CHARLIE CATCHES MY forearms before I can tumble all the way down, steadying me as the words “What the hell?” fly out of him.
After the pain and shock comes recognition, followed swiftly by confusion.
“Nora Stephens.” My name sounds like a swear.
He gapes at me; I gape back.
I blurt, “I’m on vacation!”
His confusion deepens.
“I just . . . I’m not stalking you.”
His eyebrows furrow. “Okay?”
“I’m not.”
He releases my forearms. “More convincing every time you say it.”
“My sister wanted to take a trip here,” I say, “because she loves Once in a Lifetime.”
Something flutters behind his eyes. He snorts.
I cross my arms. “One has to wonder why you’d be here.”
“Oh,” he says dryly, “I’m stalking you.” At my eye bulge, he says, “I’m from here, Stephens.”
I gawk at him in shock for so long that he waves a hand in front of my face. “Hello? Are you broken?”
“You . . . are from . . . here? Like here here?”
“I wasn’t born on the bar of this unfortunate establishment,” he says, lip curled, “if that’s what you mean, but yes, nearby.”
It’s not computing. Partly because he’s dressed like he just stepped out of a Tom Ford spread in GQ, and partly because I’m not convinced this place isn’t a movie set that production abandoned halfway through construction. “Charlie Lastra is from Sunshine Falls.”
His gaze narrows. “Did my nose go directly into your brain?”
“You are from Sunshine Falls, North Carolina,” I say. “A place with one gas station and a restaurant named Poppa Squat.”
“Yes.”
My brain skips over several more relevant questions to: “Is Poppa Squat a person?”
Charlie laughs, a surprised sound so rough I feel it as a scrape against my rib cage. “No?”
“What, then,” I say, “is a Poppa Squat?”
The corner of his mouth ticks downward. “I don’t know—a state of mind?”
“And what’s wrong with the Greek salad here?”
“You tried to order a salad?” he says. “Did the townspeople circle you with pitchforks?”
“Not an answer.”
“It’s shredded iceberg lettuce with nothing else on it,” he says. “Except when the cook is drunk and covers the whole thing in cubed ham.”
“Why?” I ask.
“I imagine he’s unhappy at home,” Charlie replies, deadpan. “Might have something to do with the kinds of thwarted dreams that lead a person to working here.”
“Not why does the cook drink,” I say. “Why would anyone cover a salad in cubed ham?”
“If I knew the answer to that, Stephens,” he says, “I’d have ascended to a higher plane.”
At this point, he notices something on the ground and ducks sideways, picking it up. “This yours?” He hands me my phone. “Wow,” he says, reading my reaction. “What did this phone do to you?”
“It’s not the phone so much as the sociopathic super-bitch who lives inside it.”
Charlie says, “Most people just call her Siri.”
I shove my phone back to him, Dusty’s pages still pulled up. The furrow in his brow re-forms, and immediately, I think, What am I doing?
I reach for the phone, but he spins away from me, the crease beneath his full bottom lip deepening as he reads. He swipes down the screen impossibly fast, his pout shifting into a smirk.
Why did I hand this over to him? Is the culprit here the martini, the recent head injury, or sheer desperation?
“It’s good,” Charlie says finally, pressing my phone into my hand.
“That’s all you have to say?” I demand. “Nothing else you care to comment on?”
“Fine, it’s exceptional,” he says.
“It’s humiliating,” I parry.
He glances toward the bar, then meets my eyes again. “Look, Stephens. This is the end of a particularly shitty day, inside a particularly shitty restaurant. If we’re going to have this conversation, can I at least get a Coors?”
“You don’t strike me as a Coors guy,” I say.
“I’m not,” he says, “but I find the merciless mockery from the bartender here dampens my enjoyment of a Manhattan.”
I look toward the sexy TV bartender. “Another enemy of yours?”
His eyes darken, his mouth doing that grimace-twitch. “Is that what we are? Do you send all your enemies Bigfoot erotica, or just the special ones?”
“Oh no,” I say, feigning pity. “Did I hurt your feelings, Charlie?”
“You seem pretty pleased with yourself,” he says, “for a woman who just found out she was the inspiration for Cruella de Vil.”
I scowl at him. Charlie rolls his eyes. “Come on. I’ll buy you a martini. Or a puppy coat.”
A martini. Exactly what Nadine Winters drinks, whenever she doesn’t have easy access to virgin’s blood.
For some reason, my ex-boyfriend Jakob flits into my mind. I picture him drinking beer from a can on his back porch, his wife curled under his arm, swigging on her own.
Even four kids in, she’s laid-back and absurdly gorgeous, yet somehow “one of the guys.”
The Anti-Nora.
They always are, the women I get dumped for. Pretty hard to learn to be “one of the guys” when your entire experience with men growing up was either 1) them making your mother cry or 2) your mother’s dancer friends teaching you how to step-ball-change. I can be one of the guys, as long as the guys in question have a favorite song from Les Mis. Otherwise I’m hopeless.
