Inappropriately Yours (Camassia Cove #3) Page 2

  *

  After splashing my face with cold water and firing off a text to Dad saying I'd made it to Jack's, I got out of my clothes. I assumed I wasn’t leaving the house for tonight, so I changed into a pair of yoga pants and a top.

  I was ready for the gallows.

  I left my room and yanked my hair back into a high, messy bun. Then I descended the stairs and reached the living room as Jack was hanging up the phone.

  He eyed what I was wearing and furrowed his brow as he averted his gaze. Had I gone too far? This was what I wore at home, with the exception that I preferred shorts over yoga pants. I thought this was modest enough.

  "I don't know what you like, so I ordered one plain, too." He cleared his throat and sat down on the couch. "Pizza should be here in twenty."

  "I'm not picky." I sat down on the other end of the couch and folded my legs under me. He had me on pins and needles for so many reasons. The biggest being why I was here. I was waiting for him to drop the bomb. Then his looks… He truly was devastatingly handsome with his sharp features and how perfectly his clothes fit his trim body.

  You probably shouldn’t gawk at Dad's best friend like that, moron.

  "So." He pushed up the sleeves of his button-down and grabbed my book. Next, he got comfortable, one arm draped along the back of the couch and one foot resting on his knee. He looked pensive, or maybe he was only choosing his words. The ones that would no doubt doom me.

  "You didn't like it," I said. "No one did. Just lay it on me so I can learn from my mistakes."

  "Fair enough." He drummed his long fingers along the cover that balanced on his thigh. "It's one of the worst books I've ever read."

  I snapped my mouth shut and nodded sharply. Don't cry, don't cry. I wasn’t a crier, but everything regarding that book hurt like nothing else. Each scathing review had pushed me further away from my dream of becoming a successful author like Dad.

  "You didn't let Aiden give it a read before?" he asked.

  I shook my head and swallowed hard, forcing down my emotions. "I'm proud to be his daughter, and I use my real name because of that fact. But I don't want more of his help. He's already a great support. That’s all I need."

  "Understood." Slipping a hand between two cushions, he retrieved a case. It contained his glasses, and he slid them on and opened the book. If he'd looked strict before, it had nothing on now with those sleek black frames.

  "What was it about the story you hated?" I had a feeling I was going to regret asking that.

  "Oh, it wasn’t the story. It's your writing." He flipped a page, brows furrowed. "Your writing style is incredibly flat and lacks emotion."

  Well, keep throwing those punches, then.

  "I see." I blinked rapidly and lowered my gaze. "Most critics complained about the story."

  Cliché, predictable, boring.

  "Most critics are acrimonious imbeciles, but that’s neither here nor there. Your story is bland. However, I took it for what it is. Just another romance novel." He closed the book and slid his gaze my way. "There isn't much I can do about that. I'm not a storyteller."

  What he'd said about my book being "just another romance novel" left a bitter taste in my mouth. I'd considered it a thriller. Now I wasn’t sure about anything.

  "What I can do is improve your writing, Isla."

  "I appreciate it." I couldn’t look him in the eye. My chest felt tight, and I was one hurtful word away from bursting into tears. God, I was humiliated.

  I cursed Dad for suggesting this shit. I wasn’t sure it'd be worth it at this point. My usual itch to write was gone anyway.

  "Do you need a minute?" he asked.

  Of course he could tell I was about to cry like a bitch. I couldn’t catch a fucking break.

  "I'm fine." I managed to force a small smile before I pretended to find the coffee table interesting to look at. "I'm ready to get better. You mentioned…um, flat and emotionless."

  "To name two—" He was interrupted by the doorbell. "I'll be right back."

  I sighed and covered my face with my hands. This was a goddamn disaster.

  4.

  Jack Grady

  Sweet relief. The pizza arrived in the nick of time, providing a decent distraction.

  Isla picked at hers, getting through half a slice in the time I wolfed down three.

  It was evident she had no faith in herself whatsoever. Frankly, I couldn’t blame her. Her writing was atrocious. But there was potential. She just needed a new perspective and practice.

