Mr. August (3 page)

Max laughed without humor. She lied about everything. But the mess he’d found himself in was his fault. He let the idea of becoming a dad jade his judgment.

A month after they said “I do”, he grew the beard because she hated facial hair and he bought a dog. Six months later, he was minus a wife and living in a cabin trying to put his life back together. He’d become the sole owner of Rory and the station wagon—that now had a huge dent in the back. And he was still sporting the beard.

****

Libby loaded the groceries in the back of the Jeep. From the corner of her eye she spied the cute little Yorkie jumping around the backseat of a car two spaces over. She checked the entrance of the store. No sign of Maxwell. She ripped open the box of dog biscuits and stealthily made her way to the sweet dog. “Hi there, Rory,” she said, fitting her fingers through the part of the window left open to give him some fresh air.

Rory licked her fingers and Libby’s heart melted. She showed him the biscuits and he turned in a circle of excitement. “Don’t tell your grouchy owner that I’m getting chummy with you. It’ll be our secret.” She dropped the first biscuit in. Libby kept an eye peeled for Max. The sound of the automatic doors sliding open made her drop the second biscuit through the window. “I have to go, but I’ll see you soon.” The familiar head of dark hair coming toward her made Libby bob and weave to her vehicle.

Libby fastened the seatbelt and cranked up the radio. She pulled out of the parking space at just the right moment so Maxwell would have to cross in front of her.

He rolled his eyes.

“You’d better watch out,” Libby said. Curiously, the comment was aimed more at her than him.

The trip back to the cabin took ten minutes, but it was long enough for her to rehash the events of the past twelve hours. Since leaving Columbus she’d gone from a teary-eyed fashion designer to a half-wit who threatened her neighbor with her Jeep.

Libby woke to the sound of rain pelting the bedroom window and the wind howling through the treetops. She hadn’t thought to turn on the fireplace before going to bed last night and the cabin was downright chilly. She snuggled deeper into the blankets. Maybe she’d stay there all day. There was no hurry to start sketching; she had five months.

Out of the clear blue, her thoughts were about Maxwell. “No way.” She yanked the covers back. She would not waste time thinking about him. Libby threw her legs over the side of the bed and trudged down the stairs. She filled the teapot with water and put it on to boil, before turning on the fireplace.

A quick rummage through the kitchen cabinets produced boxes of macaroni and cheese. Not exactly breakfast food, but she only had herself to please.

Libby scooted the recliner in front of the sliding doors to watch the droplets of rain trail down the glass. She perched in the chair with her legs tucked under her and took a sip of steaming hot tea, followed by a blissful bite of cheesy macaroni. The wind had settled and if the rain stopped she’d go for a walk around the campground for a breath of fresh air and to stretch her legs. If it didn’t, she’d get her first taste of solitary confinement. That thought made her search for her cell phone. She glanced at the small wooden clock sitting on the mantel. Right about now, Steph would be up to her elbows in Coco Puffs and toast, and would most likely welcome a text from Libby to keep her sane. Before Libby started the text message, her phone chirped with one from Steph.

Steph: I need wine.

Libby: It’s seven o’clock in the morning.

Steph: What’s your point? LOL. The kids are bickering over whose glass has more milk.

Libby: I miss them.

She grinned. Steph’s kids were mini-tornadoes who broke things, spilled things, and caused as much mayhem as they could fit into a day. But they gave great hugs and she loved them dearly.

Steph: They miss you too. So do I. But enough of the gooey love stuff. Do you have anything fabulous you want me to look at?

Of course I do, but he’s probably still sleeping
. Libby jerked at the thought. Where in the heck did that come from? In no way, shape or form was she interested in Maxwell August. Yes, he was attractive but he had the disposition of a badger.

Libby: I have a few things you might like. Will send them later in an email.

The next hour was a flurry of text messages back and forth, but they carefully avoided any discussion of Slayte Designs. Eventually the subject would come up. Steph obviously was giving Libby some breathing room, and Libby was grateful.

Steph: Meet anyone yet?

Libby made a face. She and Steph didn’t lie to each other, no matter what.

Libby: The guy in the next cabin is a real piece of work. Thinks he can shove me out of the way at the grocery to get juice. But he has the cutest dog.

The next fifteen minutes was text-interrogation. Steph was a bloodhound whose investigative instincts could put most reporters to shame. By the time the cross-examination was over, she knew what Max looked like, every word he’d said, and how he and Libby met.