“I’ll have a beer,” I say as I pass Charlie, “and you’re buying.”
“Like . . . I said?” he murmurs, following me to the peanut-shell-strewn bar.
As he’s exchanging pleasantries with the bartender (definitely not enemies; there’s a vibe, by which I mean he’s fifteen percent less rude than usual), I glance back toward the bathroom, but Libby still hasn’t emerged.
I don’t even realize I’ve gone back to rereading the chapters until Charlie tugs my phone from my hands. “Stop obsessing.”
“I’m not obsessing.”
He studies me with that black-hole gaze, the one that makes me want to scrabble for purchase. “I’m surprised this is such a problem for you.”
“And I’m shocked your artificial intelligence chip allows you to feel surprise.”
“Well, hello.” I flinch toward Libby’s voice and find her smiling like a cartoon cat whose mouth is stuffed with multiple canaries.
“Libby,” I say. “This is—”
Before I can introduce Charlie, she pipes up, “Just wanted to let you know, I called a cab. I’m not feeling well.”
“What’s wrong?” I start to rise but she pushes my shoulder back down, hard.
“Just exhausted!” She sounds anything but. “You should stay—you’re not even done with your burger.”
“Lib, I’m not going to just let you—”
“Oh!” She looks at her phone. “Hardy’s here—you don’t mind getting the bill, do you, Nora?”
I’m not traditionally a blusher, but my face is on fire because I’ve just realized what’s going on, which means Charlie likely has too, and Libby’s already retreating, leaving me with half a veggie burger, an unpaid bill, and a deep desire for the earth to swallow me whole.
She throws a look over her shoulder and calls loudly, “Good luck checking off number five, Sissy!”
“Number five?” Charlie asks as the door swings shut, vanishing my sister into the night.
I really don’t like the idea of her hiking up those steps alone. I snatch my phone back up and text her, LET ME KNOW THE SECOND YOU MAKE IT UP TO THE COTTAGE OR ELSE!!!!
Libby replies, Let me know the second you make it to third base with Mr. Hottman.
Over my shoulder, Charlie snorts. I turn my phone away, squaring my shoulders. “That was my sister, Libby,” I say. “Ignore everything she says. She’s always horny when she’s pregnant. Which is always.”
His (truly miraculous) eyebrows lift, his heavy-lidded gaze homing in. “There is . . . so much to unpack in that sentence.”
“And so little time.” I bite into my burger just to focus on something other than his face. “I should get back to her.”
“So no time for that beer.” He says it like a challenge, like I knew it. His brow is arched, the tiniest shred of a smirk hiding in one corner of his mouth. Somehow this doesn’t totally extinguish his pout. It just makes it a smout.
The bartender returns with our sweating glass bottles then, and Charlie thanks her. For the first time, I see her staggeringly incandescent smile. “Of course,” she says. “If you need anything, just say the word.”
As she turns away, Charlie faces me, taking a long sip.
“Why do you get a smile?” I demand. “I’m a thirty-percent-minimum tipper.”
“Yeah, well, you should try almost marrying her and see if that helps,” he replies, leaving me so stunned I’m back to gawping.
“Speaking of sentences with a lot to unpack.”
“I know you’re a busy woman,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to sharpening your knives and organizing your poison cabinet, Nadine Winters.”
He says everything so evenly, it’s easy to miss the joke in it. But this time the unmistakably cajoling note in his voice back-combs over me until I feel like a dog with its hackles up.
“First of all,” I say, “it’s a pantry, not a cabinet. And second of all, the beer’s already here, and it’s after work hours, so I might as well drink it.”
Because I am not Nadine Winters. I grab my bottle and chug, feeling Charlie’s owlish eyes heavy on me.
He says, “It’s fucking good, right?” For once, he lets a little excitement into his voice. His eyes flash like lightning just crackled through the inside of his skull.
“If you’re into cat pee and gasoline.”
“The chapter, Nora.”
My jaw tightens as I nod.
As far as I’ve seen, Charlie’s eyebrows have three modes: brooding, scowling, and portraying something that’s either concern or confusion. That’s what they’re up to now. “But you’re still upset about it.”
“Upset?” I cry. “Just because my oldest client thinks I’d fire someone for getting pregnant? Don’t be silly.”
Charlie tucks one foot on the rung of his stool, his knee bumping mine. “She doesn’t think that.” He tips his head back for another swig. A bead of beer sneaks down his neck, and for a moment, I’m hypnotized, watching it cut a trail toward the collar of his shirt.
“And even if she does,” Charlie says, “that doesn’t make it true.”
“If she wrote a whole book about it,” I say, “it might make other people think it’s true.”
“Who cares?”