  I had approximately forty-eight hours to find her passion and help her put it to use. While she nibbled on her crust, I began by telling her she couldn’t force her characters anymore. An author may be the puppet master, but they had surprisingly little power. They had to follow the characters they had created. What fit their personalities, their pasts, their goals, etcetera. Isla had to account for plausibility and realism.

  Despite being mortified and discouraged, she paid attention and even asked for a notepad to jot things down on. Good sign. I was more than happy to hand her one, and we covered my general thoughts on character development too before Isla started yawning.

  I wasn’t surprised. The girl had been put through the wringer, and she'd been on the road all day.

  "Ready for a break?" I asked.

  She wasn’t upset anymore. Just…exhausted, physically and emotionally.

  "I'm ready to get fucking plastered," she muttered, which made me chuckle. She blushed in response, though I didn’t know why, and I wished she hadn't. She was dangerously beautiful. Seeing her in that flimsy little top didn’t exactly improve my situation. "But, yes, I suppose sleep is a close second."

  I made a mental note to pick up alcohol for tomorrow. I was out of whiskey and only had wine in the house. It could actually help us both. I was bound to be frustrated at some point, be it by the beauty of my closest friend's daughter or her writing.

  She smiled weakly. "Thank you again for agreeing to help me, Jack."

  "You're welcome." I nodded with a dip of my chin.

  She stood up with her plate, hesitating. "I was thinking… Tomorrow, if you don't have plans, can I take you to dinner as a thank-you?" She was quick to add an awkward little ramble. "It's not enough, I know, and I'm sure my dad owes you for life now, but…" She lifted a shoulder in a helpless shrug.

  I hesitated, wanting to remain strictly professional. It was enough that she was related to Aiden. No need to add attraction.

  "I appreciate it, but we can discuss dinner tomorrow." I managed a stiff smile and got up, too. "Get some sleep."

  *

  I was up with the sun the following morning, agitated and unsettled. Instead of my usual five-mile route, I took detours across the entire neighborhood and ended up running eight miles. By the time I returned home, my hoodie was soaked in sweat, and I wasn’t sure if I was having a heart attack or not.

  The house was silent, so I assumed Isla was still asleep.

  My twin brother picked that moment to call, mainly to be a dick.

  "So Jameson told me you have a hot little chick from LA staying with you."

  I rolled my eyes and chugged half a bottle of water on my way to the shower. "And I hear he's becoming a goddamn gossip." I closed the bathroom door and sat down on the toilet, my calves cramping up. "She's the daughter of a friend. Aiden Roe? She published a novel that's absolute shit. I'm helping her, I suppose."

  Adam snickered. "How chivalrous of you. But she's a looker, yeah?"

  "Why did you call, Adam?" I asked, frustrated. "You're keeping me from my shower."

  He cut to the point. "I'm honestly calling because it's my duty to tell you it's been ages since you got some."

  I rubbed my left calf and winced at the stiffness. "Eighteen months is hardly ages—scratch that. Six months ago, I had a lackluster one-night stand in Seattle."

  Otherwise, true, it'd been a while. I split from my ex, bought this place, and lost myself in work. I hadn't been suffering.
I loved my job, and I wasn’t one of those who always needed company. There was nothing wrong with masturbating, either.

  "Whatever. What's your excuse for not hitting on the LA girl?" Adam wondered.

  "Her name is Isla," I sighed, "and I sincerely hope you're joking. Did you not hear me saying she's my friend's daughter?"

  "Right… So, she's not legal?"

  Jesus fucking Christ. "She's twenty-six, and you're missing the point. It would be disrespectful even to consider it."

  I could imagine him shrugging. "I didn’t know you were inviting your buddy to join," he replied. "'Cause, you know, he doesn’t actually have to find out."

  That dick. First of all, I didn’t need those thoughts in my head. Second of all, I was forty-two, not seventeen. I could see a gorgeous woman and still keep it in my pants.

  "Always nice talking to you, Adam. Goodbye."

