A Word with the Bachelor (4 page)

Without another word he walked to the front door and Harley followed from wherever he'd been dozing. They went out onto the porch then up the stairs to his office.

Jack sat down in the chair behind his desk and looked at the blank computer monitor for a while. He patted his leg and said, “Harley, up.”

The dog did as ordered then made a circle before settling on Jack's lap. He scratched the animal's hairless back and hoped the mindless activity would stimulate something creative or useful. Ten minutes later he still had nothing.

There was a knock on his office door before Erin stuck her head inside. “Rough commute. Am I late?”

If only. “Nine o'clock on the nose.” Damn it.

She took a seat in front of the desk. “Okay, let the status meeting begin. Where are you in the book?”

“Where am I?” he repeated. Harley chose that moment to desert him and jump down and pad over to her. “Well, let me think. That's kind of hard to say.”

“Yeah. I can see where it would be. Why don't you start by telling me what you have so far.”

“What I have... Let's see.” He leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers over his abdomen. “Wow. Where do I begin...?”

Really
, he wanted to say.
Where?
Did he open the story with unknown assailants ambushing Mac and leaving him for dead? Or with a mysterious stranger who contacts him for help because word of his exploits in rescuing the ex-girlfriend's kidnapped kid from a vicious drug cartel had spread? The best first line would be something like “The pretty, green-eyed woman with sun-streaked brown hair smiled seductively before telling him to forget the book and take her to bed.”

Erin waited patiently for him to speak. When the silence drifted into awkward territory she said, “You know, Corinne Carlisle had a hard time talking about her story, too. It could be an author thing because you're more comfortable with the written word than the spoken one.”

Helpful of her to gift-wrap an excuse for him. “Yeah, I think you just nailed it.”

“Are you a pantser or a plotter?” she asked.

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Do you write by the seat of your pants? Or do you know every detail ahead of time when you sit down at the computer?”

Right this minute he wished to be a plotter but was pretty sure the first one described him best. “That's really hard to say.”

“Okay.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Then let's talk about your characters.”

Oh, boy. He could really use an interruption about now. A phone call, package delivery, or a little rocket attack. “The thing is, I don't have all the characters set in stone yet. Still trying to flesh them out.”

“You have Mac,” she pointed out.

Good old Mac. “I do have him.”

“What's happened to him in the time since we left him at the end of book one?”

“That's a good question. I'm glad you asked.” Not.

She waited for him to elaborate. So it was safe to say she wasn't an interrupter. Boy, did he wish she was.

“So,” Jack said. “He's been kicking around.”

“In Los Angeles? Or has he gone to Dallas, Topeka, or Micronesia?” The perky, trying-to-be-helpful tone was missing in action from her voice.

“He hasn't moved.” And that was Jack's fault because he hadn't moved his main character.

“In the last book he had just left the army and had no plan for his life before being pulled into that case involving his dead buddy's younger brother, who was married to his ex-girlfriend.”

“Yeah.” Funny how the no-plan-for-his-life part sounded a lot like Jack.

“How is he supporting himself?”

“Odd jobs. This and that.” And in a military operation when you wanted to avoid direct confrontation with an enemy that had superior firepower, a good soldier created a diversion. He took a piece of paper from the printer tray beside him. “I put together some things for you to research.”

Erin's eyes narrowed as she took it from him, then scanned the list. “Meteors? Dinosaurs?” She met his gaze. “You probably already know that
Jurassic Park
has been done.” She looked down again. “Jet Skis?”

“All things I'm considering incorporating into the story.”

With careful, precise movements she folded the single sheet several times before slicing him with a look. “What's going on, Jack?”

“I need you to look stuff up.”

“No, you don't. You're trying to distract me and it's time for you to cut the crap.”

“Is that any way to talk to your employer?”

“Technically I work for the publishing house, specifically your editor. So, yeah, it's a very good way to address a man who is not forthcoming.”

“What makes you think something's going on?” Besides the fact that he kept dodging her direct questions?

“Classic avoidance. And to quote Shakespeare—‘let me count the ways.'” She held up her fingers. “You won't talk about the story, characters or what your hero has been doing. I'm pretty sure that means you have no idea. And every time I push for information, you come up with a distraction. Some ridiculous research stuff that has nothing to do with your genre. One hundred and one ways to be romantic—really, Jack? You even threw me out of my room and kicked me downstairs.” She took a breath. “So call me paranoid and neurotic—”

“Don't forget punctual,” he added helpfully.

