Chapter Five

Being a fiction author is a novel profession, pun intended.

Prep work for tomorrow's opening was nearly finished when the bell at the door chimed, letting Eva know someone had entered the shop. Wiping her hands on her black apron, she approached the counter with a quick glance at the clock: 8:40, nearly closing time. Steady business had ensured she hadn't had time to pull out her laptop and write, but the last stragglers, a chatty group of three young moms who were enjoying a reprieve from toddler duty, had just left for their respective homes and families.

"Hello! Welcome to A Latte of Coffee," she singsonged, expecting a local needing a decaf java before bed or a shift worker picking up a final jolt of caffeine. The remainder of her greeting got stuck in her throat when a stranger quietly closed the door behind himself.

Guppy-like, she opened her mouth and then closed it, foolishly rendered speechless by the man she quickly determined would forever be known as Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome. Book Boyfriend flashed through her mind, and Eva felt her own face heat up at the scenes she could write with such a muse.

Strolling toward the counter, removing his sunglasses that couldn't possibly be needed as the sun had finished it descent earlier, but still looking as if he'd just stepped off the cover of GQ magazine, with his short, dark military haircut (how was his part so sharp?), pressed black pants with a few creases marring their elegance, and the sleeves of a herringbone white dress shirt rolled up as if he were trying to unsuccessfully play casual. All of this ended with, as her grandmother would say, "a jawline so sharp you could cut glass with it."

Eva's voice returned, and she managed to croak out, "Did you need directions back to the turnpike?" Damn, but Joanne was going to be sorry she'd missed this guy. Even if his being here was a mistake, who didn't appreciate a little eye candy? Obviously, though, this stranger couldn't mean to be here. Here was nowhere, and this gorgeous male specimen clearly belonged somewhere.

He let out a low rumble of a laugh, showing off, of course, perfect teeth. Eva tensed for a second; something was off. Although his laugh sounded genuine, she noticed it didn't actually reach his dark eyes, and it sounded practiced to her. A practiced laugh she could understand; after all, she worked customer service. "No, I'm looking to get a cup of coffee."

They stood silently for a moment, and he raised an eyebrow questioningly. "I can get coffee here, right?" As if getting an actual coffee from an actual coffee shop might be an impossibility.

Dear Lord, she was acting like she'd never seen a man before.

"Oh, yeah, of course. Yes, absolutely," Eva repeated. Shut up, she demanded of herself. "Our specialty today is a ‘You Mocha Me Crazy' light roast-mocha blend, and any size hot or cold for four dollars. Can I mix one up for you?"

This drew another raised eyebrow.

He has blue eyes, Eva noted. Not pale blue or sky blue. But holy moly, how were his eyes so dark? So deep, so dark blue they looked nearly black with barely a hint of difference in his irises. They were the eyes that writers dreamed up, eyes that a woman could get lost in. He would definitely appear in her next book! A mysterious man stopping by a small-town coffee shop? Thoughts flew even as she reminded herself that she was deep into a "Vamp of Hollywood" book, and there was no place for this man. Or was there? Scrunching up her fingers, she reined them in from searching out a pen to immediately take notes on the specimen before her. Stop. Stop noticing his eyes!

"How about a black coffee in the darkest roast you have?"

Eva nodded, letting out a genuine smile. "Perfect choice, our Déjà Brew. Regular or decaf?"

"Definitely regular."

Finally, muscle memory kicked in, and Eva managed to ring up his order and accept his cash before inviting him to have a seat while she brewed him up a fresh cup. After dropping a generous tip in the tip jar, he strolled around the shop, examining the locally made candles and jams for sale before pausing briefly at the bookshelves and lightly running a finger along the display of A. Scriver books. She immediately averted her eyes when he glanced in her direction before he settled down at a table for two, moving the chair sideways so that he settled firmly against the wall with her in sight, as well as the front door and the front windows.