  *

  It looked like it was going to be a nice day. The local weather report talked about a rare heat wave, though I knew how fast that could change here. I put on a pair of jeans and a gray Henley. Matching All Stars to that, and then I grabbed a black sport coat before I went downstairs to wait for Isla.

  I didn't have much food in the house, and I preferred to eat out. It would be good, too. I had some writing exercises for Isla, and the park behind the community college was a good location for that.

  At ten on the dot, I heard Isla coming down the stairs. In a pair of skinny jeans that hugged her perfect ass and a short-sleeved blouse unbuttoned to show some cleavage, she was bound to frustrate me more than Adam already had. In a completely different way.

  She smiled tentatively, fastening a bracelet around her slender wrist. "Good morning."

  "Morning. I thought we'd go out for breakfast, so you might want to get a jacket."

  "Oh, okay. I'll be right back." She headed up the stairs again, her long hair bouncing with each step. She was wearing heels, which I wasn’t sure were a good idea around cobblestones and Washington weather.

  When she returned, she'd only put on a knitted cardigan. I wasn't about to tell her what to wear; surely, she understood a sunny day in Washington was different from one in Los Angeles.

  *

  If Isla was cold, she hid it well. We walked down the street toward a square with coffee shops, and if Isla's smile was any indication, she was in a brighter mood today.

  "It's really beautiful here," she said. "I don't remember the last time I walked in LA."

  No…not a city for walking. One of the many reasons I'd never gotten attached to California.

  "I'll have to introduce you to the best seafood while you're here." I opened the door to my usual breakfast spot, and she entered before me.

  "Are you saying LA doesn’t know seafood?" She glanced up at me, a teasing smile playing on her lips. Distracting.

  I smirked back, dead serious. "That’s exactly what I'm saying."

  In return, she told me the challenge was accepted and that I was free to order for her. She was only picky about her coffee. She ordered some frilly caramel latte with too much shit in it to be called coffee before I took over. One tea, two bagels with lox and cream cheese, and then I pulled out my wallet.

  "No, please." She put her hand on my arm. "You paid for the pizza. Let me."

  I frowned.

  Was this one of the age difference…differences? I was raised to be a gentleman, even if I was tearing their literary work to pieces. My father would smack us upside the head if we didn’t open doors or take care of the check.

  I let Isla pay, even though it didn’t sit well with me, and we found a corner to sit.

  "I talked to Dad earlier," she mentioned, pouring sugar into her already sweet-as-hell beverage. "He assured me there was a softy—who never missed a call to his mother in college—underneath that brutal editor exterior."

  "Ha!" That fucking Aiden. I took a sip of my tea. "I don't know where to start." I set down my cup and rested my forearms on the table. "If anyone's brutal, it's your father. At least back then." I was two years younger than Aiden, and he'd been my TA in one class. "I suppose he became a mentor of sorts to me. He showed no mercy." I grinned faintly at the memory. "It wasn’t until grad school our friendship became about more than education, and…" I trailed off, unsure if it was a sore topic.

  Isla smiled softly. "And he took you home to introduce you to my mom and me."

  I inclined my head. Aiden had always been private. I'd known he had a family, but he'd chosen to keep his home life to himself. He never partied or went anywhere for breaks.

  It was a cold-shower moment to be reminded of the fact that I'd seen Isla at kindergarten age. Over the next ten or so years, I saw her half a dozen times a year when Aiden and Sarah had people over for a barbecue or Trivial Pursuit night.

  We knew how to nerd it up really well back then.

  I'd just moved back home when I learned about Sarah having cancer. It was an awful time.

  The barista chose that moment to arrive with our bagels, and I was brought back to the present. We weren't here to reminisce about the past. I had a job to do.

  5.

  Isla Roe

  Breakfast was nice, not to mention delicious, but I could sense Jack was about to suck the fun out of it. His mood had changed when our bagels arrived, so I waited. I waited and kept chanting internally what I'd been telling myself since I woke up.

  I will get through this weekend without crying. I will be a professional. I won't text Dad again to say his friend is a dick. I will learn.

  "So what's on today's agenda?" I asked.

