Mr. Write Page 16

  “Just a coffee. Black.”

  Carrie clucks her tongue. “You can share my breakfast. But can we get two forks?” she asks Mason, batting her lashes playfully my way.

  Mason doesn’t get the banter but laughs anyway. If this dude had one intellectual thought, he’d be dangerous.

  When he lingers, I know he wants to talk to Carrie. I have one of two options. I can either break both his legs, or I can focus on the reason I came here, and that is to write. Much to the horror of my testosterone doing push-ups and primed for a fight, I decide on the latter.

  Opening a new document, I title it as first date and watch the couple closely as they awkwardly make conversation. They discuss in great detail how cold it’s been of late.

  Strike number one.

  Discussing the weather is skywriting the fact that you’re bored because, unless you’re a meteorologist, no one cares if it’s fucking cold or not.

  My fingers type frantically, not wanting to miss a thing, but what I hear next has me pausing and tempted to slap some sense into our young beau. “What is your favorite food?”

  Dear god, did he get the dos and don’ts of first dates mixed up? This is a train wreck. I can barely watch. I’m counting on him to inspire me with newfound wisdom, not bore me to death with how many carbs are in a breakfast baguette.

  However, I continue watching, hoping this will turn around for the young couple.

  “What’s your favorite animal?”

  This just goes from bad to worse.

  Groaning, I slap a hand to my forehead. The only thing it appears I will be unearthing today is a headache.

  Carrie’s light giggle is a welcome reprieve because at least this exercise wasn’t a complete waste of time. “Don’t be so mean,” she whispers from behind her hand.

  “He’s being mean to my brain,” I counter, only half joking.

  “He’s nervous.”

  She defends while I opt for, “He’s a twat. That poor girl is looking at that knife as if it’s her lifeline.”

  Carrie bites back her smile as she turns in the booth to subtly examine the woeful pair. All I see is failure with 20/20 vision, but Carrie sees something else.

  “Look at their body language.”

  I tilt my head to the side, but all I see is his awkward fidgeting.

  “Seventy to ninety percent of our communication is nonverbal. What’s her body telling you?”

  “That she’s wishing she swiped left?” I offer, but Carrie ignores my quip.

  “Look at her face. It’s friendly. She’s smiling. She’s listening intently…”

  “To him boring her,” I add, wondering what his next horrible question will be.

  “She’s pointing her body toward him, she’s opened up, and her arms are not crossed. There is a comfortable amount of eye contact too. He looks nervous. Is that good or bad nerves? What do you think?”

  Her comment has me surveying the scene, attempting to make my own observations. He is fiddling with everything on the table, so unless he has OCD, I dare say he’s trying to focus on anything other than how hot his date is. Some guys seem cool, calm, and collected, but it appears this dude wears his heart on his sleeve.

  “Why is he so…sweaty?” I ask, connecting the dots of his sweat marks to form a map of Italy.

  “’Cause he’s into her,” she reveals as though it’s a no-brainer.

  I thought our Casanova was merely a poor conversationalist, but it seems his nerves are getting the better of him.

  “You’re good at this,” I say, typing out her observations.

  She sighs. “Too bad I can’t apply that knowledge to my own love life. If I were on that date, I’d have thought he was sweating it because he was devising ways to escape.”

  Pausing from typing, I peer up at her from over my laptop. “I stick by my affirmation that these were little boys.”

  She smiles.

  “So we’ve established they both like one another. They just need a helping hand?”

  “Yes, they definitely like one another. I think this is our perfect first specimen.”

  “Second,” I correct. “Did you forget our young Casanova?”

  “How could I forget,” she replies, beaming at the memory of Max and Aubrey.

  Mason decides to ruin a nice conversation by breathing. “Your café au lait. And your black coffee.” He huddles close. He clearly has never heard of personal space.

  I’m seconds away from throttling this gigantic dickhead, so I decide to put my hands to good use elsewhere. Standing, I begrudgingly leave Romeo to talk to Carrie and make my way over to the couple in need because he’s losing her. The ultimate deal breaker has just occurred—she’s scrolling through her phone.

