her murmuring heartbeats and whatever other nonsense she’s peddling to these unsuspecting women.
“I might be a real asshole, but I could write a more convincing guy in one of your books than you can. Men aren’t Ken dolls, princess. They have wants, needs, they see a beautiful woman and they imagine stripping her bare. They want to protect her. Fuck her. Fill her belly with his kids and then do it all again. That’s what real men do.”