Military, she decided. Her best friend Jackson had served two deployments in Afghanistan and now always took a position against a wall with eyes on everything. And he didn"t always laugh fully or genuinely either, Eva reflected, her heart filling with sympathy for both men. It wasn't an easy life.

"You're brew-ti-ful," she whispered to the dark coffee filled within a fraction of an inch of the rim. Her eyes shot to the man as she thought she heard a snort, but his blank face was fixated on his phone. He couldn't have heard me, could he? How embarrassing if he had. But embarrassment didn't stop her from rounding the counter to deliver the tall, steaming mug to the tall, steaming . . .

Stepping carefully from habit over the wooden floorboard that creaked with age and then with just as much care not to block his view, knowing that even small things could trigger a former soldier"s unwanted memory, Eva settled the coffee down in front of him. "Enjoy your Déjà Brew."

Before she could back off, he firmly grasped her wrist to stop her from leaving, his fingers lingering briefly on her bluish veins. A sudden flare of static electricity flicked through her at the casual touch, causing her to start but not move away from the warmth.

Tilting his head toward the predominantly vampire book display, he casually asked, "Have you read the series?"

Eva felt more than just off-handed interest in the display even though he'd spent less time examining it than he had Lois Carter's strawberry-rhubarb jam display. Her grandmother had taught her much after her parents' death, and being too casual usually meant exactly the opposite. Another lesson had been to always trust your instincts. And those instincts were currently flashing some pretty crazy lights in her brain.

To anyone else, the dark-haired, blue-eyed stranger's question might have appeared to be a weak attempt at starting a conversation with a cute barista. Eva knew she was cute, maybe not gorgeous enough to remember for days, but cute enough for a casual night of fun. But his question, combined with his touch, had red alarms screaming and flashing in her brain. Folks just didn't stop halfway between Toledo and Cleveland in a small town to make idle chit-chat about novels—particularly her novels.

She pulled her hand back, stepping away to put space between them. "I've not read them," she said suspiciously, which wasn't really a lie. She was doubtful that he had either. He didn't quite fit her target demographic. If someone was out on a fact-finding mission, sending Mr. Tall-Dark-and-

Sticks-Out-with-Nordstrom-Clothes to this small town wasn't very clever of them.

"That's too bad. They're quite good. A friend of mine is a huge fan." Picking up the coffee, he drew in a sip, still pretending to make idle conversation.

Seriously, did he think he was that good of an actor?

"I'll have to give them a go sometime," Eva lied. Her palms were growing damp, and she struggled to keep a casual, interested tone. "We close at nine, so if you've not finished up by then, let me know, and I'll get you a to-go cup."

She normally let customers linger as long as needed while she closed. The local clientele knew when closing time happened, and unless they were a group of moms on a rare night out, they didn't tend to lose track of time. But those alarms blaring in her head weren't shutting off, and it seemed best to get him on his way sooner rather than encourage him to linger.

Leaning back as if realizing his presence crowded her, he smoothly introduced himself and continued the conversation as if she weren't actively fleeing back to the safety of the counter.

"I'm Oliver Patrick. I'm looking for an old friend of my mom's. Mom passed away recently, and I wanted to get in touch with her friend, but all I have is this town's name, a PO box, and her name."

His voice flowed over her like silk, smoothly caressing her skin and gently beckoning her to sit down, relax, and help him find his late mother's friend.

Eva's lie detector continued ringing, but now curiosity also took hold. How far would he go in his lies?

"I'm sorry for your loss." Fighting the urge to move closer again, she murmured the platitudes from habit. "It's a small town, I'm sure I would know your mom's friend. Who are ya looking for?"

"Josephine Nance. Her friends call her Posy."

Eyes narrowing in shock, Eva jolted back farther, unable to hide her reaction.

Oliver leaned forward in his chair, clearly eager to hear what she had to say.