“This guy.” I point to my chest. “The person who needs people to work with her in order to have a job.”
“How long have you been representing Dusty?” he asks.
“Seven years.”
“She wouldn’t be working with you, after seven years, if you weren’t a great agent.”
“I know I’m a great agent.” That’s not the problem. The problem is, I’m embarrassed, ashamed, and a little hurt. Because, as it turns out, I do have feelings. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Charlie studies me.
“I’m fine!” I say again.
“Clearly.”
“You’re laughing now, but—”
“I’m not laughing,” he interjects. “When did I laugh?”
“Good point. I’m sure that’s never happened. But just you wait until one of your authors turns in a book about an amber-eyed asshole editor.”
“Amber-eyed?” he says.
“I notice you didn’t question the asshole part of that sentence,” I say, and chug some more. Clearly, the filter has melted away again, but at least that’s proof I’m not the woman in those pages.
“I’m used to people thinking I’m an asshole,” he says stiffly. “Less used to them describing my eyes as ‘amber.’ ”
“That’s what color they are,” I say. “It’s objective. I’m not complimenting you.”
“In that case, I’ll abstain from being flattered. What color are yours?” He leans in without any hint of embarrassment, only curiosity, his warm breath feathering over my jaw. That’s pretty much when I realize I think he’s hot.
I mean, I know I thought he was hot in Mug + Shot when I thought he was someone else, but this is when I realize I think he— specifically Charlie Lastra, not just someone who looks like him— is hot.
I take another sip. “Red.”
“Really brings out the color of your forked tail and horns.”
“You’re too sweet.”
“Now that,” he says, “is something I’ve never been accused of.”
“I can’t imagine why not.”
He arches a brow, that honey-gold ring around his black-hole pupils glinting. “And I’m sure people line up to recite sonnets about your sweetness?”
I scoff. “My sister’s the sweet one. If she pees outside, flower gardens burst up from it.”
“You know,” he says, “Sunshine Falls might not be the big city, but you should let your sister know, we do have indoor plumbing. Pretty much the only thing Dusty got right.”
“Shoot!” I grab my phone. Dusty. She’s in a vulnerable place, and she’s used to me being one hundred percent accessible. Whether this book makes me look like the Countess Báthory or not, I owe it to her to do my job. I start typing a reply, using an uncharacteristic excess of exclamation points.
Charlie checks his watch. “Nine o’clock, on vacation, in a bar, and you’re still working. Nadine Winters would be proud.”
“You’re one to judge,” I say. “I happen to know your Loggia Publishing email account has had plenty of action this week.”
“Yes, but I have no problem with Nadine Winters,” he says. “In fact, I find her fascinating.”
My eyes catch on the word I’m typing. “Oh? What’s so interesting about a sociopath?”
“Patricia Highsmith might have something to say about that,” he replies. “But more importantly, Nora, don’t you think you’re judging this character a little too harshly? It’s ten pages.”
I sign the message, hit send, and swivel back to him, my knees locking into place between his. “Because as we all know, reviewers are notoriously kind to female characters.”
“Well, I like her. Who the fuck cares whether anyone else does, as long as they want to read about her?”
“People also slow down to gawk at car wrecks, Charlie. Are you calling me a car wreck?”
“I’m not talking about you at all,” he says. “I’m talking about Nadine Winters. My fictional crush.”
A feeling like a scorching-hot Slinky drops through me. “Big fan of jet-black hair and Krav Maga, huh?”
Charlie leans forward, face serious, voice low. “It’s more about the blood dripping from her fangs.”
I’m unsure how to respond. Not because it’s gross, but because I’m pretty sure he’s making a reference to the Shark of it all, and that feels dangerously close to flirting.
And I should definitely not be flirting with him. For all I know, he has a partner—or a doll room—and then there’s the fact that publishing is a small pond, and one wrong move could easily pollute it.
God, even my internal dialogue sounds like Nadine. I clear my throat, take a sip of beer, and force myself not to overthink the way I’m sitting tucked between his thighs, or how my eyes keep zeroing in on that crease beneath his lip. I don’t need to overthink. I don’t need to be in complete control.
“So tell me about this place,” I say. “What’s interesting here?”
“Do you like grass?” Charlie asks.
“Big fan.”
“We’ve got lots.”
“What else?” I ask.
“We made a BuzzFeed list of the ‘Top 10 Most Repulsively Named Restaurants in America.’ ”
“Been there.” I wave to our general surroundings. “Done that.”
He tips his chin toward me. “You tell me, Nora. Do you think this place is interesting?”
“It’s certainly . . .” I search for the word. “Peaceful.”
He laughs, a husky, jagged sound, one that belongs in a crammed Brooklyn bar, the streetlights beyond the rain-streaked window tinting his golden skin reddish. Not here.
“Is that a question?” he says.
“It’s peaceful,” I say more confidently.