  I can’t let technology win.

  “Excuse me. May I borrow your sugar?” I ask in French.

  The young woman looks up, her brown eyes sparking in interest. Her date instantly sees her curiosity, and finally, his balls come out of hiding. He reaches for her hand, which startles her.

  Hallelujah.

  I make a point to look at their connection and coo like a clucky mother. “How long have you been together?”

  Her cheeks pinken as she passes me the sugar canister. “It’s our first date. We know one another from school.”

  “Really?” I fake horror, mouth agape. “First date? I wouldn’t have guessed. I thought you’d been together for a long while. You’re one lucky man.” Just as Hulk Hogan is about to come out of hiding, I turn her way and wink. “And you’re one lucky girl.” She giggles, while the guy looks like he’s just inflated to double his size. Nothing like a little flattery to break the ice.

  He’s like fucking Superman when I turn to leave, so my work here is done.

  “He’s right. I am lucky. I’ve liked you since I first saw you in class. You were wearing that red dress with the white lace.”

  This is so in the bag.

  “I can’t believe you remember what I was wearing. I liked you too.”

  I leave the lovers to whisper their sweet nothings and return to my table, thankful it’s Mason free.

  “Well played,” Carrie says as I slide my ploy sugar onto the table.

  “He just needed a little push,” I reveal, “and to defend what’s his. You see, at heart, we’re all just cavemen fighting for our primal needs—food, shelter, and to procreate.

  “Interesting,” she says around a mouthful of her crepe. “Write that down.” She gestures to my laptop with her fork.

  I do as she says.

  As I’m sipping my coffee and reading over my notes, Carrie pushes her plate my way. I see it as a peace offering. “Mason invited us to a bar tonight.”

  I scoff. “I think you mean he invited you.”

  “No, actually, his words were you and your older brother should come tonight.” She smothers her giggles as I seek out Mason and envision him writhing in a ball of flames. “This will give us loads of people to watch. Think of all the research we can do,” she reasons.

  A small voice inside me is screaming that I say yes. She clearly wants me to go with her. She wouldn’t have told me otherwise. But the issue I’m faced with is I don’t know if it’s because she wants to spend more time with me, or if she wants me to be her wingman.

  Regardless, my words come back to bite me in the arse.

  You see, at heart, we’re all just cavemen…and when I look at Carrie, I see her as mine. Houston, we have a problem.

  Reaching across the table, I steal her fork en route to her mouth. It shouldn’t tempt me the way that it does when I place the fork into my mouth, knowing it had the lucky pleasure of being enveloped between her lips.

  The tartness versus the sugariness of the crepe is bittersweet—a perfect analogy of how I feel when I say, “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Eating in silence, we see that the couple seems to have finally gotten their shit together, and they end up leaving arm in arm. I’m happy for them, I truly am. It’s good to see someone will
leave this café with the girl in tow.

  After breakfast, Carrie and I did some sightseeing and people watching. The snow and the subzero temperature made it hard to determine if people were huddling close for warmth or love. But we made our own assumptions. No surprise Carrie was convinced they were all long-lost lovers.

  We were both in our element as Carrie was off taking pictures, and I sat on a park bench watching passersby. There is something almost forbidden about watching other people interact because you’re a voyeur on their life’s journey, wondering which way the chips will fall.

  After a couple of hours, Carrie and I decided to head back to the hotel because her nose rivaled Rudolph’s. The thought of her red button nose has me smiling, which just confirms what I knew from the first moment we met.

  I like Carrie, and the more time I spend with her, the more that like only seems to grow.

  Today at the café with Mason, I knew that I was jealous—the violent need to maim him validated this. But this is ridiculous. I haven’t even known this woman a week, and I’m ready to throw down and mark her as mine.

  This has never happened before. Even with Liz.

