Second Time Around (28 page)

“But Professor Clayburn always seemed so forthright and principled,” Anna said. “You don’t think there’s any chance there could be a good explanation for all his bizarre behavior?”

Cait shrugged with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “Anything’s possible, I guess. But since he refuses to explain, I have to err on the side of breaking up with him.”

“But all these bouquets—”

“Let me ask you something. If Jonas sent you flowers right now, would all be forgiven? He wouldn’t have to say anything or do anything to demonstrate his eternal devotion other than cough up a few lilies?”

Anna paused. “I see your point. Well, if you need a break, we’re all in the kitchen trying to scrub down walls that have accumulated twenty years of college kids’ cooking.”

Cait waited until she heard Anna’s footsteps on the stairs, then took off her reading glasses and put down the green pen she’d been using to mark up the printout of her latest chapter. Her nerves were frayed and her concentration was shot, all because of some stupid lilies. She had to admire Gavin’s persistence. A solid week of unreturned calls and emails hadn’t deterred him in the least. If anything, he’d ramped up his relentless campaign to “woo” her. She was surprised he hadn’t sent over an antique bottle of laudanum yet.

Well. Such ardent wooing with such murky motives could only lead to trouble. She’d read enough Jane Austen to know that.

A rapid-fire litany of obscenities interrupted Cait’s brooding. She hurried downstairs to find her housemates covered in sweat and smudges of white paint.

“I’m ready to go Caligula on this kitchen,” Brooke said in response to Cait’s questioning glance. “The walls are filthy. Even the primer won’t stick. It’s literally coming off in sheets. I need to wash this whole room down in trisodium phosphate and I don’t have time to drive all the way out to the Home Depot in Glens Falls. I hate this house!”

“I’ll run to the hardware store on Pine Street,” Cait offered.

“No!” Brooke threw down her sponge. “I have my pride! I’m not about to give any more business to a man who—”

The phone rang, cutting off Brooke. Anna answered, did a lot of noncommittal mm-hmming, hung up, and announced, “That was the guy from the appliance store calling to say they’re sending someone over tomorrow afternoon with the new oven and refrigerator. So we better be done painting before then. I’m afraid it comes down to a choice between pride and practicality.”

“Don’t worry,” Cait assured Brooke. “Just give me a detailed list of what to buy. He’ll never know you sent me. I’ll wear sunglasses. I’ll be totally incognito.”

Brooke snatched up a paper and pen and started scribbling. The last thing Cait heard on her way out the front door was a howl of frustration and the now-familiar refrain:

“I hate this house!”

H
ere you go. All the trisodium phosphate a girl could ever want, plus trim brushes, rollers, and a metal paint
tray for each of us.” Twenty minutes later, Cait handed over a pair of bulky brown paper bags.

Brooke didn’t even open the bags before asking, “So? Was Everett there?”

“Not unless Everett’s a grizzled old pepaw,” Cait said. “The guy behind the counter was about a hundred years old with eyebrows that could be trimmed into topiary. Not really your type.”

“Hmph. Everett was probably in the back room with Gisele and the rest of his supermodel harem.”

“Yes, that certainly is the most logical explanation.” Cait broke off as she noticed Anna and Jamie whispering and nudging each other. “What’s going on?”

Anna announced, “You have a gentleman caller.”

“Who?” Cait’s jaw dropped.
“Gavin?”

“He showed up on our doorstep about two minutes after you left for the hardware store. He offered to help with the paint job, but we sent him upstairs to wait for you.”

Adrenaline surged through her. “Upstairs? Upstairs as in my bedroom?”

Jamie nodded. “We had to send him up there so we could talk about him down here.”

Cait raced down the hall and took the stairs two at a time. When she skidded into her room, she found Gavin seated on her desk chair. Her manuscript was literally right under his nose.

When he saw her, he held up her plaid boxer shorts. “You left these in my bedroom. I thought you’d want them back.”

She froze in the doorway, paralyzed by equally powerful urges to charge forward and to whirl around and flee. “I do, thank you.”

He nodded at the pages. “Is this the book you’re working on?”

The sight of him glancing, however fleetingly, at her work sent her into a panic. But to her surprise, the moment of panic was followed by a rush of relief. “Yes,” she said. “Did you read it?”

He looked insulted. “Of course not.”

“Are you lying?”

“No.” He stood up and started toward her. “I meant it when I said you can trust me. I don’t lie, Cait.”

“Neither do I, so let me tell you what I’m working on here.” She widened her stance and looked him right in the eye. “It’s a romance novel, Gavin. A juicy, steamy, historical romance with a kick-ass Victorian heroine and a rough-hewn Scot with a rap sheet as long as his kilt. There’s lots of action and intrigue and love scenes that practically burn a hole through the page. And—hold on to your Hemingway—there’s going to be a happy ending.”

He sat back down. “I see.”

“I, Caitlin Johnson, am a romance novelist.” She put her hand on her hip, then added, “Well, I suppose more accurately, I’m an
aspiring
romance novelist. That’s the truth. That’s who I am. Judge away; I can take it.”

“You seem a wee bit defensive.”

“Maybe I am. But we can’t all write Kafkaesque narratives and Joycean short stories.”

He placed her boxer shorts on top of her desk and held out his hand to her. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’re going to boldly go where no Thurwell College English major has gone before.”

A
re you sure you want me to unlock this?” Gavin asked. “Because once the door is open, there’s no turning back.”

Cait eyed the padlocked door in the hallway with increasing trepidation. “With a lead-in like that, how can I say no?”