Pursuing her lips angrily, pissed, knowing that she couldn't hide that she did, in fact, know Josephine, she bit out, "When did your mama last talk to Ms. Posy? Or did they write?"

"Oh, they only wrote, as far as I can tell. I couldn't find any phone number in Mom's contact lists, just the PO box. Maybe Mom had the number memorized? Just a few days ago, a letter was forwarded from her to my mom. I wanted to come by myself and tell her the terrible news. It seemed wrong just to send a letter with such tragic news. Even though I didn't know her, they seemed quite close." The lies were rolling off him now.

"Right," Eva drawled out and attempted to casually dry her sweaty hands down her apron. "Well, sir—"

"Please call me Oliver," he interrupted smoothly. If Eva wasn't mistaken, he attempted to turn up his charm a whole other notch, smoothing down his shirt and sending a smoldering look up at her.

"Well, Oh-liver, I'm afraid you came all this way for nothing. Josephine Nance is my—was my—grandmother, and she's been dead for . . ." Now feeling annoyance and anger more than fear, Eva allowed an exaggerated thinking expression to cover her face, then slowly nodded, bouncing a few tendrils that had once again escaped her hair tie. "For yes, just over ten years now. So I'm going to assume and please don't tell me about assuming, I'm going to assume you've made some big mistake, and you're in the wrong town, the wrong state, the wrong . . ."

In the blink of an eye or maybe even less than a blink, he appeared immediately in front of her despite the table and several feet that separated them. "Lock the door, and turn the Closed sign." His voice deepened.

Eva could hear a faint vibration in the command and, for a moment, she half turned toward the door. Yet her mind hesitated. Did his eyes just flare red?

Anger and annoyance raged through her, smiting any bit of fear that remained. She stopped abruptly, as if she hadn't been about to turn around and do just as he'd ordered. "Sir, it's time for you to leave. If you would like to be truthful about why you're looking for my gram—my gram, who has been dead for over ten years, I'll remind you—maybe then we can talk. But right now, you need to move on out of here. It's closing time."

The shock on his face surely reflected hers. Damn, Gram had always told her that her temper would be the death of her. And this could be it.

But instead of murdering her like she feared, he let out a low laugh, this time genuine. Then he said in a low voice. "Little rabbit, you are a conundrum. Brave words, but I can hear your heart beating. And a woman's heart only beats that fast for two reasons." Without losing eye contact, he took a step closer. "I'll see you soon."

For some unexplained reason, Eva's mouth wouldn't stop spewing words. "Fur goodness sake, maybe you're just hopping mad, but you need to head back to your own bunny burrow." Crossing her arms, she gave a pointed look at the door, no longer in any mood to give him his coffee to go or to imagine what it would feel like to have those arms wrapped around her while his lips peppered hers. Seriously, what was wrong with her? She could easily admit that it had been a while, but seriously, this guy? Despite his good looks and Adonis-like body, he clearly lied for a living. What was up with moving that fast? Eva wasn't prepared to even dwell on that little oddity until much later and preferably after she'd made it safely home and locked all the doors.

Thankfully, but not without a small smile—assuredly a sexy, genuine small smile—Oliver continued moving forward right toward the door, flipped the Open sign to Closed, then before leaving, ordered, "Eva, lock up."

Letting out a deep breath, Eva sprinted to the door and clicked the lock as soon as it closed. Aware that the store lit up around her, making her visible to anyone outside looking in, she flipped the lights off before catching a breath to consider why on earth anyone would be looking for her grandmother. And how the hell did he know her name?

Gram Posy had brought Eva to live with her the year she turned twelve. The year a car accident had taken Eva's parents, the same accident that had caused Eva to spend her twelfth birthday in a hospital intensive care unit as well as the week before and ten days after said birthday with no reason or ability to celebrate.

All the doctors and nurses reminded Eva constantly of the miracle of her survival, the miracle that had brought her out of the coma. How lucky she was to be alive. But young Eva certainly didn't feel like a miracle or lucky. She felt like a little girl who had lost everyone and everything. And she had, and so had Gram, but they still had each other, and together, they would heal over the years.

