Mr. August (2 page)

Laying her head back and closing her eyes, Libby marveled at the quiet. Even the gas fireplace was noiseless. Thank goodness for an occasional squawk session from the geese flying to and from the lake.

It was time to sketch.

Libby pulled a pad of paper from a large tote, and moved from the loveseat to the recliner. As always she started with the croquis: the mannequin of the page. She tapped the pad with the pencil eraser, and then drew a long, flowing skirt with a side slit. “Hmm.” Instead of the usual straight up and down slit, she swirled it. An unusual design needed an unusual pattern, something exotic. She clicked into her laptop to find the blog she’d saved to her favorites. “There you are.”

The distinctive yellow flower was the reason she’d saved the blog in the first place. “Hypericaceae: Hypericum Kalmianum.” Holy mackerel, that was a mouthful, but the flower was eye-catching and would make the skirt distinctive. She sketched, erased, sketched some more, and almost wore out the eraser before she got the flower just right. A few finishing touches and the end product became a light purple skirt with a bright yellow flower and wide belt in moss green.

Libby assessed the design from every angle. Not bad, although maxi skirts with slits had been done thousands of times. She groaned, wadded up the sheet and dropped it beside the recliner. Maybe it would be easier to use the computer-aided design program to look at the garment in a number of colors and sizes before she shucked the sketch.

She wrinkled her nose. The only time she relied on the computer program was to make the design three-dimensional for the pattern maker. Somehow her imagination was connected to a number-two pencil instead of a mouse. It was the only thing conventional about her. At the moment her blonde hair was cut in a short bob, soft at the bangs, the back spiked with gel, and the top streaked with hot pink. She had a few piercings—three earrings in each ear and a tiny diamond post in her nose. And instead of wearing the clothes she designed, she wore denim or leather with a hint of lace. Her personal style drove Amanda crazy. Libby bumped her eyebrows together. Surely, she wouldn’t have been terminated because she wasn’t chic. To curb that line of thinking she flipped the page and instead of another clothes design, she sketched the lake. When she finished, she smiled. She’d caught its essence. Maybe her true talent lay in landscapes. Nah. Clothes were her passion, but sometimes you had to let the pencil do whatever it wanted. Sometimes the darned thing went completely mad and designed clothes unsuitable for the buying public—at least according to Amanda. Libby frowned. What was wrong with showing a little skin?

The rebel inside poked her hard. She no longer had to conform to Amanda’s opinions and was free to create anything she damn well pleased. The pencil caught fire. An above-the-knee, form-fitting sleeveless evening dress with a side-gathered bust and neckline that plunged dangerously low made its way to the paper. It was a take-me-now dress that Libby would love to wear, but she had more cleavage than she knew what to do with and her caboose was too shapely to have Lycra stretched across it. She colored the dress deep-black and added a thin belt, also in black, that would be hand-beaded. Libby held the drawing at arm’s length, grinned wickedly and tucked it away for further scrutiny.

If she was going to create jaw-dropping garments she would need a cup of tea. She’d developed the tea habit while in design school and now it was a mental thing—no tea, little ingenuity. It was time to locate a grocery store.

She slipped out of the soft, fuzzy pajama pants she’d changed into shortly after she arrived, and pulled on a pair of worn jeans with holes in the knees. She covered her gray Ohio State t-shirt with a denim jacket and slid her toes into a pair of ankle-high black leather boots.

The second she stepped outside, a small yip caught her attention. An adorable black and brown Yorkshire terrier was trying to run at full-speed toward her, his little feet making no progress. Libby followed the path of the leash that held him. The porch lights from the two cabins provided enough light for her to get a clear look at her neighbor. Her mouth unhinged at the jaw while her eyes tried to deny that the owner of the dog, Mr. August, was the guy she almost annihilated with her Jeep.
No way!
Her subconscious fired back with
Yes way
!

Libby could tell the moment the same awareness hit him. He squinted hard and pulled back on the leash.

The fantasy of Mr. August draped in a towel crashed and burned.

Libby blew out a puff of air. “Umm…” She flexed her hands and shifted from foot to foot.

