I'm concerned about you and I want to make sure you know what you're getting into."
Her forehead creased as she tried to fit the puzzle of his words together. “What are you talking about?"
"This man you're seeing. Chase Tanner."
"What?” How the hell...?
He reached into the breast pocket of his navy pea coat and pulled out a tabloid. “This is you, isn't it?"
She took the rag. A picture of her gazing raptly at Chase brought heat to her face. “Yes. That's me.” Sneaky asshole paparazzi. The caption read, “Chase Tanner Sweet-Talking a Pretty Filly."
"Filly?” she mumbled. “Do I really look like a horse?"
"Reno, I know that you and I didn't end well."
His words tore open the dark place inside her where she'd stored all her anger. She let her voice rise. “We didn't end at all. You left me standing with a group of your friends, and you walked out of the gala with another woman."
He had the decency to look ashamed. For about three seconds. “I did phone to apologize, but you didn't take my call."
She snorted. “Yes, three days later."
"I didn't mean it to happen. We hit it off and got carried away.” He took back the tabloid, pointed to the picture, and opened his mouth.
Uh uh, he wasn't changing the subject. She cut off whatever he was going to say. “Carried away to Vegas? Amazing.” She crossed her arms, but it had to look silly with her puffy coat and pink mittens. “Are you still married to her?"
"Her name is Celeste, and yes, we're together."
"Of course you are. She's a critic for a major newspaper. You're a writer. She can do so much more for your career than I ever could."
He resembled a teapot about to boil, his face growing red, his breath sucked in sharply. “That's not what it's about. And I did not mean to hurt you."
She opened her mouth to spout more of the sarcastic bile she'd rehearsed in her mind for the day she finally ran into him, but it was his turn to cut her off.
"I still consider you a friend. A very important part of my life. And this man...” He backhanded the tabloid. “He's not the right person for you."
"Why? What do you know about him?"
"I know he's not in your social stratus. He's handsome and charming, but his lifestyle is not compatible with yours."
"That seems so biased.” He hadn't been an elitist while they were dating, had he? But then, they'd never frequented events that were not literary-related.
"Can you see yourself with him at writers’ award dinners or scriptwriters’ galas?"
No, she couldn't. Chase would be uncomfortable in both those situations. But no one had the right to tell her whom she should date. “Who the hell are you to come back into my life and give me advice?"
"A man who knows you. Well."
She'd heard enough. She bent to unlace her boots and slipped her feet out of them then pulled off her wet stocking cap and mittens, shoving them into her coat pockets. She took off her coat and hung it on the rack.
Facing him, she announced, “You do not know me. But thanks for stopping by.” She gestured to the door, unable to hold back the sarcasm.
"Let me tell you about the teaching opportunity."
"Is there a teaching job, or was that just a way for you to get in the door?"
"There is a teaching job. It's a grant awarded to a creative writing professional. It covers all expenses for four months, and pays a salary."
He knew her weakness. “Tell me."
"Could I please have a cup of tea? I'm frozen solid."
She sighed and walked into the kitchen. Behind her, he slid his shoes off and they dropped to the floor, his coat rustling as he hung on the creaky old rack.
She set two mugs of water in the microwave, and turned to watch him. He headed to the fireplace and put logs on the embers. Like he'd done a hundred times while they were together. Holed up here writing in their separate corners.
"Don't get too comfortable, Drake,” she growled.
"You're not going to let me stay?” He grinned and gestured toward the window. “There's a storm
Her forehead creased as she tried to fit the puzzle of his words together. “What are you talking about?"
"This man you're seeing. Chase Tanner."
"What?” How the hell...?
He reached into the breast pocket of his navy pea coat and pulled out a tabloid. “This is you, isn't it?"
She took the rag. A picture of her gazing raptly at Chase brought heat to her face. “Yes. That's me.” Sneaky asshole paparazzi. The caption read, “Chase Tanner Sweet-Talking a Pretty Filly."
"Filly?” she mumbled. “Do I really look like a horse?"
"Reno, I know that you and I didn't end well."
His words tore open the dark place inside her where she'd stored all her anger. She let her voice rise. “We didn't end at all. You left me standing with a group of your friends, and you walked out of the gala with another woman."
He had the decency to look ashamed. For about three seconds. “I did phone to apologize, but you didn't take my call."
She snorted. “Yes, three days later."
"I didn't mean it to happen. We hit it off and got carried away.” He took back the tabloid, pointed to the picture, and opened his mouth.
Uh uh, he wasn't changing the subject. She cut off whatever he was going to say. “Carried away to Vegas? Amazing.” She crossed her arms, but it had to look silly with her puffy coat and pink mittens. “Are you still married to her?"
"Her name is Celeste, and yes, we're together."
"Of course you are. She's a critic for a major newspaper. You're a writer. She can do so much more for your career than I ever could."
He resembled a teapot about to boil, his face growing red, his breath sucked in sharply. “That's not what it's about. And I did not mean to hurt you."
She opened her mouth to spout more of the sarcastic bile she'd rehearsed in her mind for the day she finally ran into him, but it was his turn to cut her off.
"I still consider you a friend. A very important part of my life. And this man...” He backhanded the tabloid. “He's not the right person for you."
"Why? What do you know about him?"
"I know he's not in your social stratus. He's handsome and charming, but his lifestyle is not compatible with yours."
"That seems so biased.” He hadn't been an elitist while they were dating, had he? But then, they'd never frequented events that were not literary-related.
"Can you see yourself with him at writers’ award dinners or scriptwriters’ galas?"
No, she couldn't. Chase would be uncomfortable in both those situations. But no one had the right to tell her whom she should date. “Who the hell are you to come back into my life and give me advice?"
"A man who knows you. Well."
She'd heard enough. She bent to unlace her boots and slipped her feet out of them then pulled off her wet stocking cap and mittens, shoving them into her coat pockets. She took off her coat and hung it on the rack.
Facing him, she announced, “You do not know me. But thanks for stopping by.” She gestured to the door, unable to hold back the sarcasm.
"Let me tell you about the teaching opportunity."
"Is there a teaching job, or was that just a way for you to get in the door?"
"There is a teaching job. It's a grant awarded to a creative writing professional. It covers all expenses for four months, and pays a salary."
He knew her weakness. “Tell me."
"Could I please have a cup of tea? I'm frozen solid."
She sighed and walked into the kitchen. Behind her, he slid his shoes off and they dropped to the floor, his coat rustling as he hung on the creaky old rack.
She set two mugs of water in the microwave, and turned to watch him. He headed to the fireplace and put logs on the embers. Like he'd done a hundred times while they were together. Holed up here writing in their separate corners.
"Don't get too comfortable, Drake,” she growled.
"You're not going to let me stay?” He grinned and gestured toward the window. “There's a storm
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