“—but I'm suspicious,” she continued without missing a beat after his interjection. “Your editor would welcome an outline of the project. Not details, necessarily, just the beginning, middle and end of the story. Possibly a one-line characterization of the hero.”

Jack met her gaze, stare for stare. Her perky, cheerful interrogation might have given him a sense of her being a pushover. Now he saw the error of that assumption. She was sunshine and steel.

Still, he couldn't resist trying one more time. “There's nothing to be suspicious about. I'm in the process of pulling all the threads together.”

“Then let me see your pages.” She suddenly stood and moved around the desk to look at his computer monitor. “It's not even turned on.”

“That's easy to rectify.”

“Okay. Let me see the work you've done so far.”

This time Jack did squirm, and Harley had disappeared down the hall so there was no way to keep Erin from noticing. “The work needs editing—”

She held up a hand. “There's something wrong and I want to know what it is. I'm here to help you finish this manuscript and I can't if you're hiding something.”

Her relentless questions were like water dripping on a stone, wearing away the outer protection. Jack was at a crossroads. He knew what it looked like because he'd seen it before in the heat of battle when there was no wiggle room left. Almost always a course of action revealed itself and this situation was no different. Her counteroffensive left him no choice. He had to tell the truth or lie to her and he couldn't do that.

“So quit stalling and turn on the monitor, Jack. Let me see your work.”

“I haven't started it.”

“Of course not today. The laptop isn't even on yet. I want to see what you've got so far,” she stressed.

“You don't understand.” He met her gaze.

“Then enlighten me.”

“I have nothing. There is no book.”

Chapter Four

E
rin blinked several times, letting the words sink in, while slowly lowering herself into the chair. “What do you mean there's no book? What do you do up here all day?”

“I write pages. Every single day. Then I delete them because they're all crap.”

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
The chant went through her mind as she desperately tried to think of something helpful to say. “Is everything deleted?”

“I have about twenty pages.”

“Let me see them.” Was her voice even and unemotional? She hoped it didn't show the panic that was slowly creeping in as the magnitude of this situation became clear.

Jack turned on the computer and pulled up a file, then hit the print button. When the last page came out he handed them to her.

Erin started reading and with the turn of every page her heart sank a little more. There was nothing wrong with the writing and there was a wry, masculine voice to the work, but it was all internal dialogue from Mac Daniels's point of view. Nothing particularly exciting was going on. Quite frankly there was a very high boredom factor but no way could she tell him that. His instincts, however, were right about the quality of these pages.

She looked up and met his gaze. “I have to agree with you. This isn't your best work.”

“Since you showed up we've disagreed on almost everything. I was hoping that streak would continue.” His mouth pulled tight for a moment, then he rubbed Harley's head when the dog jumped back into his lap and looked at him. The animal apparently felt his tension. “So you think it's crap, too.”

“I didn't say that. Don't panic.”

Jack looked the opposite of panicked—cool, calm collected. And she needed to be that way, too. This was why she was here. But she needed to think.

“I'm going for a walk.”

Instantly Harley jumped off Jack's lap and began to whine. “Now you've done it.”

“What?”

“You said the
w
word. If you're not prepared to take him it's best to spell.
W
-
a
-
l
-
k
.” There was amusement in his eyes. “There's very little he likes better. Except maybe raw hamburger. But the
w
is in his top two.”

“Sorry. I won't make that mistake again.” She headed for the door, wincing at the sounds of doggy protest behind her.

After going outside, the yelping got worse as she hurried down the stairs. Moments later she heard the door open and in seconds the dog was happily dancing at her feet. He ran several yards away then came back, repeating the exercise several more times.

“You're not subtle, Harley.” She looked at Jack, who'd come up beside her. “Neither are you.”

“I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Miss Riley.”

Instead of rising to the bait, she decided to comment on the fact that it wasn't his usual time to walk and he'd given in to Harley. “You know you're spoiling that dog.”

He met her gaze and shrugged. He was either avoiding work or didn't care. “Harley, walk.”

Jack started after the dog, who instantly ran down the path that skirted the lake. She stared at his back, the man's, admiring his broad shoulders and muscular back that tapered to a trim waist and really nice butt, wrapped with just the perfect amount of snugness in worn denim. How the heck had those two hijacked her walk?

