1
HARLOW
Itap my perfectly manicured dark red nails on the counter next to the bell. The receptionist behind the desk is too busy typing away on his computer to check me in. Which is probably why my eyes have traveled back to the man leaning casually against the desk next to me. He’s too easy on the eyes by far, and he seems familiar, but I can’t pinpoint from where. Why is he smirking at me?
Are his lean and toned arms peeking from under his white t-shirt even real? I think I could bounce a quarter off his body. His hair isn’t bad either. I like short in the back and a wave on top, his brown eyes to match, with a glint of curiosity. An instinct has me thinking he knows more than I might expect.
How I ended up in Lake Spark, Illinois at a place called the Dizzy Duck Inn, I’m not entirely sure. Well, that’s a lie. It was my publisher insisting that I should attend this writers’ retreat. And so far, the town seems quaint. Summer is over, yet September brings out a sharper blue in the sky against the backdrop of pines and a deep blue lake.
A steady beat. That’s what my nails are doing as I’m in a standoff with Mr. McBroody.
“Can I help you with something? Normally eyes on me aren’t a bad thing, however, you kind of feel like an asshole who’s about to say something I won’t like,” I tell him, having no problem being blunt.
He just simpers and propels himself off the desk. “Can you go any slower, Stuart?” he asks the college-aged receptionist as he glances over his shoulder. Jock man returns his gaze to mine. “Harlow Olive, right?”
A smile spreads on my glossed lips. “That’s me.” Ah, he’s just a guy who probably has a sister or a girlfriend who reads. “You’re familiar with my books?”
He snickers a breath. “You mean, unrealistic romance novels that you probably don’t even write because you’re too busy picking out what heels to wear and posting smoothie photos on your social media?”
I glance down to my black stilettos. I only wore them because I like to dress well when traveling… plus, I do need some social media content before I throw on my flats.
But wait a second, what an ass for just saying what he did.
My hand lands on my hip that I tip out. “Aren’t we judgmental,” I counter.
“I’m confident this writers' retreat is for people who actually form a plot.”
My head perks up. How does he know about the retreat?
He straightens his posture, clearly having read my mind. Then he has the audacity to offer me his hand to shake. “Stone Madden.” I blink, as the name means nothing. “Doesn’t ring a bell?” He idles in his arrogance. “The former hockey player now a successful author,” he presses. “We have the same publisher.”
I look unimpressed before my own scoff of disbelief hits me. “You’re him? You are the guy who writes about fictional hockey with a little mellow drama. I’ve heard something about that. Just assumed you were some guy who lives in the woods somewhere and chops his own wood while wishing he was someone else.”
“Hey there, doll. I would look amazing in plaid and using an ax. Besides, there are a hell of a lot of facts woven into my books,” he clarifies.
I chuckle under my breath, scanning the room to see if this is some kind of joke. Sports jock is actually a writer. Huh.
“Stone, do you want me to give you the lakeside view or are you tired of looking at it?” the receptionist asks him, as if he is partly unnerved.
“I’ll never get tired of the lake; plus, if I face the woods, then I’m positive I’ll just end up seeing two raccoons going at it.”
I look between them peculiarly. “Uh, I believe you were working on my check-in,” I reiterate to the receptionist, with his Stuart name tag that I want to rip off because my flight from the warmth of Florida has made me a little edgy, and, okay, the heels hurt my feet like hell.
Stuart throws me wide eyes. “Yes, but Stone is a new local to Lake Spark, so we must give him the full welcome, plus…” His eyes land sharply on Stone, and Stuart’s face falls. “He tried to get me fired a few days ago.”
Stone gives him a contrite smile. “Just keeping it real.”
My eyes swim between both of them. “Local?”
Stone gives me a satisfied smile. “You see, Harlow. Our publisher loves me, maybe it’s my name. Not to mention I have a little investment in this fine establishment.”
“Then you should talk to someone about that ridiculous moose head on the wall.” I don’t blink and tip my head in the direction of the fireplace in the lobby.
He stifles a laugh and ignores me. “Anyhow, the organizers were far too eager to set up this retreat in my new hometown at this spectacular boutique hotel that’s home to weddings, baby showers, events—you know, that kind of thing. I’m just not staying at my house as I want the full retreat experience.”
I blow out an aggravated breath. “Great. I’m blessed with an arrogant asshole who probably uses a ghostwriter to turn out his books.”
“Watch it there, feisty firefly. Please tell me you don’t write hockey romance. I bet you’ve actually never even been to a game.”