  "Two things." He finished his bagel and wiped his mouth. "Passion and bringing life to your writing."

  Oh, so no biggie. I almost rolled my eyes.

  I had passion, dammit.

  He sat back a bit and sipped his tea. "Writing is using words to paint pictures. It's how a book becomes a vibrant, living thing." He pointed to the small menu on the table. "Paint me a picture, Isla. Describe it so it leaves no question about what it is and how it looks. But for God's sake, don't give me a list."

  I was confused. "It's a menu."

  "It's more than that." He leaned forward again. "It's an object that can tell a reader what kind of establishment we're in. If the menu has a leather binder with the name of the place embossed in gold, where are we?"

  "Um." I concentrated hard, wanting to get it right. "A nice restaurant?"

  "Exactly. So where are we now? Use the menu to describe this place."

  Christ, it was school all over again. I'd flunk if there was a pop quiz.

  I eyed the menu and bit my lip. "This menu is on a stand. It's a mini blackboard, and the specials are written in chalk."

  "So we're in a casual place," Jack concluded. "It's modern."

  I nodded slowly, taking in my surroundings. I'd call it trendy, too.

  "In your book," he went on, "your two main characters are searching for a crime scene in a wooded area. Your heroine calls it nice but dark, and I didn’t have a single clue what she was talking about. What was dark? What was nice about looking for a place where a murder had taken place?"

  I flushed. "I meant the forest. She likes nature. It was only an idle thought, though. She wasn’t taking a happy stroll or anything."

  "What did the forest look like?" he asked. "For the record, a forest is a perfect way to set a mood. While you shouldn't dictate your characters' emotions, you can control the weather and the time of day." He paused and clasped his hands on the table, a serious expression on his face. "You can see your story rolling like a film in your head, but your reader can't. You have to show them. Show me. Right now, close your eyes and show me the forest they're walking in."

  He made me so flustered. I was on the spot and felt like the wrong answer would piss him off. But I complied, a ball of nerves knotting up my stomach, and closed my eyes. Ugh, I'd eaten too much. If nervousness morphed into anxiety, I'd lose my breakfast.

  "Don't start by saying there are tree
s."

  Jerk!

  I huffed a breath, keeping my eyes closed. "I wasn’t going to." I pulled forth memories of day-trips and detours with Dad. When I traveled with him for his work, we tried to go out into nature as often as possible, and one hike in particular stuck with me. It'd been a warm, sunny day in the Appalachians, so I let my mind erase the nice weather to fit the story. "It's cold, and the forest floor is kind of damp." I thought back to my two characters, Lily and Chris. "The wind startles Chris because it makes the leaves rustle."

  "What time of day is it?"

  "Past sunset." The image became clearer. "There's a slight fog blurring the treetops." I could feel Chris's fear, but I couldn’t describe it. Maybe if I used something… "The flashlight in Chris's hand trembles."

  "Good. What else?"

  I exhaled, relieved and inspired. "Lily's eyes flicker back and forth, and she squares her shoulders, determined," I said. Because Lily knew what she was doing.

  "Would you use the word nice anywhere?" Jack asked.

  My brows knitted together. I saw the trees looming over them, the end of the path getting closer, and heard sounds that made them jumpy. It was ominous, if anything. Not nice.

  "No," I admitted quietly.

  It wasn’t the right time. Even though Lily enjoyed hiking, it wasn’t the right time in the book to admire the forest. She was focused on solving a crime where someone could still be after Chris.

  "You can open your eyes, Isla."

  I did, and I blinked at the bright lights.

  Jack nodded firmly. "That’s a good start."

  Oh, thank fuck.

  I tried not to let my beaming get out of hand.

  *

  It was the beginning of an educational day. Jack and I walked all over the district called Cedar Valley, and every now and then he stopped me to point out something to describe the way I'd done with the forest. Apparently, I had an issue describing things in list form.

  "We'll work on it," he'd said.

  Around lunchtime, the sun disappeared behind clouds, and the nip in the air became harder to ignore. I rubbed my arms as we passed a bus stop. We were across the street from what Jack told me was Camassia Cove Community College.