  Yes, the attraction was there, but what I feel for Carrie, I just can’t explain it…and it has nothing to do with my writer’s block because coming here has unplugged the mental drought. Well, for now anyway.

  After we came back to the hotel, Carrie crashed, but I couldn’t sleep. I was dog tired, but I had so many thoughts bouncing around my head, and I had to get them down. Three hours later, my first chapter was complete.

  I stared at the screen for about twenty minutes, unbelieving that I actually did it. After being shrouded in nothing but doubt, seeing your words before you—words you don’t hate—is the most rewarding feeling in the entire world.

  I felt lighter somehow.

  Feeling victorious, I knew a drink was in order, but the moment I stood and my eyes landed on Carrie’s sleeping form, I knew my thirst could only be quenched by her. Her auburn hair contrasted the crispness of the white pillow, and unable to stop myself, I walked to where she lay.

  Her chest rose and fell, sweet breaths fanning the strands of hair from her rosy cheek. She looked so peaceful, so innocent, but nothing was innocent about this fierce woman. She is far braver than I am.

  And just like that, I was once again struck with inspiration, which led me to write half of chapter two. I’m currently three thousand words in.

  The story stars none other than our heroes—Max and Audrey. It seems fitting to begin with them. What Carrie and I witnessed was just too priceless not to put into words, so my story begins in a diner on a cold Christmas morning…

  It’s dark out, and my shoulders and fingers are begging for a reprieve, but I promise myself another thousand words, and then I’ll be done.

  “Hey.” Carrie’s sleepy voice stirs the beast within.

  “Hey. Sleep well?” I ask, quickly finishing my sentence because once I turn and look at her, I doubt anything coherent will follow.

  “Yes, I did. That bed is like sleeping on a cloud,” she replies with a yawn. “Wow. Did you write all that?” I hit full stop and turn in my swivel seat.

  “Yes.” When I see her, it’s as if I hit another punctuation mark, and that is Carrie is fucking delectable. Full stop.

  Her ruffled hair tumbles around her rosy cheeks in messy waves. “How long was I asleep?” she teases, standing on tippy toes to examine the screen.

  Unsure of the time, I look over my shoulder to see the clock on the laptop reveals it’s just after 8 p.m.

  “Do you want to get dinner before we head out?”

  The thought of her going anywhere near Mason leaves me with the vicious need to break something. But I remind myself that Carrie and I are just friends.

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  She smiles, and I know she’s hiding something, but I don’t have time to uncover what. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  She carries her bag into the bathroom, leaving me with the very explicit image of her about to get naked. Needing something to quench my thirst, I stand and make my way to the minibar. The whiskey will be a poor substitute, but it’s better than nothing.

  As I unscrew the lid, my cell chimes. Thinking it’s Nick, I take a swig of booze and reach for it off the table without looking who the caller is.

  Shame on me.

  “Hello?”

  Sniff. “Why didn’t you call and wish me a Merry Christmas?”

  Suddenly, all the whiskey in the world isn’t enough to deal with my soon-to-be ex-wife. “Why on earth would I do that? It was only last Christmas you were fucking god knows who on my desk. I thought you’d be busy. You know, history repeating itself and all.”

  “How long must you torture me?” Liz says, her voice quivering. A small part of me—a stupid, fucking insane part—feels the need to comfort her, but I soon squash that part and all the memories that come with it.

  “You’re torturing yourself. This is over. It was over the moment you cheated, Elizabeth. The sooner you accept it, the better it will be for us both.”

  “How many times must I say I’m sorry? I made a mistake.”

  “Mistake?” I scoff, finishing off my bottle of whiskey, then hunting for another. “A mistake would mean you slipped up once. And if that were indeed the case, I could maybe, maybe get over this, but you were screwing around long before I caught you, weren’t you?”

  She never confirmed my suspicions, but now, her silence says it all.

  I should feel relieved, but I don’t. I feel like a fucking failure. How could she cheat? Why wasn’t I enough?

