A Word With The Bachelor. Teresa Southwick
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working order and sometimes that meant making do with what was available. He’d just been messing with her because that sandwich tasted pretty darn good.
The thing was, her perky disposition never slipped. Like yesterday when he’d said he wouldn’t sleep with her, she’d calmly handled him. The only clue that he’d made her uncomfortable was the high color in her cheeks. Women weren’t top secret to him; he knew when one liked what she saw. And from the moment he’d answered the door to Erin Riley, she’d looked at him that way. If she could see inside him, she’d run in the opposite direction.
Maybe this attitude of his was a way of initiating her, like boot camp, to see if he could get her to crack. If so, that made him a son of a bitch and he felt a little guilt, but managed to ignore it. Her insertion into his life hadn’t been his idea. But like he’d said—he couldn’t fire her. All he could do was discourage her.
So far that was a negative on dissuasion. Her sunny disposition made him want to put on his shades. Looking at her was like coming out of a pitch-dark room into light so bright it made your eyes hurt. Even her shoulder-length brown hair had sunlit, cheerful streaks running through it. And flecks of gold brightened her pretty green eyes. She wasn’t extraordinarily beautiful, not like his ex-wife. But she was vulnerable, yet strong—a compelling combination somehow and he didn’t want to be compelled.
“Jack?”
Hearing her say his name snapped him back. “What?”
“Talking about your work-in-progress might get the creative juices flowing.”
“That’s not my process,” he said stubbornly.
“Okay.” She thought for a moment. “Then let’s talk about what your process is.”
“You’re like a pit bull.” Harley was in his bed beside the desk and he reached down to scratch the dog’s head. Instantly the animal rolled onto his back and Jack almost smiled. “Once you sink your teeth in you don’t let go.”
“Nice try.” Those flecks in her eyes darkened, making them more brown than green. She looked like a teacher who’d just figured out someone was attempting to pull a fast one. “You’re trying to deflect attention from yourself. Let’s get something straight, Jack. This isn’t about me.”
So that flanking maneuver didn’t work. Time for a contingency plan. “I have the situation under control.”
“Good. All you have to do is give Cheryl a firm date for manuscript delivery.”
He couldn’t exactly do that. “I’m still working out some plot details.”
“Okay. So let’s talk about that.”
“Look, Erin, my name and mine alone is on the front of the book. The content is my personal responsibility and I take that very seriously. I don’t write by committee.”
“Ah,” she said, as if just understanding something.
“What does that mean?” He was pretty sure his facial expression wasn’t easy to read, unlike hers.
“I had a similar conversation when I worked with Corinne Carlisle. She was uncomfortable in the beginning of our cooperative efforts. A clandestine collaboration, she called it. I thought that was a personal quirk of hers, or a chick thing.”
“It wasn’t?”
She shook her head. “I believe it’s a writer thing.”
“Call it what you want. I just prefer to work alone.”
His gaze was drawn to her legs when she crossed one over the other. The jeans she was wearing were a little loose and left too much to the imagination because he suspected the hidden curves would be well worth a look. Probably a good thing the denim wasn’t skintight. It would only be a distraction that he didn’t want or need.
“Alone.” She nodded her understanding of his statement. “I heard you were a loner.”
“Oh?”
“Cheryl explained the downside of this assignment. She made sure I knew that you don’t play well with others.”
The words hung in the air between them for several moments. Jack couldn’t tell whether or not that was a criticism. It really didn’t matter. On the upside, maybe she was finally getting the message.
“By definition a loner needs to be alone.”
“I understand.” Her tone was soothing, like a shrink would use, or a hostage negotiator.
“Don’t patronize me,” he said.
“I’m sorry you feel I’m doing that. It wasn’t my intention.” She stopped for a moment, thinking, as if to come up with the right words to make him understand. “I respect your commitment to responsibility in writing the book you want to write. But I have undertaken this assignment and Cheryl is expecting tangible results. I’m not backing down from the challenge of you. It’s best you accept that. So, we have to start somewhere.”
“And you think talking about the story is the way to go.”
“It worked for Corinne.” She folded her hands in her lap. “If you have a better idea that would be awesome.”
“Look, I appreciate your willingness and enthusiasm.” Although he could think of better uses for it. “But I write action-adventure. A woman like you has no frame of reference for that so talking is a complete waste of time.”
“I haven’t been in the military or gone to war if that’s what you’re saying. But I read extensively and go to the movies. I can help you dissect the plot. I have ideas and that can be helpful.”
He’d started his last book as a therapeutic exercise to work through all the crap life had thrown at him. Pulling that stuff up was like exposing his soul. Doing that with her just wasn’t going to happen. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he didn’t want her to see the darkness inside him.
“Ideas?” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the unnaturally tidy top of his desk. “You’re Pollyanna. No offense, but you can’t possibly have suggestions for what I write.”
“Really?” She sat up straighter in the chair, almost literally stiffening her spine.
“In my opinion, yes.”
“It’s hard to form an opinion without information and you don’t know anything about me if you truly believe I’ve had no life experiences.”
“So you were engaged. There was a proposal. Probably a ring. Not a big deal.” He saw something slip into her eyes but it didn’t stop him. He’d been engaged once, too, even took the next step and got married. It didn’t work out for a lot of reasons, but mostly he wasn’t very good at being a husband. “Since you used past tense I guess you broke up with him. Still not gritty—”
“He died. Whether it happens in a war zone or the home front, death is not pretty. It’s raw and painful. I think that qualifies as life experience.”
He studied her and realized his mission, real or invented, had been successful. He’d managed to put clouds in her eyes and make the sunshine disappear.
Damned if he didn’t want to undo what he’d just done.
Erin sat in the passenger seat of Jack’s rugged jeep trying to figure him out. First he’d said he had no use for her, then later in the afternoon offered to take her into town. She had a long-term rental car from the airport and was prepared to shop on her own, but he’d insisted on driving. His excuse was that they might as well buy supplies together, but she had a sneaking suspicion there was another reason. One that would tarnish his tough-guy image.
“So, Jack,” she began, “I think your