She could go in the opposite direction but since the whole purpose of her being here was to get his book finished, probably talking to him would be a good idea. Even though she was furious.

His long legs had chewed up a fair amount of distance by the time she'd made up her mind and she hurried to catch up. When that happened, she fell into step beside him. Her mind was spinning from his revelation and she needed to organize her thoughts. If she'd been alone that wouldn't be a challenge, but the manly scent of his skin combined with the smell of pine effectively made thinking difficult.

Apparently Jack didn't have any thoughts to organize because after a few moments he said, “You're uncharacteristically quiet.”

“I didn't think you paid enough attention to me to know what's characteristic for me.”

“In the army you learn pretty fast that paying attention to your surroundings means survival.”

“And you see me as a threat to that?” She was being petulant. He could just sue her.

“Not my personal safety, no.”

“Then you think your way of life is at risk by my being here? You're wrong, Jack. I'm only trying to help you.” As they walked she met his gaze and tripped over the uneven ground. Instantly he grabbed her arm to steady her. Being touched by him easily scattered the few thoughts she'd managed to gather. She mumbled under her breath, “Pigheaded...stubborn—”

“Harley—” At his voice, the dog turned and headed back. “I heard that.”

“Ask me if I care.”

“Let me take a wild guess. You're mad.”

“Give the man a prize.” She refused to look at him and only heard the surprise in his voice. “I am so ticked off. You have wasted so much time. Why in the world didn't you say something when I first got here? When I tried to have a conversation about what was going on? You had numerous opportunities to come clean, yet you shut me out. Why?”

When Harley sniffed at his boots, Jack squatted down and rubbed his head. He looked up and said, “Because I'm used to being the guy who's inserted into a hot zone to fix whatever is wrong.”

Holding her breath, Erin waited for him to say more. When he didn't, she figured that was as close as he'd get to admitting he wasn't used to needing or asking for help. She sensed he almost never did it and the fact that he had took all the irritation out of her. Or maybe she was just a pushover because of her acute attraction to him, but that didn't change anything. There was a problem and they had to find a way to fix it.

“Okay, we know you can write a successful book. You wrote a bestseller.” She knew she'd hit a nerve when his jaw tensed and a muscle jerked. “There's no reason you can't do it again.”

“Says who? Maybe I only had one book in me.” He watched Harley sniff the side of the path then pick up a stick, which he dropped at Jack's feet. He picked it up and threw it as far as he could.

“Your creativity just needs a jump start.”

He tilted his head and looked at her. “What happened to if you stared at a blank screen long enough you'll get bored and write something on it?”

“I did say that.” She thought for a moment. “But it helps if you know what you're going to write.”

He snorted. “Are you going to give me the pantsers-and-plotters speech again?”

“That was a definition, not a speech. But I'll remind you what I said about talking out the plot. Discussing the hero's goals. His mind-set since we last saw him.”

“Any thoughts on that?” He all but growled those words, as if his asking-for-assistance muscles were rusty.

“Yes. But feel free to tell me I'm full of it. The point is to toss out ideas and see what feels right in your gut.” She slid her fingertips into the pockets of her jeans. “Mac had no emotional growth in the first book because he went into fight-or-flight mode almost right away.”

“So he's still aimless.”

“Right. Unless he's independently wealthy, he has to have been thinking about what he'll do to support himself since leaving the military.” Her mind was spinning. “Come to think of it, we don't really know why he left. He was a career soldier and his reasoning could be explored in this book.”

Jack nodded absently. “Yeah.”

That was encouraging, she thought. An affirmative instead of sarcasm. She dipped her toe in a little further. “When we get back, it might help to just talk it through and you could take notes. Or record the conversation if you'd rather. Instead of jumping straight into the writing, you can figure out the inciting incident that sets the story in motion, then some loose turning points as a structure for the story.”

“And tomorrow there will still be a blank screen.”

“Give yourself permission to write badly,” she suggested.

His look was wry. “Yeah, because that's what I learned in the army. Permission to be a screwup, sir.”

“Maybe it sounds crazy, but you might find it surprisingly freeing.”

“And that's supposed to be creative?” he asked skeptically.

“Won't know unless you try.” She thought for a moment. “Some authors start their day by jotting down stream-of-consciousness writing.”