He jangled his key ring and glanced back at her. “I’m giving you fair warning. Not even my housekeeper’s allowed in here. What you’re about to see may disturb you. Viewer discretion is advised.”

“Thanks for the legal disclaimer. Now open up.”

“Just remember, you asked for it.” He slid a key into the thick steel lock and twisted until the shackle released with a gentle snick. Then he stepped aside to grant her access. “Have at it.”

Cait pushed open the door, and peered into a large, shadowy room that contained … a huge mess.

“I’m confused.” She blinked as her vision adjusted to the dim light. The furniture consisted of a huge wooden desk that looked like it’d been swiped from the set of a 1950s Hollywood detective film, an equally massive wooden chair, a small refrigerator, a printer, and towering stacks of paper on every available surface. She stepped inside and studied the series of framed posters on the wall above the desk. The artwork featured sleek silver rocket modules and exploding stars. “What are we looking at?”

He hung back in the doorway. “My home office.”

“Why are there giant pictures of spacecraft everywhere?” And then she recognized the image of a silver obelisk set against a black background. “Hey, that was on the cover of that book you had in your car on our first date. Remember?”

“Vividly.” He walked over to a built-in bookshelf that had obviously once been a closet and produced a copy of the novel.

“Prevnon’s Pantheon
.” Cait studied the cover art and noted the author’s name: G. C. Grayson. Was this going where she thought it was going? She glanced over at Gavin for confirmation, but he had turned away from her and was staring out the window into the backyard.

She took a closer look at the desktop: an open dictionary, a pack of red pencils, a bottle of correction fluid. “What are those for?”

“Proofreading my galleys.”

“You’re G. C. Grayson.”

He nodded but didn’t move from his post at the window.

So she crossed the room to the bookshelf and trailed her finger along the spines of the paperbacks, many of which were duplicates. The novels were neatly grouped by title and, presumably, publication date. “Wow, you’ve written a lot of books.”

“Eight.” He glanced at the piles of paper atop the printer. “I’m putting the finishing touches on nine and ten.”

She studied the accolades printed under the book’s title. “According to this, you’re a bestseller. Why haven’t I heard of you?”

When he finally turned to address her directly, his smile was subversive. “Perhaps because sci-fi isn’t considered an essential part of the canon?”

She burst out laughing. “Oh please. I’m spending my days with a rough-hewn Scot. Don’t ‘canon’ me.” She struggled to reconcile this new revelation with all of her previous assumptions about him. “How long have you been writing sci-fi?”

“I’ve been writing it since I was in high school. Publishing for about ten years. I sold my first novel shortly after I started teaching here.” He extracted another paperback from the bookshelf and handed it to her.

She pressed the two books between her palms. “Why G. C. Grayson?”

“Grayson was my mom’s maiden name. Publishing under a pseudonym has a lot of advantages, namely preventing any crossover between my academic identity and my author identity. You know, like in
Ghostbusters
: ‘Don’t cross the streams.’”

“But what about that collection of short stories?”

He shrugged. “A professor’s gotta do what a professor’s gotta do.”

“You were young, you needed the money?” she teased.

“I needed
tenure
,” he corrected. “My royalties from that short story collection couldn’t buy us lunch at McDonald’s.”

She leaned back against the shelf and started to piece things together. “So all those FedEx packages are from your publisher?”

“Yep. I have a new series coming out this summer, back-to-back in June and July. Between teaching and writing, deadlines have gotten tight.”

“Which is why you have to bribe your FedEx guy to come pick stuff up in the middle of the night?”

“Simon’s a trooper. He always makes sure the manuscripts are back in Manhattan by noon the next day, and all it costs me is a hundred-dollar tip and my dignity.”

“That does explain a lot.” She raised her index finger. “Except for one thing: Who’s Yvette?”

His grin broadened. “My literary agent.”

“Is named Yvette? And sounds like Kathleen Turner?”

He nodded. “And negotiates a contract like a piranha in pearl earrings.”

“And you’re
sure
this is the story you want to stick to?”

“You can Google her right now.” He gestured to the computer.

She ran her hands through her hair. “This is a lot to process.”

“Take your time. I’m sure you’ll have more questions.”

“Just one for the moment.” She knew it was inappropriate, but the aspiring author in her had to ask: “Is there any chance Yvette might be interested in signing a fresh and very steamy new romance novelist?”

He laughed. “First, finish writing your book. Then we’ll talk agents.”

“Finish the book?” She pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“Oh, I beg to differ. I’ll be happy to give you a personal demonstration.” He moved in for a kiss, but she held him at bay.

“Not so fast. You had to mention McDonald’s and now I’m jonesing for fries. Let’s go, Grayson.” She tugged him back toward the hall. “My treat. We wouldn’t want you overdrawing your royalty account.”

“What?” He seemed confused for a moment. “Oh, you mean the short story collection. Yeah, that was art for art’s sake.” He indicated the rows of paperbacks. “These, on the other hand, paid for my cabin on Amelia Island.”

“Where’s that?”

“Off the coast of Florida.”

“You have a house in Florida? Really?” Cait zipped up her coat with great purpose. “Screw lunch at McDonald’s. Let’s hop on a plane and go have a margarita on the beach. Do you have a private jet, too?”

“Whoa, there. I’m not J. K. Rowling.”

“No, you’re the dodgy and elusive G. C. Grayson, which is much more intriguing. Speaking of which, may I please read these?” She lifted the books in her hand. “I’m wild with curiosity.”

“And I’m dying to read about your kick-ass heroine and her torrid adventures.” He brushed his lips over hers in a whisper of a kiss. Then he stepped back and offered a handshake along with his most intimate proposition yet:

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”