Eva couldn't remember a time Gram hadn't been in her life. Of course, there was the year and a half when she was a baby before her mom met her dad, but she couldn't remember that time. For as long as she could remember, her adoptive father and his mother had been a part of her life. At least they had been, until the rainy night when the family car skidded out of control, hurling down an embankment and ending with only one member of their small family of three surviving. In an instant, Mom and Dad were gone, and life as Eva knew it up-heaved.

She had no memories of the accident and only vague memories of the day, flashes of riding in the back seat to the movie theater to see a movie she didn't remember. A splatter of fat, thick raindrops peppered the front windshield, not enough to even turn the wipers on, and the rays of the setting sun broke through the storm clouds that were rolling around.

"Turn this song up," were the last words she remembered uttering, but Eva couldn't remember if the words were before or after the movie.

She woke up in the hospital days later, bandaged head to toe, with an IV poking in one arm and a blaring monitor; she remembered nothing before that moment. Later, Gram told her they'd made it to the movies and were returning home after a torrential shower. Blackened skid marks on the road showed how the car had spun out of control at least twice before it careened off the road and down the embankment, crushing the edge of the guard rail as it hurtled through. Her parents were still strapped in their seat belts, lost at impact, Gram had quietly told Eva when she pressed for details. Eva herself was found just off the edge of the rural highway at the top of the embankment, a battered mess whose survival, let alone recovery, was deemed a miracle.

Gram was a witch, loud and proud, always saying the ditty with a giggle. Eva wasn't, and Eva's father wasn't. Gram had explained that men didn't inherit the power in her family line. And, of course, Eva couldn't inherit from what she hadn't been born to. She could learn a few things, but there would be no real power display because Eva didn't have a connection to the elements. Gram explained it all matter-of-factly, as if explaining why Eva had brown eyes and she had blue. They could both see, but that didn't change the color.

With a lower tone hinting at a secret, Gram told Eva that she had her own power to claim someday, when the time was right. Until that day, Eva was destined to follow Gram around the little house that had been in Gram's family for generations. Someday, it would be hers, Gram promised as they puttered through the garden, nurturing the plants and uttering incantations that Gram assured her would protect Eva as long as she remained within its boundaries. It crossed Eva's mind that such things hadn't protected her parents, but she never dared utter those thoughts aloud. Maybe her parents had been too far away from home for protection, or maybe there were no such protections. So she said the words, planted the herbs, and faithfully wore the black jade stone Gram pressed upon her, but it was all an act for her. As time passed, she believed less and less in Gram's supposed abilities and the possibility of magic and witchcraft around them.

The sad little girl eventually grew into a young woman whose broken heart and family appeared healed. But as Gram liked to remind her, once something was broken, no repair could ever make it as it was before. And that was okay. She could never be the girl she was before the accident, nor could Gram be the mother, grandmother, or witch she was before. But together, they tried; stronger in some spots, weaker in others, and even scarred in a few.

Just before her nineteenth birthday, Eva came home from her community college class late in the evening excited to share with Gram the discussion she'd shared after class with a few classmates. Since her best friend had joined the military, Gram had become her constant confidant. The darkened house immediately alerted Eva that something had happened; Gram always left a light or two on for Eva even if she'd gone to bed.

Eva ran through the house searching for Gram, and then started her search outside. A low sound brought her to the old woman's side as she lay half-hidden in the shadows under an overgrown mint bush, clutching a recently dug ginger root to her chest.

Wrapping her arms around her beloved grandmother, Eva begged her to stay as she shakily pushed the numbers in her cell phone for help.

Gram had held on long enough to see her beloved only grandchild one last time. "I've so much I should have told you, taught you," she rasped, drawing in each breath slowly, painfully. "I thought I had more time to tell you everything."