****

Max blinked to clear the illusion. That was not the woman who tried to turn him into a hood ornament. He blinked again. Dammit, it was. A surge of annoyance powered up; not that the one from earlier had fully powered down.
What a day!
His car had been rear-ended in the morning by a woman trying to put on mascara while driving, and in the afternoon, he almost got clipped off by the spiky-haired blonde. Was he wearing an invisible sign—Please Hit Me—that only the reckless could see? He’d read the first woman the riot act for her careless driving, but he spared the blonde the lecture because even through her windshield he could tell she’d been crying. And he still couldn’t say anything because by some stroke of misfortune she was his neighbor. If he started a dialogue she might think it was okay to talk to him whenever she saw him.

Oh God, here she comes!

The twenty-something woman breached the imaginary line separating their cabins and crouched to pet his dog. “He’s so cute. What’s his name?”

“Rory,” he said abruptly. There was no easy way to tell her to get lost. “No offense, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get chummy with my dog.” Or with me.

Hazel eyes snapped up to connect with his. Incredible hazel eyes. Freaking great hazel eyes.

“Sorry, I-I,” she stammered, “I…”

Max wanted to finish her sentence with “…am a bad driver.” He clamped his mouth so tight his teeth gnashed together.

“I love dogs.” The woman stood up, took a half-step back, and put a hand on her chest. “I…wanted to apologize for almost hitting you earlier in town.” She surprised him by going off on a tangent of self-deprecation, calling herself careless, irresponsible, and saying she was darn lucky he didn’t call the police.

Max bit into her with a hard stare. He watched her fidget and listened to her stumble over her words. He tried not to notice that she was pretty—in a wild child, kind of way. Her long eyelashes were thick with mascara and her eyelids were lined so they swooped at the end. He wasn’t fond of eye goop, but he had to admit, the dramatic look wasn’t bad. His attention moved to the hand that was splayed across her chest. No ring. Great chest. He sighed. Why was he taking note of anything about the woman? He wasn’t interested, nor did he want to be.

He tried to tune back into the conversation but his eye caught the thin, black leather choker around her neck. He’d seen some thin leather bands at her wrists too. She looked like a free spirit, untamed and alternative, but there was softness in her voice and mannerisms. And dammit to hell and back, he found it all sexy, including the bizarre pink streaks in her hair. He started to smile, caught himself and went on a rant of self-deprecation too, silently. He’d left the city and relocated to the middle of nowhere to get away from a woman who made his life nuts and he didn’t need to get involved with another one who had the same potential. His speedy marriage and hasty divorce left a bitter taste in his mouth and he needed time away from his mistakes to get back on track. He had a novel to finish and the only way to get it done was to cut himself off from the rest of the world, especially women. “No harm, no foul,” he said, making sure he didn’t sound the least bit pleasant.

The blonde thrust out her hand. “I’m Libby Griffin.”

Shit. Now he had to touch her.

Max narrowed his eyes. “Maxwell August,” he said tersely.

She flinched and drew her hand back. Good. She needed to know he didn’t aim to be neighborly.

“Well, Mr. August,” there was a trace of quiver in her voice, “I promise to keep my bumper off of you.” She turned on her heel and climbed into the Jeep.

“I promise to keep my bumper off of you?” How lame was that? Maxwell August had thrown her off balance by staring. His cranky disposition didn’t help either.
Argh!
She hated that she’d stammered in front of him. The affliction only showed up when she was overtired or in an awkward situation, and that couldn’t have been more awkward.

Libby pushed the grocery cart up and down the aisles, not really in tune with shopping. She blasted herself for not following Jiggs’ advice and leaving Maxwell alone. She tried to justify the contact with a need to apologize for scaring the bejesus out of him with her car, although nosiness more than anything made her cross the driveway.

From a distance he’d looked like just some guy, but up close he was the Mr. August of her fantasy. Libby groaned again. He couldn’t just be mildly attractive, no. He had to be hot! H-O-T, hot! His closely-shaved beard was nothing to brag about, but his wavy, jet black hair was incredible. And his eyes… Wow! They were definitely brag-worthy: dreamboat-blue edged with a hint of stay-away.

“Tea.” She was there to buy tea, not to think about the man next door. When she turned the corner and spied the assortment of tea sitting on the shelves, an “Ahhh” whooshed from her chest. She pondered the choices and decided on peppermint for when her brain was cloudy, apple-cinnamon to give her a burst of hello in the morning, black tea for when she needed to buckle down, and chamomile to soothe her into sleepiness after an exhausting day of genius with a pencil.