“So you just don’t like ‘peaceful.’ ” He’s smirking through his pout. Smirting. “You’d rather be somewhere loud and crowded, where just existing feels like a competition.”
I’ve always considered myself an introvert, but the truth is I’m used to having people on all sides of me. You adapt to living life with a constant audience. It becomes comforting.
Mom used to say she became a New Yorker the day she openly wept on the subway. She’d gotten cut in the final round of an audition, and an old lady across the train car had handed her a tissue without even looking up from her book.
The way my mind keeps springing back to New York seems to prove his point. Once again, I’m unnerved by the feeling that Charlie Lastra sees right through my carefully pressed outermost layers.
“I’m perfectly happy with peace and quiet,” I insist.
“Maybe.” Charlie twists to grab his beer, the movement pressing his outside knee into mine just long enough for him to take another sip before he faces me again. “Or maybe, Nora Stephens, I can read you like a book.”
I scoff. “Because you’re so socially intelligent.”
“Because you’re like me.”
A zing shoots up from where his knee brushes mine. “We’re nothing alike.”
“You’re telling me,” Charlie says, “that from the moment you stepped off the airplane, you haven’t been itching to get back to New York? Feeling like . . . like you’re an astronaut out in space, while the world’s just turning at a normal speed, and by the time you get back, you’ll have missed your whole life? Like New York will never need you like you need it?”
Exactly, I think, stunned for the forty-fifth time in as many minutes.
I smooth my hair, like I can tuck any exposed secrets back into place. “Actually, the last couple of days have been a refreshing break from all the surly, monochromatic New York literary types.”
Charlie’s head tilts, his lids heavy. “Do you know you do that?”
“Do what?” I say.
His fingers brush the right corner of my mouth. “Get a divot here, when you lie.”
I slap his hand out of the air, but not before all the blood in my body rushes to meet his fingertips. “That’s not my Lying Divot,” I lie. “It’s my Annoyed Divot.”
“On that note,” he says dryly, “how about a game of high-stakes poker?”
“Fine!” I take another slug of beer. “It’s my Lying Divot. Sue me. I miss New York, and it’s too quiet here for me to sleep, and I’m very disappointed that the general store is actually a pawnshop. Is that what you want to hear, Charlie? That my vacation is not off to an auspicious start?”
“I’m always a fan of the truth,” he says.
“No one’s always a fan of the truth,” I say. “Sometimes the truth sucks.”
“It’s always better to have the truth up front than to be misled.”
“There’s still something to be said for social niceties.”
“Ah.” He nods, eyes glinting knowingly. “For example, waiting until after lunch to tell someone you hate their client’s book?”
“It wouldn’t have killed you,” I say.
“It might’ve,” he says. “As we learned from Old Man Whittaker, secrets can be toxic.”
I straighten as something occurs to me. “That’s why you hated it. Because you’re from here.”
Now he shifts uncomfortably. I’ve found a weakness; I’ve seen through one of Charlie Lastra’s outermost layers, and the scales tip ever so slightly in my favor. Big fan—huge.
“Let me guess.” I jut out my bottom lip. “Bad memories.”
“Or maybe,” he drawls, leaning in, “it has something to do with the fact that Dusty Fielding clearly hasn’t even googled Sunshine Falls in the last twenty years, let alone visited.”
Of course, he has a point, but as I study the irritable rigidity of his jaw and the strangely sensual though distinctly grim set of his lips, I know my smile’s sharpening. Because I see it: the half-truth of his words. I can read him too, and it feels like I’ve discovered a latent superpower.
“Come on, Charlie,” I prod. “I thought you were always a fan of the truth. Let it out.”
He scowls (still pouting, so scowting?). “So I’m not this place’s biggest fan.”
“Wooooow,” I sing. “All this time I thought you hated the book, but really, you just had a deep, dark secret that made you close off from love and joy and laughter and—oh my god, you are Old Man Whittaker!”
“Okay, maestro.” Charlie plucks the beer bottle I’d been gesticulating with from my hand, setting it safely on the bar. “Chill. I’ve just never liked those ‘everything is better in small towns’ narratives. My ‘darkest secret’ is that I believed in Santa Claus until I was twelve.”
“You say that like it isn’t incredible blackmail.”
“Mutually assured destruction.” He taps my phone, an allusion to the Frigid document. “I’m just evening the field for you after those pages.”
“How noble. Now tell me why your day was so bad.”
He studies me for a moment, then shakes his head. “No . . . I don’t think I will. Not until you tell me why you’re really here.”
“I already told you,” I say. “Vacation.”
He leans in again, his hand catching my chin, his thumb landing squarely on the divot at the corner of my lips. My breath catches. His voice is low and raspy: “Liar.”
His fingertips fall away and he gestures to the bartender for two more beers.
I don’t stop him.
Because I am not Nadine Winters.