Steph: He sounds yummy.

Libby had no idea how Steph came to that conclusion since she’d used words like scraggly, scruffy, shabby, and messy. Actually, he wasn’t scraggly, scruffy, shabby, or messy. And dammit, he was yummy.

Libby: Not.

Steph: Take a picture of him with your cell phone and send it to me.

Libby: Yeah, that won’t happen.

Steph: Don’t be a wuss. LOL. Have to go. The kids are throwing cereal at each other. May the fashion-gods be with you. Love ya.

Libby laughed. Someone had to lead the way to her day. It might as well be the fashion-gods. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and went to her happy place—the runways in Milan, Paris, and New York. She’d been to all three and hoped someday to have her designs clothe the models that graced the catwalks. Before it could happen she had to develop a business plan and create some mindboggling garments.

With a renewed sense of purpose, she opened her eyes, grabbed her sketchpad and smiled wickedly. “Thanks, Steph.”

Libby drew with a vengeance. A sheer, black corset-style top with leather lacing up the front appeared on the page. From there, came a black diaphanous shirt, with a semi-sheer camisole underneath. She complemented the look with a hip-hugging black leather mini-skirt and a thin leather choker bejeweled with a clear rhinestone in the center. She added fishnet stockings and four-inch ankle-strap stilettos. Too wanton. She nixed the fishnet stockings. Depending on how the ensemble was worn, the fashion statement could be: “If this doesn’t catch his eye, nothing will” or “I know it’s a bit risqué, but sometimes a girl has to mix things up”. Libby giggled.

By noon, she had an array of delectable sheer garments with a hint of leather and a smidgen of lace. Libby stopped long enough to pour a glass of juice and grab a couple of cheese sticks. Between nibbles of cheese, she let the creative gnome living inside her head run wild with camouflage—heavy with stretchy black lace, light on the camo. The theme of her drawings seemed to navigate to naughty-with-discretion in certain places. Her ideas involved proud-to-show cleavage designs with lace-covered midriffs, confident hip-hugging pants and skirts, and a selection of equally delicious garments for plus-sized gals.

Libby stretched her neck from side to side to work out a kink. Her left hand was tight from overuse and her butt was getting flat from all the sitting. Minimal discomfort for such an amazing day.

The rain was long gone and the sun was on its way down. If she hurried she could get a short walk in before dark.

Into a chartreuse slicker and pair of waterproof half-boots, Libby was out the door in thirty seconds flat.

****

Rory put his paws on Max’s legs and wagged his tail, both signs that if he didn’t go outside soon he’d pee all over the place. “Okay, boy. I need a break too. My eyes are starting to cross.” Max closed his laptop with a sigh. His fingers were dying to burn up the keyboard but his muse wouldn’t cooperate. He drank coffee like it was going out of style, which usually got his thoughts revved to high gear. Not today. Hours of frustration clawed him from the inside out and a few times during the day he’d contemplated throwing his laptop into the lake.

Max blamed this current bout of writer’s block on his editor, Marco, who called to remind him that the book was due in a month. Well no shit. He was painfully aware of the looming deadline. He didn’t need Marco to point it out. He dropped the f-bomb and Rory hid behind the loveseat.

Max grabbed his coat and Rory’s leash, and hoped like hell he wouldn’t run into Libby. He was already distracted to the point he couldn’t write. Bumping into her would only make things worse. “Stalking her? Who does she think she is, Kim Kardashian?” The only one he’d even think of stalking—not in a creepy way—was Kim.

A light bulb flashed through his mind. Stalking. Sure, why not. He grabbed a sticky note.

Rory jumped on Max’s feet again.

“I’m hurrying.” He scribbled something and pasted the note on top of a stack of other notes. Eight hours in front of the computer and nothing, but now…

Damn, it had potential.

By the time Libby got to Circle Drive it was pitch black. An occasional dimly lit solar light left behind by the seasonal campers permeated the darkness. Thankfully, she’d had the good sense to shove a small LED flashlight in her pocket before she left the cabin. It wasn’t a lot of light but enough to keep her from getting lost or tripping in the small ruts of the stoned drives.

