Written on Her Heart (5 page)

“This Rachel… Is it the same one I interviewed today?”

Andi nodded with a sigh. “Yeah,
that
Rachel. And I happen to be friends with Carma, too.”

“I never would’ve guessed, though I figured you’d know them, considering the size of the town.”

“We do make an unusual trio. We’re pretty different.”

Ford murmured in agreement, then said, “Carma and Rachel were my assistant’s picks. You were mine.”

Andi stilled. She was his choice? Why her? She wanted to ask but couldn’t. She thought back to their conversation in his office. He’d disagreed with her entire outlook on his current dilemma. She would have thought her interview a complete flop.

Her mind churned with the implications of his wanting her for the job until the air grew thin and she struggled to catch her breath.

“Maybe we should go back up.” She turned without waiting for a reply and clomped up the stairs with Ford behind her. Once they were no longer underground, she moved the panel back in place while Ford shuffled about the room, inspecting the old beams and machinery. She watched him in silence, still marveling at the fact that she was his pick for the job.

“This is … Do you know what the others did for their audition?” He glanced back at her, smiling. “Er, I guess I should rephrase that. What your
friends
did?”

She felt the smile on her face before she could stop it. “No, but feel free to elaborate.”

“Rachel took me to the beach, and then the restaurant on the pier. She did the worst job of trying to hide me. Everyone in the restaurant came up to us while we were there.”

“She probably
wanted
everyone to see you together. And I’ll bet she didn’t tell them she was trying to get a job, either. She probably just let everyone think you were on a date.”

“Exactly. It was obvious she only wanted to be seen with me, which was completely the opposite of what I wanted, and while the lake is beautiful, it’s ordinary. What made
that
beach,
that
restaurant unique? Nothing. There was no story.”

Andi nodded and moved closer to him. “And Carma?”

Ford snorted. “She took another approach. Apparently, she thinks her body’s the most interesting attraction in town.”

Andi blanched, her back going stiff.
Carma
? What had gotten into her?

She frowned as she recalled thinking Carma’s reasoning for wanting to leave Callaway Cove didn’t seem to add up. If what Ford said was true and she’d tried to sleep with him to get the job, something major was going on, something Andi knew nothing about…

Ford put his hands up. “Don’t worry. I didn’t take her up on her offer. It wouldn’t be the first one I’ve received and turned down.”

Andi exhaled. She tried to keep her expression placid, but she would have been lying if she said this admission didn’t both disturb and relieve her.

“But you...” He scratched his head and took a step forward. “I knew there was something about you. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. And now, just like in your interview, you’ve surprised me. Creative writing major, dreams of being a novelist. I would’ve thought you’d come into that interview kissing my ass.”

Andi grinned, shaking off her thoughts of Carma. “So did I.”

“But you didn’t. Did you? You argued with me.” He laughed. “You’re different. Unexpected. Both—”

“Things you like.” While Andi gazed at him, she had to force her feet to stay planted where she stood. She wanted to move closer. She felt an inexplicable pull to him, as if he held an invisible string tethered to her somewhere deep inside.

She cleared her throat. “But I didn’t argue. I just disagreed.”

He moved to the edge of a huge, iron roller mill and sat on the corner of the cage. “Tell me about your family?”

“There’s not much to tell, I guess.” She shrugged. “My father is a Callaway. With that comes the mill and the family farmhouse, which has been passed down for generations. He has one sister who lives twenty miles outside of town, but she wasn’t interested in any of it. He, on the other hand, loves everything that comes with the farm and the Callaway name. He wouldn’t have it any other way. And my mother grew up on a local dairy farm, so she was used to the lifestyle. Not being able to go much of anywhere. Being dedicated to work and the land. They met and fell in love in high school. They’ve been together ever since. Got married when they were eighteen in the little Methodist church on the corner of town and had a small gathering at the fire hall. After several years of trying to have a baby, they had me, but quickly discovered I would be their one and only child.”

“So the house, the mill…”

“Will go to me one day, if I want them,” Andi confirmed.

Ford nodded, his forehead buckling. “What about writing, your career? What will you do?”

Andi smiled and moved to a nearby stool. She pulled it over to where Ford rested against a machine and took a seat. “I’m well aware that the family name ends with me. It’s sad, really. Sometimes, I think my mother blames herself. Her body wasn’t equipped to conceive. The fact that they had me was a miracle in and of itself. But despite my being the last Callaway, the one thing about my parents I love is they’re one hundred percent behind me. They support me no matter what I do.”

She paused. “They do okay for themselves, but it’s not like they make all that much. Yet they scrimped and saved to send me to college. Just like they support my decision, if I get this job, to quit school and work for you. They trust my judgment and they see how huge of an opportunity this could be for me. I don’t know what I’ll do with all of this when it comes time.” She waved a hand around her, that familiar pang in her chest at the thought of her family’s legacy ending with her. “Luckily, I won’t have to worry about that for a long time yet.”

“That must be nice, having parents like that.”

“It is. I’m very lucky.” Andi glanced down at her hands. She thought of all the things she had read about Ford in the press. Born to a drug addict, he had no idea who his father was. His mother had taken him in and out of drug houses and whored herself in front of him. Eventually, she’d sold him at the age of seven. He told a teacher and she was reported, which started his series of moves from foster home to foster home. He’d turned to his own criminal behavior as a teen. To him, a life like hers must seem something of fiction.

