Wickedly Charming (15 page)

“Don't, Mellie,” Charming said softly.

She ignored him.

“You think I should stop talking, do you, your highness?” Bourke asked.

Charming started. He wasn't used to hearing anyone called “your highness” except members of his family. It took Charming a second to realize that Bourke was using the phrase sarcastically.

“You think you can break up with me,” Bourke was saying, “because I am occasionally rude?”

“I didn't break up with you,” Mellie said. “To say that we broke up would imply that we were dating, which we were not.”

“Why the hell else do you think I was spending time with you, woman?” Bourke asked. “I don't have lunch with just anyone. We were dating. In fact, I was going to work on getting into your pants this weekend.”

Charming put his hand over the hand Mellie had pushed against his chest. He did that to hold her in place because her eyes had just flared dark green.

“You were going to get into my what?” she asked.

Charming shook his head. Sometimes she seemed very naïve about the Greater World. “Don't go there, Mellie.”

“He wanted to get into my pants,” Mellie said.

“He's male,” the kibitzer yelled.

This time half the coffee shop shouted, “Shut up!”

They didn't see the problem. Mellie was getting very mad.

“Look, Bourke,” Charming said, “you're not making friends here. You should probably pack up your things and go.”

“I'm not the one who's leaving,” Bourke said. “You're not a regular here. I come here every damn day. I spend my hard-earned money on their crap coffee because it's near the studio. I am staying.
You
are going.”

“Oh, for God's sake.” The barista held up the cell phone. “You're all going to leave in a minute if you don't shut up.”

“What are you going to do, honey?” Bourke asked. “Goth me to death?”

She shook the phone at him. “I've got the cops on speed dial. So get out.”

“All of us?” Bourke asked.

She looked at Mellie and Charming. “You two going to keep on shouting?”

Charming wanted to say
He started it
just like any ten-year-old in trouble, but he didn't. Instead he gave the barista his warmest smile.

“My friend and I have some business to discuss,” he said. “We never intended this to be a shouting match. Mr. Bourke here interrupted us, and he angered me. I'm so sorry about that. The disruption won't happen again.”

The barista blinked at him. She looked a little flushed. “Okay,” she said. “If you two sit down and don't bother anyone else, you can stay.”

“Good,” Bourke said and headed to his table.

“Not so fast, asswipe,” she said to Bourke. “You're leaving.”

“Hey!” he said. “You're not the boss. You don't have the right to toss me out.”

She waved the phone at him again. “For a screenwriter, you're pretty dense. You know what I have here?”

“911 on speed dial,” he said tiredly.

“And a camera with video capability. You want me to post this entire altercation on YouTube, with a label mentioning the TV show you write for?”

Charming suppressed a grin. He had no idea why Bourke took on the woman. Bourke was clearly outclassed.

“You wouldn't,” Bourke said, sounding desperate.

“Why not?” the barista asked. “After all,
hon
, I am the maker of the crap coffee, and I really don't feel like serving you any longer. So if I put this on YouTube, my boss will see what an asswipe you are, and he'll back me up.”

“Just because I'm not pretty like Encanto here,” Bourke said, “you think you can push me around.”

“As pretty as your friend is,” the barista said, “I would throw him out too if he were as rude as you.”

Charming stood very still. He could feel everyone looking at him. He'd never been described as “pretty” before. What ever happened to “the handsome prince”? It probably went the way of Prince Charming. Or of the hair at the top of his head.

“I think you should go, dude,” said the kibitzer to Bourke, and this time, no one told the kibitzer to shut up.

Bourke gave him a sour look, then grabbed his laptop bag. “This isn't the end of this,” he said to Charming. “You have no right to her.”

“Of course I have no right to her,” Charming said. “Women stopped being property a century ago.”

Mellie gave him an odd look. Was that the wrong defense?

Probably.

But he felt a little outgunned here. He hadn't expected to be in a fight, even if it was a verbal one, with a real Dave.

“I don't ever want to hear from you again,” Mellie said to Bourke.

“I got that, sweetheart,” he said snidely. “You're no prize either. I just felt sorry for you, that's all. That's the only reason I spent time with you.”

Mellie drew herself up to her full height.

“Don't,” Charming said softly. “He's not worth it.”

Bourke finished packing up his laptop. “I never liked this place anyway,” he said as he grabbed his coat and headed out the front door. It banged closed behind him.

Only after he vanished from the windows, did Charming move. His hand was still on Mellie's shoulder.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“I didn't date him,” she said. “
I
felt sorry for
him
.”

“Okay,” Charming said, and then winced. He sounded like he didn't believe her—probably because he really didn't believe her.

“Seriously,” she said. “I talked to him because he was explaining screenplays. I figured if I couldn't handle a book, maybe I could handle a screenplay because I like movies.”

Charming smiled and eased her toward her chair. “It's okay, Mellie,” he said, not certain if he was comforting her or just trying to change the subject.

“I didn't realize he was such an—what did you call him?” She looked at the barista.

“An asswipe,” the barista said as she set her phone down. “He was too piddly to be an asshole.”

Mellie barked out a laugh. “Piddly,” she said. “That's perfect. You're good with words.”

“Yeah, well, I've written a screenplay too,” the barista said.

“Haven't we all?” said the kibitzer.

Charming shook his head. He pulled out Mellie's chair. She sat down. “I didn't mean for that to escalate,” he said.

“That's okay,” she said. “I didn't mean to get so mad.”

He pushed the chair in, like a perfect gentleman. Then he went to his chair. He pushed the books aside so that he could see Mellie.

He waited until conversation started around them, and then he said, “What would have happened? You know, if you had gotten all the way mad?”

