an
undertaker?"
Frowning, she glanced down at her
suit. "I don't dress like an undertaker."
Dylan arched his brow as he took a
sip of his wine.
"I look professional."
"I never said you didn't."
He tugged the collar of her suit coat. "I know I'd come to you if I had to
bury someone."
His hand brushed the top of her
breast, and for a second she couldn't breathe. She exhaled with a rush and
fanned herself. "Is it warm in here? I think it's warm."
"Take your coat off if you're
warm," he said as though she were mental.
"Right." She shrugged out
of her coat and hung it on the hook over her purse.
"Here." He reached out,
unbuttoning the top couple buttons of her blouse. She'd had it done up to her
neck, so it wasn't like she was indecently exposed, but the act of him
undressing her caused her to flush deeper.
"Better?" he asked softly.
His face—his lips in
particular—were so close. All she had to do was lean forward the tiniest
amount and she'd be pressed to him.
And how horrifying would that be? He
thought of her as his little project and she was getting it on with him in her
head. She swallowed thickly and managed to squeak, "Fine."
He studied her with his
all-encompassing gaze a moment longer. Then he said, "What sort of secrets
do you think she had?"
Camille blinked, discombobulated.
"What?"
"Your gourd artist. What sorts
of secrets does she keep?"
Without thinking, she said, "She
was spurned by a paperboy when she was a teenager and has been harboring a
hatred for anyone tied to journalism ever since. She was planning on killing me
and stuffing me in a gourd."
Dylan shook his head. "Your talents
are wasted. You should be writing fiction."
Just like that, she went on guard.
"I'm a journalist."
"You're a writer," he
insisted. "A good writer, and a good writer can write anything he
wants."
"If I'm good enough to write
anything, why can't it be news? Why are you always trying to get me to change
my focus?" She picked up her wine so she'd have something to do with her
hand, but she didn't try to drink any, afraid she might choke.
"Because your purpose isn't
telling people what's already happened." Impassioned, he turned to bracket
her with his legs. "It's entertaining people with your unique point of
view."
She remembered the harsh red letters
her mother had scrawled on her partial manuscript and felt something in her
wither all over again. "You're wrong."
"I'm not wrong," he said,
his voice low with intent. "I'm an author. I recognize talent."
"Can we talk about something
else?" she asked plaintively, starting to turn away.
"No, we can't." He took her
by the arms so she had to face him. "Didn't you hear yourself as you were
talking about this gourd artist? You took a nugget of reality about her and
spun it into an intriguing character."
"I just told you what I thought
about her."
"You wove her into a compelling
character I want to know more about." Dylan's gaze burned with passion.
"I want to know why she became a gourd artist and what inspires her. I
want to know how she affords the store, and why she decided to open it in
Laurel Heights. I want to know what her secrets are."
Camille blinked. "So you're
saying I should investigate her?"
Dylan sighed, clearly exasperated.
"Of course not. I'm telling you to create her. Make her into whoever you want her to be. Weave her into an
adventure."
She couldn't do that, but she could
find out who the real Gwendolyn Pierce was. Because Camille's usually dormant
journalistic instincts told her that there was more to Gwendolyn's story than
she let on.
It could even be her big break. She'd
joked about money laundering, but what if...?
She had to calm down, she told
herself. It was no good getting worked up for nothing. Most stories turned out
to be duds.
"Aren't you going to say
anything?" he asked.
She looked up at Dylan, surprised to
find his face so close to hers, with his hand cupping her cheek. His thumb caressed
the edge of her mouth.
Her gaze dropped
undertaker?"
Frowning, she glanced down at her
suit. "I don't dress like an undertaker."
Dylan arched his brow as he took a
sip of his wine.
"I look professional."
"I never said you didn't."
He tugged the collar of her suit coat. "I know I'd come to you if I had to
bury someone."
His hand brushed the top of her
breast, and for a second she couldn't breathe. She exhaled with a rush and
fanned herself. "Is it warm in here? I think it's warm."
"Take your coat off if you're
warm," he said as though she were mental.
"Right." She shrugged out
of her coat and hung it on the hook over her purse.
"Here." He reached out,
unbuttoning the top couple buttons of her blouse. She'd had it done up to her
neck, so it wasn't like she was indecently exposed, but the act of him
undressing her caused her to flush deeper.
"Better?" he asked softly.
His face—his lips in
particular—were so close. All she had to do was lean forward the tiniest
amount and she'd be pressed to him.
And how horrifying would that be? He
thought of her as his little project and she was getting it on with him in her
head. She swallowed thickly and managed to squeak, "Fine."
He studied her with his
all-encompassing gaze a moment longer. Then he said, "What sort of secrets
do you think she had?"
Camille blinked, discombobulated.
"What?"
"Your gourd artist. What sorts
of secrets does she keep?"
Without thinking, she said, "She
was spurned by a paperboy when she was a teenager and has been harboring a
hatred for anyone tied to journalism ever since. She was planning on killing me
and stuffing me in a gourd."
Dylan shook his head. "Your talents
are wasted. You should be writing fiction."
Just like that, she went on guard.
"I'm a journalist."
"You're a writer," he
insisted. "A good writer, and a good writer can write anything he
wants."
"If I'm good enough to write
anything, why can't it be news? Why are you always trying to get me to change
my focus?" She picked up her wine so she'd have something to do with her
hand, but she didn't try to drink any, afraid she might choke.
"Because your purpose isn't
telling people what's already happened." Impassioned, he turned to bracket
her with his legs. "It's entertaining people with your unique point of
view."
She remembered the harsh red letters
her mother had scrawled on her partial manuscript and felt something in her
wither all over again. "You're wrong."
"I'm not wrong," he said,
his voice low with intent. "I'm an author. I recognize talent."
"Can we talk about something
else?" she asked plaintively, starting to turn away.
"No, we can't." He took her
by the arms so she had to face him. "Didn't you hear yourself as you were
talking about this gourd artist? You took a nugget of reality about her and
spun it into an intriguing character."
"I just told you what I thought
about her."
"You wove her into a compelling
character I want to know more about." Dylan's gaze burned with passion.
"I want to know why she became a gourd artist and what inspires her. I
want to know how she affords the store, and why she decided to open it in
Laurel Heights. I want to know what her secrets are."
Camille blinked. "So you're
saying I should investigate her?"
Dylan sighed, clearly exasperated.
"Of course not. I'm telling you to create her. Make her into whoever you want her to be. Weave her into an
adventure."
She couldn't do that, but she could
find out who the real Gwendolyn Pierce was. Because Camille's usually dormant
journalistic instincts told her that there was more to Gwendolyn's story than
she let on.
It could even be her big break. She'd
joked about money laundering, but what if...?
She had to calm down, she told
herself. It was no good getting worked up for nothing. Most stories turned out
to be duds.
"Aren't you going to say
anything?" he asked.
She looked up at Dylan, surprised to
find his face so close to hers, with his hand cupping her cheek. His thumb caressed
the edge of her mouth.
Her gaze dropped
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