The crunch of gravel in the near distance made the hair on her arms prickle under her jacket. She shined the flashlight in front of her to illuminate the outline of a tall, hooded figure coming in her direction. Libby silently cursed her decision to wander around at night. Adrenaline pumped through her while her mind raced to formulate a plan for self-protection. She could dart between campers, although with the lack of good light she’d probably twist an ankle. If she tried to even out the struggle with a groin kick, she’d first have to locate the groin. “Yeah. No,” she whispered to herself. Hiding behind a tree wasn’t an option either since she was wearing a vibrant yellow coat that was hard to conceal.

A small bark cut through the darkness.

The mounting fear gave way to relief. “Rory?” The awareness that she wasn’t in danger from some thug, didn’t slow her rapid heartbeat even a little; if anything, it sped up.

Maxwell August and his adorable little terrier met her before she made the turn onto Duck Drive.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the stalker,” Libby chided. She heard Maxwell wince.

“Again,” he said, “you wish.”

The verbal jousting made Libby laugh. For lack of something better to say, she asked, “What brings you out on a soggy night like this?”

“I’m stalking you, remember?”

The silky smoothness of Maxwell’s voice made the fine hair on her arms stand on end again, from a very different kind of fear. Libby was close enough to nudge him with her forearm. “Yeah? Well maybe I’m stalking you.”

For the first time since they met, he laughed. She could barely see his face, but she imagined his smile was spectacular.

Libby bent to pet Rory, and the sweet Yorkie rewarded her with a lick to the hand. “I need to get a dog.”

“They’re a pain.”

“Why do you have one?”

“To piss off my ex.”

Maxwell had an ex? Interesting. “Not a good enough reason to have one.”

“A dog? Or an ex?”

Libby shook with laughter. “Both.” Rory rolled over so she could pet his belly. “If he’s such a pain, I’ll take him off your hands.”

A low snicker seeped through the darkness. “He’s also my guard dog.”

Libby stood up too quickly and almost fell into the guy who smelled like heaven. She steadied herself before he did it for her. “Hate to tell ya, he can be won over with a biscuit or two. You should’ve gotten a Rottweiler.”

“I had one, but I divorced her.” Maxwell’s laugh sounded like it came from deep in his chest.

Libby loved dogs, even the ones who got a bad rap. “Rottweiler’s are awesome if they’re trained right.”

She laughed.

He didn’t.

Libby couldn’t resist. “Was her bark worse than her bite?”

“Toss-up.”

She couldn’t believe that she and Maxwell were volleying funnies back and forth in the dark. How weird was that? A few awkward seconds lapsed. “I really should be getting back.” For some reason, she lost her mind and touched his arm again. “Next time, wear something so I can see you coming. You scared the heck out of me.”

Maxwell drew his arm away. “Your coat looks like someone threw a gallon of neon paint on you.”

She was struck by a brilliant flash of genius. “Oh my gosh, Maxwell, that’s it! Neon!” Libby pictured all kinds of clothes with neon splatters; most especially a sexy, low-cut, stretchy, form-fitting dress…in stark black…with lime green neon paint intermittently splattered down the front, accessorized with a pair of black stilettos with a lime green ankle strap. She was giddy with excitement. “If it wouldn’t be completely out of line I’d hug you right now.”

“Huh?”

“I’m a fashion designer and you just gave me a great idea.”

Even in the dark, Libby sensed a change in the air between them.

“So you’re a material girl. Figures.”

Max’s surly tone made her sigh. He’d reverted back to the man she needed to stay away from. “I work with material.” Not everyone understood fashion, including her parents. While they supported their daughter, they thought she should do something more substantial with her life. Libby wasn’t in the mood to explain or defend her career path. “Thanks for the neon idea. Stop by sometime and I’ll show you how I used it.” Pfft. The offer was courtesy, nothing more. He wouldn’t stop by and that was fine by her. She wished him a good night and went in the opposite direction.

The second Max stepped in the cabin he hurried to his laptop, minimized his manuscript, and typed Libby Griffin’s name into Google. A slew of pictures and articles regarding Libby popped up. Without shedding his coat he began clicking the links. One by one he discovered a little more about the woman who annoyed and intrigued him. Thirty. Unmarried. Fast becoming a top name in the fashion world. No way was she thirty. She didn’t look a day over eighteen. And she was from Columbus too. “Hmm.” His earlier suspicion that she was a plant surfaced but he shook his head at the possibility. Libby wasn’t there to mess with him. Well, maybe unwittingly.