She looked at him, startled. “What do you think? Poison apples raining from the ceiling?”

He tried not to smile. He knew she was sensitive. “No. I was just wondering. The way that felt—” he lowered his voice so that he was nearly whispering. “—it seems like you have real magic.”

“As opposed to what?” she asked.

“Charm,” he said sheepishly.

To his surprise, she grinned.

“I used to have real magic,” she said. “It's gone now.”

“I thought I could feel it,” he said.

“Oh, there's remnants,” she said. “But it's never come back.”

He studied her for a moment. She didn't seem upset about her lost magic. Which meant she sacrificed it for a good cause.

He had a hunch he knew what that cause was.

“You used up your magic saving Snow's life, didn't you?” he asked quietly.

“What?” She looked stunned.

“You're the one who prevented her from dying when she ate that poisoned apple.” He knew he was right, just from her expression.

“Who told you that?” she asked.

“No one,” he said. “It's just logical. She was in a stasis because you weren't anywhere near her. So you couldn't keep her alive and get the poisoned apple out of her throat at the same time.”

She blinked hard and looked away. “I never told anyone that,” she said.

“I know,” he said softly.

“No one's ever figured it out,” she said.

“No wonder you've been so upset,” he said. “Everyone in the Kingdoms and in the Greater World believes the worst of you, when you actually saved her.”

Mellie shrugged. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

“Why didn't you just tell Snow?” he asked.

“She wouldn't have believed me.” Mellie grabbed her plate and pulled it close. “Besides, she thought her charming prince saved her. I would have ruined that.”

“I thought it didn't work out.”

“I didn't know that then, did I?” Mellie said.

He stared at her for a moment. She had done a brave and courageous thing, had saved a life at great cost to herself, and had never taken credit for it.

For the first time, the one thing he had disliked about her—that bitterness he had seen at the book fair—finally made sense.

“You could tell her now,” he said.

“No,” she said. She looked at him. “It doesn't matter anymore. Besides, she would think I was lying.”

Her eyes were clear now, although her nose was still a bit red from the near-tears.

“My relationship with Snow is what it is,” Mellie said. “But she's alive, and she's doing well, and she has lovely children, even if I've never gotten to meet them. At least they exist.”

“That doesn't break your heart?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “It's a victory. I cherish my victories.”

“Well, you're certainly not a damsel in distress,” he said, thinking of Ella, thinking how romantic he had found that damsel, that distress.

He thought Mellie would smile, but instead she looked rueful.

“You don't want to be a damsel in distress, do you?” he asked, feeling a bit incredulous.

“Oh, heavens no,” she said, but she sounded funny. Then she cut into her cinnamon roll. “We're so sensitive about the strangest things, you and I. You can't handle someone criticizing books, and I can't handle anything to do with fairy tales.”

He nodded. She clearly wanted to change the subject. He had gotten too close to something painful. He would give her a minute to catch her breath.

He followed her lead and stopped discussing Snow.

“Were you really talking to Bourke about screenplays?” Charming asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“You really want to do this, right? To make a difference.”

“Yes.” She sounded impatient.

“You do know how many screenplays there are in this town and how few get made, right?” Charming asked.

Mellie looked at him sideways. “Noooo.”

She sounded wary, as if she expected him to hurt her somehow.

“I counted at least three in this shop alone,” Charming said. “Four if we count yours.”

“I only have a few pages,” Mellie said. “And Dave has written several.”

“We're not counting his TV show,” Charming said.

“That's right,” Mellie said. “I'm not counting his TV show.”

“And he actually knows people who might be able to get production money,” Charming said. “It's easier to publish a book than it is to get a screenplay produced.”

“Not if you can't write the damn book.” Mellie stabbed her fork into her cinnamon roll and peeled off half of it. “I doubt reading all of these books will make me a better writer.”

“I doubt it too,” Charming said, and immediately wished he could take the words back. He didn't mean it the way it sounded.

The hunk of cinnamon roll hovered near her mouth. She raised her eyebrows. Fortunately, she looked amused.

“I mean,” he said, “it would take a lot of practice as well—”

“That's not what you meant,” she said. “I really don't care about characters and stories and made-up stuff. I was thinking of writing a blog.”

He frowned. “A blog.”

“About wicked stepmothers and how that's a lie,” she said.

He nodded and thought about it. People got a lot of traction from blogs. But the blogs had to be consistently interesting. He wasn't sure Mellie could do that. He was already getting to the point where he wanted to interrupt her when she started into her evil stepmother rants.

And he liked her. He liked her a lot.

He decided to approach the blog suggestion cautiously. “Have you thought about how you would structure it?”

“The blog?” Mellie shook her head. “I don't even know how to design a website. And I don't know if it would be worthwhile. I mean, how many people get more than their family reading their blogs?”

“I don't know,” he said.

“Of course, there's no guarantee a book would sell very well,” she said more to herself than to him. “Just like there's no guarantee that a screenplay would become a film.”

“If you sell your book to a major publisher,” Charming said, “people will read it.”

“And then what?” she asked.

“Then you write another book,” he said. “Keep the idea in the public eye.”

She made a snorty sound. “I can't even write one book. How could I write two?”

“The idea was to start a trend, remember?” he asked. “Follow the vampire model and remake your image.”

She shook her head. “I can't do that. It's ingrained. This whole culture hates older women.”

“That's not true,” he said, then stopped when she glared at him. She wanted to believe it was true, so he was going to let her believe it was true.

At least for the moment.

“I can't even hire one of those ghosts you talked about,” she said. “They're all part of the Greater World. No one from the Kingdoms knows how to write. Even those horrible Grimm brothers were from the Greater World.”