“You mean gibberish?”

“Probably not something you'd publish,” she admitted.

“Then I guess you could say I've already done that. The pages you read are unpublishable and probably fall into the stream-of-consciousness category,” he said sarcastically.

“That's not what I meant. You just write whatever pops into your mind,” she explained.

“Sounds like a waste of time if you ask me.”

“It's just an exercise.”

Erin glanced up at him and felt a little flutter around her heart, the one that made it hard to take a deep breath. The way his biceps strained against the material of his black T-shirt made her want to touch and find out for herself what they felt like.

It was obvious that Jack was in excellent physical condition, which meant he'd retained habits from his time in the army that kept him in shape. She knew he ran three or four times a week. There was workout equipment in the upstairs bedroom. One didn't just jump into a fitness regime. Maybe she could explain this to him in a relatable way.

“What do you do before a run?” she asked.

His gaze narrowed on her. “Why?”

“Bear with me. I have a point.” Their shoulders brushed as they walked. Personally she was glad the bushes and trees around them weren't tinder-dry because the sparks would have ignited them. She drew in a breath. “What's your preexercise routine?”

“I stretch out. Warm up.”

“Exactly.”

He looked at her as if she had a snake draped around her neck. “I thought you had a point.”

“Stream-of-consciousness writing is like stretching your muscles for work.”

“Shouldn't I put that energy into something productive?”

“The point is to not think about work. Free your mind and let the ideas flow.”

His expression was still skeptical, but he asked, “What should I write about?”

“Like I said. Anything that pops into your mind.”

Jack looked down at the dog, who had thrown himself on the ground at his feet. Automatically he picked up the animal and rubbed his hand over the hairless back. “I still say it's a waste of time.”

This man was results-driven. He'd spent over a decade in an organized, mission-oriented environment. The creative process was the polar opposite. But if she could give him a focus, he might be more inclined to give it a try.

As they headed back to the house, she watched him with the dog. His protectiveness with the animal. The way he automatically picked up Harley when he got tired. Jack had done the same thing that first day when she'd arrived. There was a bond between the two and that homely little creature might just be what he cared about most in this world.

“Write about Harley,” she suggested.

“What?”

“Stream-of-consciousness warm-up exercises. Think about your dog and jot down whatever comes into your mind.”

With the dog curled happily in his arms, Jack stared at her for several moments. She wondered how it would feel to be safely tucked against his wide chest, wrapped in his strong arms.

Then he shook his head. “It's official. You're crazy.”

About you
, she thought.

For a moment Erin was afraid she'd said that out loud. Fortunately, the words stayed in her head, where they belonged. He already knew she was attracted to him. If she confirmed it he would say I told you so and send her packing.

* * *

Erin didn't want to get out of bed after a lousy night without much sleep. And that was all Jack's fault. He was a bundle of contrasts. Gruff and argumentative with her; tender and protective of his unattractive pet. He measured out a quarter cup of organic chicken or grass-fed beef for Harley's meals! He was a really off-putting combination of macho and mush.

And she knew very little about him. Was there a girlfriend? Wife? But those questions fell into personal territory, which technically made it not her business. And don't even get her started on the geographical situation here. Last night she'd heard him pacing like a predatory tiger.

Back and forth. Back and forth. At least an hour. Maybe more.

Then it got quiet and she'd waited for him to come downstairs to bed. That kept her tense and wide-eyed for a long time. Her body tingled and her skin was hot whenever he was in the master bedroom just across the hall from where she slept. She would challenge anyone to try sleeping when every nerve ending was sparking like a live electrical wire.

After starting a reread of his bestselling book, she finally fell asleep sometime after one o'clock. Now it was six in the morning. Soon she'd need to start breakfast, then meet Jack at nine in his office. If she hauled her hiney out of bed there was just enough time to get in some yoga. Maybe some flexibility poses would flex thoughts of the difficult man out of her mind.

She put on her nylon-and-spandex capris and the stretchy, racer-back tank top she wore for workouts, then rolled out her mat. Mountain pose was first. Standing straight, heels down, shoulders directly over hips. Breathe. Then raised arms. Grounded in her heels, shoulders away from ears and reaching through her fingertips. She held that for the required time and went into the standing forward bend. Exhale and fold down over legs. Let head hang heavy with feet hip distance apart. That was followed by the garland pose, which she hated.