"No, Gram, you still have time to teach me." Eva pushed and willed her grandmother's strength to not fade as the shadows grew closer around them. The scents of lavender, sage, and mint enveloped them, caressing the two as they clung to each other.

"The house will protect you. I've made it so," Gram whispered. "Stay close to the house and you'll stay safe. I love you, dear child, and always remember you're good, no matter what anyone says or how they might try to convince you otherwise. You're good, you are goodness."

And that was it. As the emergency vehicle sirens grew closer and closer, Gram faded. And by the time help arrived, Gram was gone, and Eva was inconsolable. Again her everything was gone.

But Eva stayed at the little Firelands house Gram claimed was made safe just for her. And no matter how much she wanted to leave or planned to leave, those plans never seemed to come to fruition. Certainly, a therapist would have much to say about the matter, but Eva refused to return to therapy and continued onward. At some point, the black jade that Gram always claimed kept her safe and the bits and pieces Gram had strategically placed around the home—black tourmaline, labradorite, moonstones, and others—went into a small dish in the living room. Eva continued taking random classes that piqued her interest, working at the coffee shop, and eventually stumbled upon writing.

Tonight, after a breathless bike ride home and constantly whipping her head around to check the shadows for hidden dangers, she regretted for the first time the lack of streetlights on the dead-end street leading to her not-quite-secluded home. Built on the end of the lane, the street petered off into a curb just past her drive, and then grass and overgrown bushes followed, hiding from view the vacant land beyond. Her nearest neighbor was hidden by a tree line that seemed to not only block the view but also the sound. An old, weather-worn sidewalk framed the front of her home, but time and nature had buried it between the neighbor"s house and her own for several yards before it reemerged over the property line to lead the way across their front yard. They each assumed it lay buried beneath dirt and grass, but neither household was bothered enough to unearth it. The quiet dead-end road, just as easily used and mostly well-maintained by the township, meant that the buried sidewalk could remain unused and obsolete.

When Eva crossed the threshold of her home, the house welcomed her and wrapped her in a cocoon. She felt it settle down around her and, for a brief moment, she imagined she felt the wards her gram had always insisted were present after one of her strange rituals. Now that she stood safely in her home, she let out a soft, fearful giggle, cursing her out-of-control imagination. Today had been quite a day! But she couldn't deny how good it felt to be home,

"Home sweet home," Eva said to the silent house. Tossing her bag of things, as well as her keys, on the sofa, she basked in the comfort of home.

Safety. Security. Peace. Perhaps Gram hadn't been wrong about the early nineteenth-century home. Maybe her ancestors had imbued protective magic in its old bones. Or perhaps the series of events today were just a by-product of her own overly active imagination. Her mood was most likely due to her mind playing tricks on her. She'd been so wrapped up in her writing that maybe the fictional paranormal world was leaking into the real world when her mind didn't shut off. It definitely wouldn't be the first time her imagination had thrown her into chaos.

Of course, in the safety of the house, things started to seem silly. Apollo had found a sick-looking squirrel or some other creature on the walk today, and suddenly, her mind had replaced it with moving shadows.

And maybe this Oliver was, in fact, simply looking for a woman who had befriended his mother, but the passage of time had muddled things. Maybe he assumed an old letter was much newer or the mail hadn't been forwarded correctly for ten years. He'd never actually threatened her; he'd ordered a coffee and tipped well while asking his questions. Would someone who was planning something nefarious leave a cupful of DNA behind on a coffee table? Only a total idiot would do that; and his pricey shoes didn't give him the appearance of an idiot. Maybe she'd misheard his tone when he asked her to close up. Sometimes lights reflected weirdly in people's eyes; maybe it was worth bringing up at her next eye exam that she was seeing flashes of red.

Or maybe she was being a complete idiot by writing off someone who apparently knew her name, her gram's name, and who asked questions about the books she'd successfully kept the world from knowing for ten years that she'd written.