Libby hurried to the aisle that held boxes of mac and cheese. Life was so much better with a pot of tea and a plate of mac and cheese. She put ten boxes in the cart and added two more for good measure.

On the way to the dairy case, an end cap with dog biscuits made her skid to a halt. A box of biscuits for small breed dogs miraculously found its way into her cart.

A few more things and she could head back to the cabin—a gallon of milk to keep her bones strong, mozzarella cheese sticks for mindless-snacking, and orange juice just because. Libby couldn’t decide which juice to buy. She read the side of the carton for the juice that claimed to have fifty-percent less sugar. She swung around to add it to her cart and bumped into something solid. A chest. Her eyes fixed on a Carhartt label. She swallowed hard at the knowledge that Maxwell August had been wearing that same kind of jacket. What were the chances? Inch by inch, her gaze drifted up. It took a few seconds for her brain to sort out the details—dark hair, beard, unmistakable blue eyes.
You’ve got to be kidding!

“Watch what you’re doing.” Mr. August still looked like he wanted to bite her head off.

Libby squared her shoulders. “I was here first.” He’d shooed her away twenty minutes ago and was trying to do it again in the grocery. She matched him frown for frown.

“Maybe so, but you can’t stand there for ten minutes reading the side of the carton.”

“I can take as long as I need.” She’d only been there a minute or two. Clearly the man had no concept of time.

“You’re holding everyone up.”

Libby looked around. There was no one else waiting for her to move. She took a half-step away from the juice and motioned for him to go at it.

“Seriously?” He crossed his arms at his chest.

How much room did he need? Libby stayed exactly where she was and they engaged in a childish game of who would blink first. In the span of those few seconds, her subconscious filtered more information. Actually, it poked her hard enough to make her the first to blink. While this guy was a giant pain, he had a voice that was part gravel, part silk. She’d missed it when they spoke at the cabin, now it was all she could focus on; well, that and his scent. Libby tried not to breathe him in. His musky fragrance floated in front of her nose until she had no choice but to take a few whiffs.

A momentary look of amusement raced across his features, like he knew she was taking stock of him. A low growl formed in the pit of Libby’s stomach and she was close to hitting him with her cart. “Are you stalking me?” Oh my God, she didn’t say that, did she?

Maxwell narrowed his eyes so tight they almost closed. “You wish.”

Libby was stunned by her off-the-wall question, even more shocked with his reply. She wheeled the cart away.

****

Max was instantly pissed. The woman all but runs him over with her vehicle, hogs the damned juice, and accuses him of stalking her. He cussed his way to the canned goods. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear Libby was a plant. And the only one who would put her there was his ex-wife, Shari. She’d messed with him more than any one person should be allowed to, and was obviously still doing it via a loon named Libby.

Dredging up the memory of his ex made him scowl deeper. They hadn’t quite reached love status when the devil woman tricked him into marriage by saying she was pregnant. They’d always used protection but nothing was a hundred percent. He had to think of the child, so they got married right away. He hoped the love would come later. It didn’t. As soon as they returned from the honeymoon, Shari confessed that she must’ve miscalculated her monthly gift because she wasn’t pregnant. She shrugged off the error as “what’s done is done”. Right. There was no error, just duplicity. To make matters worse, she flat-out told him he had to change a few things. While they were dating she said she loved who he was—someone who spent long hours in front of a computer writing books, a man who couldn’t wait to have kids and buy a dog, a guy who drove his grandpa’s 1978 Chevrolet Caprice station wagon as a way to stay connected to the man who inspired him to write in the first place. Once the wedding ring was firmly in place, she thought it was unhealthy to be parked in front of a computer all day and hinted that he should get a real job. Translation: he was in the way. She also declared their home off-limits to pets. No dogs, cats or goldfish. Since he made a ton of money, she made it clear she would have no problem spending it. After all, the wife of a well-known author should have the best clothes, shoes, purses,
etc.
And in no way would she tolerate that metal heap he called a car. Grr. Shari was a material girl who wanted a perfect home, perfect things, and a perfect husband. To her dismay, he was as imperfect as they came.