Gallant drained his glass. Not that this would be easy, of course. She’d probably be the most difficult sale he’d ever made, but he’d planted the seeds already, and Aubrey had laid out the next step herself.
I always thought I’d find another guy who’d write me letters like that, someday.
He chuckled and carried a fresh drink to his office, where he sat before his double monitors.He didn’t presume to think he could write a decent love letter, but apparently Nick Thacker could. Which came as a surprise. The guy worked at the steel mill like every other grunt in town, and had never seemed like the literary type. But maybe Nick had published or posted something online that would give Gallant an idea of what Aubrey was looking for.
He typed the guy’s name into Google.
And nearly sprayed bourbon across the screen.
Nick Thacker’s Love-Letter-Writing Service
The words burned black and crisp, as if the universe had presented him the key to Aubrey’s heart, tied up neatly with a bow.
Gallant clicked the link, his nerves humming. The details proved even better than he’d hoped. A set of personalized letters would cost him four hundred dollars, but what was that, in the scheme of things? He’d gladly fork over thousands for a slam dunk like this.
He registered with a fake screen name—MontanaBirder81, to keep Nick oblivious—then created an alias PayPal account that linked back to his credit card. When he got to the checkout page, he hesitated. The ethics behind what he was about to do were thorny, at best.
But any worthy salesman used every tool at his disposal. And that was all this was: a tool. It would still behimtaking Aubrey out to dinner, wooing and seducing her. Moving to New York when she did.
Not Nick.
Satisfied he’d done his due diligence, Gallant clicked, then raised his glass when the confirmation filled his screen.
Here I come, Aubrey.
She wouldn’t even know what’d hit her.
7.
Aubrey woke to the sound of chattering teeth. Hers, to be precise. They snapped like a frenzied animal’s, rattling her skull.
She clamped her molars together and pulled her hands to her chest. How had she managed to pass out when someone had clearly injected ice into her bones? And how was September in Indiana so abysmallycold?
Outside, darkness had fallen. She pushed up from the couch, then swallowed a cry when pain shot through her ankle. She’d need the brace she’d bought at the store, but first, warmth. Gallant had stacked some firewood by the hearth, so she hobbled over, trying to remember what, exactly, to do with it. She’d never paid much attention when her parents had built fires. Maybe they’d lit a newspaper first?
She didn’t have one, but a hunt across the mantel yielded a long-stemmed lighter. She clicked and held the flame against the smallest log. The wood caught, but the newborn fire died the moment she released the button.
She tried again, but her frozen hands quaked so badly she had to go rummage through the hall closet for a blanket. To her disappointment, the chilled quilt felt more like a mantle of icethan a source of warmth, so she returned to the fireplace and tried the lighter again. Nothing.
A curse slipped out. If given a set of differential equations, she would’ve known exactly what to do, but fire-making didn’t seem to play by similarly predictable rules. At least not the ones she knew, where flame plus wood equaled fire.
She tried again, then chucked everything across the room in a fit of frustration. Just as the shivering set in, a knock sounded at the door.
Aubrey frowned. Gallant? It had to be. No one else knew she was back.
She pulled the quilt close and limped to the front hall. Maybe Gallant had forgotten something. Maybe he knew how to light a fire. She flipped on the porch light and swung the door wide.
And promptly quit breathing.
Nick Thacker stood on her stoop, staring through the screen. “Hi.”
Aubrey forced air into her lungs. Or tried. But he’d changed into dark jeans and a cranberry wool sweater that did little to hide the powerful lines of his body. The ash adorning his cheekbone had disappeared, and a newspaper dangled from his hand. Which had to be the most ridiculous coincidence of her life thus far.
“What’re you doing here?” she said, then pressed her lips together. She hadn’t meant to sound so accusing, but oh well.
His hooded gaze revealed nothing. “I came to make sure you weren’t cold. You had all that firewood in your cart, but no way to light it, so...” He trailed off, holding up the paper.
Okay, not a coincidence, then. She marveled that she’d managed to conjure a newspaper out of thin air.