  “I’m human,” she offers as some plausible explanation to why she cheated. “After thirteen years, I needed…”

  “I don’t fucking care what you needed!” I shout, anger bursting the seams. “All I ever needed was you, and in return, you go and break my fucking heart!”

  As she sobs, I throw back the contents of my whiskey bottle, but I need so much more.

  “I’m sorry, Jayden.”

  “I’m sorry too, Liz. I’m sorry for ever giving a damn about you.” And I mean it.

  “I lov—” Before those vile words can pass her traitorous lips, the phone is yanked from my ear.

  I almost fall over my feet when I see Carrie standing before me in nothing but a towel. Her hair is twisted into a high bun, and beads of water cling to the slope of her neck. Although she’s in nothing but a white bath towel, she owns this room.

  “This must be the elusive Elizabeth Evans. Well, soon-to-be ex-Evans. You’re ruining our evening, so would you kindly take a hint and leave Jayden alone?”

  My mouth opens and closes uselessly as Carrie puts the phone on speaker.

  “Who is this? Are you the little slut my husband was with when I called last?”

  Carrie examines her nails, clearly bored. “Nope. That was probably my sister.”

  A winded chuckle leaves me.

  “He will grow tired of you soon enough. Mark my words. And then he will come back to me. We belong together.”

  “Too bad you didn’t feel that way when you were screwing anything with a pulse. It’s women like you who ruin it for everyone else. Your behavior warrants men treating us like commodities, nothing but a warm body to do with as they please. You’re an appalling human being, and Jayden is too good for you.” Carrie expresses all this without tearing her gaze from mine. Wow, this seems kind of personal, and I wonder why that is.

  This woman is fierce, and she is someone who will soon pervade every inch of my soul.

  “You’re right. He is too good for me, which is all the more reason to fight for him. I don’t give up easily, little girl.”

  “Well, guess what? Neither do I. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get dressed.”

  Game. Set. Match.

  Liz bellows out a string of profanities before Carrie ends the call. She calmly hands me back my phone. “So what do you feel like for dinner? I’m starved.
”

  Food is the furthest thing from my mind. I am standing mute, processing everything that just happened. Carrie completely crushed Liz, but her comment has left me wondering what she won’t give up.

  Fuck me, I need a drink.

  “Bathroom’s all yours,” Carrie says, reminding me she’s standing inches away in nothing but a towel. She’s by the foot of the bed, clutching a red dress to her chest—a subtle hint for me to leave so she can get dressed.

  But I take a moment to appreciate this delicate anomaly.

  The face of a warrior queen, I scan downward, transfixed by her erratic pulse which throbs at the side of her throat. The tops of her breasts are milky smooth, rising and falling in a hypnotic manner with each deep breath she takes.

  The towel is wrapped tightly around her, but if she moved in just the right way, the split would reveal a glorious vision of her supple stomach and inner thigh. Continuing my journey, I admire the supple shape of her calves and the fine gold chain which sits snug around her ankle. I’ve stooped to a new low—who knew, an anklet has the ability to make me hard.

  Even her goddamn toes are delicious.

  Needing to get the hell away from her, I quickly grab some clothes and make my way to the bathroom. The moment I shut the door, I tip my head toward the heavens and sigh. I need a shower. A cold one.

  I am so screwed.

  Taking a long, cold shower does nothing to alleviate my throbbing hard-on, but rubbing one out with Carrie in the next room feels as perverse as it sounds. Though so is poking her eye out with this boner I’m sporting.

  As I wrap my hand around my dick and begin to stroke it, I think of that fucking anklet and how I have the urge to rip it off before I sink into her honeyed sex. I would take my time with her, meeting her needs first. I would cherish every part of her.

  Her lithe body would feel like heaven beneath me, and her pussy…holy shite…I can’t even. Oh, shite.

  With a few quick strokes, I spill my seed all over the shower wall with a deep guttural groan. I slam my fist against the marbled tiles as I slump forward. My orgasm tackled me from out of nowhere because I just came in under a minute. I should be ashamed. What a two-pump chump.