Ford sighed. “I know what you’re thinking. My past is no secret anymore, and yes, it was very different from your own upbringing.”

Andi had the urge to ask him a million questions, ones she didn’t already know the answers to. She may have known a lot about him, but she was curious to know more. She felt a primal
need
to know more.

“Why did you want to be a writer?” she asked.

“After the death of a friend of mine, I was lost. I didn’t know what I wanted. All I knew was I was sick of the life I had. I no longer wanted to hide in dark corners, dealing to trash like my mother. I was eighteen. I had already done time in the juvenile detention center, several times over. And, already at eighteen, I was just…tired.” His eyes met hers, the moonlight playing shadows on his face. “I was sick of being in and out of homes, tired of running from the police, of nights spent on the streets. In short, I took a trip that changed my life.” He looked out a window. “While I was traveling, I heard something about how, as a form of therapy, they recommend writing things down, and everything I had been holding in for so long was eating me alive, destroying me from the inside out. So, I started writing. But once I started, the truth of everything was too hard.”  He paused. “Then I had an idea. What if I wrote fiction? What if I took my life—everything I went through, the people I met—and changed them slightly? What if I wrote stories? So, I turned the stories into fiction, changing little things.” His eyes went blank, creasing at the corners, while his expression took on a faraway look as he stared past her into the darkness.

She couldn’t imagine what he thought about when he grew silent—the horrors he had experienced in his childhood, no doubt. The urge to reach out and smooth the lines around his eyes plagued Andi until her fingers twitched, and she forced her hands into clenched fists.

When he shifted his gaze to her, the lines smoothed. “Why do you want to write?” he asked.

“I’m afraid my reasons aren’t so inspiring.”

“No reason is a bad one.”

Andi shook her head, wondering how she could explain it to him so he’d understand. She had no past she was running from, no pain to heal.

She shrugged. “It’s who I am. I don’t know how else to explain it, except that when I write something good and my words come to life, it’s like flying. There’s nothing in the world that compares to having your story and the people you create come to life.” Smiling, she added, “When I was a kid, I used to sit in front of my bedroom mirror. I’d imagine myself as someone else, and I’d have conversations with fictional characters. Making up people and stories felt natural. I’ve wanted to be a writer from the moment I read my first book. I don’t know any way to explain it other than to say I just
know
this is what I’m meant to do, and I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“There’s nothing uninspiring in that.”

“I know I’ll be successful. I have to be. There is no other option.”

“The way you are right now, it’s so different from how I was when I started out. I was angry, broken. Wanting to be a writer was driven more by need than actual desire. I was filled with demons that needed a way out. And then I sort of fell into a publishing deal. I feel like the biggest jackass when I say that but it’s true. I happened to be in a city at the right time. They were having a writer’s convention. Since I had been writing so much, I went, curious what it would be all about. I met an agent and the rest is history. But your ambition, your determination … I have those things now because I became that way after time, but it’s something I lacked in those early years. Maybe that’s why I feel drawn to it now. To you. You’re everything I wasn’t back then but wanted to be.”

His eyes met hers. She caught her breath but couldn’t glance away, so she held his gaze and watched him as he spoke. “My writing healed me. Then, when all the stories about me broke and people started coming forward, I felt exposed. After that passed, all I felt was loss. Which brought me here. Well, that and hiding from the press. But I think you working for me would help me.”

He leaned closer to her, his voice softening. “I want to hear all the stories. Little towns like this are full of them. History, lure, legends, love, loss. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes,” she whispered, breathless. Was he saying she had the job? Her pulse leapt, and she swallowed, pushing down the bubble of nervous laughter that threatened to escape.

He reached out and grabbed a lock of her hair, twirling it between his fingers and examining it before his gaze rested on hers once more. The gesture unbalanced her. Clenching the side of the pellet mill beside her, Andi tried to silence the buzzing in her head.

“Can I trust you?” he asked.

“Of course.” She reached a hand out, placing it on his arm, despite the voice in her head screaming at her to stay put. Her skin burned where it touched his and she sensed something dangerous between them. Kinetic. Electric. Like the first rumble of thunder before a storm.

“My situation—the way I feel—it’s ironic. Don’t you think?” he said. “The one thing that always centered me, the one thing that helped me to find myself, to cope—my writing—has somehow made me come undone again. I need to remember why I write. I need to remember why I love it so much. That’s part of the reason I came here. Yes, to hide out and let the press calm down, but I also came here to find a way to write again. To find the joy. You—your enthusiasm, your determination—helps to remind me.”

Her? Andi’s heart thudded in her chest.

He reached out, placing his hand on the side of her face, and before she could stop herself, she leaned into him, covering his hand with her own. She met his eyes and her breathing hitched. Pins pricked her spine and her pulse pounded in her ears. He leaned in and ducked his head, his mouth only inches from hers. The warmth of his sweet breath moved over her lips, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, not thinking, only feeling. But in the second before their lips met, she blinked, the fog in her head clearing, and she pressed a palm to his chest.