Looking for You (3 page)

She returned to her desk. Not ready
to face the beekeeping article again, she pulled out her cell phone. There was
a text from Dylan, saying he was at Four Barrels in the Mission and that she
should join him for a writing date.

She loved seeing Dylan. He was one of
her best friends—really one of her only friends. They'd met at a book
signing right after she'd graduated. She'd gone because the author was a former
professor of hers and Elizabeth had told her she should go network. Dylan had
gone because he'd been dating the professor.

Dylan was an author, as well. A
bestselling thriller writer. When they'd met, they'd bonded over Stephen King,
mini quiches, and their mutual dislike critics. They'd become friends, getting
together for occasional writing dates and to go to readings. Even when he and
her professor broke up, they kept up their friendship. It was nice.

Only lately he'd been nagging her
more and more about her writing. It made her want to avoid him, and that made
her sad because she liked seeing him. 

She started to text back
Can't—thanks
, but today, the
thought of staying and working made her want to pull out her hair, so she
grabbed her purse and headed to BART.

A Colma-bound BART train pulled up as
she stepped on the platform. She rode it to 16th Street, hopped off, and walked
the few blocks to Dylan's favorite coffeehouse.

Dylan was seated in the window, like
always, laptop open, brow furrowed over his latest manuscript. Sometimes she
teased him that he looked like Hugh Grant, with the way his brown hair flopped
on his forehead, knowing being compared to the pretty actor irritated him.

In reality, Dylan was much more
attractive than Hugh Grant. She knew because she'd met the actor when her
mother had interviewed him a number of years ago.

She headed to him and set her purse
down on the counter. "Hey."

He looked up, smiling in that way
that lit his entire being. "Hey, yourself. You got here fast."

"Anything to get out of the
office."

"Hold that thought." He
slid off the stool and reached into his pocket. "I need another espresso.
Mocha?"

"Please." She watched him
walk to the counter to order their drinks.

The women around them did the same.
She couldn't blame them. Dylan was a catch. A serious rock climber, Dylan was
chiseled all over. Once she'd slept on his couch and in the morning he'd walked
out in nothing but boxers, so she could attest to his hotness firsthand.

But being hot wasn't what made him so
appealing. He had a magnetism that drew people. Well—female people,
anyway. Put a bag over his head and that wouldn't change. He had a way of
looking at a woman like she was the only person who existed in that moment.

Being in his scopes was a heady
thing—except she knew they were just friends. He'd never tried anything
with her. She wasn't sure why—maybe because she was nine years younger.
Or because she wasn't his type. He dated sexy, confident women who ruled the
world.

Camille didn't rule anything.

After she'd gotten over the annoyance
of being defined as a friend, she'd been glad for it. It was better this way.

He came back to their spot, placing
her mocha carefully in front of her.

Taking a sip, she sighed. "I
needed this. Work was getting to me today."

"Work is always getting to
you," he pointed out.

"It was worse today. Mac wants
me to interview a rug weaver and a gourd artist."

Dylan blinked. "Gourd?"

"Exactly."

"Have you tried telling your
boss you'd like to try different assignments?"

"Yes. I asked today. He
basically patted me on the head and told me to behave like a good little
girl." She pouted. "I'm so frustrated. I'm tempted to tell him to
jump off a bridge, but I need this job."

"Why?"

It was her turn to blink in
confusion. "What do you mean, why?"

He shrugged. "Why do you need
it? Take a sabbatical and write a book. You've always wanted to."

Not this again. Her hand tightened on
her cup. "I want to be a journalist."

"No, that's what Elizabeth
wants." He stared at her with the grounded gray gaze she was so familiar
with. "What about the book you started after college, when we first
met?"

"What about it?"

"Maybe you should start working
on that again."

"No." The book had been a
mistake. Just the thought of pulling it out and working on it made her freeze
on the inside.

"Why not? You're not happy at
work, and you're a great storyteller." He nudged her leg with his.
"You know I don't say that to just anyone."

It was true. He was brutally honest
when an aspiring writer asked for his critique.

But her mother didn't agree. Five
years ago, Elizabeth had found the beginning of her manuscript. Camille hadn't
realized until she found the marked up pages on her bed. The pages had bled red
ink. The one comment that stood out was SUPERFICIAL written in bold block
letters across the first page.

She shook her head. "I'm not a
fiction writer. Besides, I have a salary and benefits at the paper."

"I know you don't think so, but
you'd be more successful doing what you're meant to do. Happier too."

That was debatable, and Elizabeth
certainly wouldn't make her life easy if she decided to quit journalism.

"Just think about it,
Camille." Dylan downed his espresso and set the cup aside. "Ready to
write?"

"I didn't bring my laptop or
notebook." To counteract the obvious disappointment in his expression, she
said as brightly as she could, "I just wanted to see you. It's been so
long. How's the book coming?"

"Slowly. My deadline is sneaking
up and I feel like I'm trying to herd cats."

"You always say that. Then you
pull off a miracle and turn in a bestseller. I'd hate you if I didn't love you
so much," she joked.

He didn't smile, instead watching her
in that intent way of his. Normally she ate it up. This time, it made her
squirm. Finally he said, "If you loved me, you'd listen to me and write
more. For yourself, not for the paper. You'd find your true voice."

She withered at the disappointment
she heard in his voice.

She was used to her mother being
frustrated with her. Camille didn't need to spend tens of thousands of dollars
in therapy to know that she was going through all these hoops at work to get
Elizabeth's approval.

But having Dylan disappointed in her
was jarring, and it happened more and more. He seemed like he was losing
patience with her, but she didn't know why.

She'd figure out what to do about it,
though. She'd make him proud. Elizabeth too. She was smart—she'd figure
out how to do the impossible.

"I need to get back to my
chapter." Dylan gestured to his computer.

"I have to get going
anyway." She downed the rest of the mocha and stood up, trying not to feel
hurt at being dismissed. "I have to finish my article."

"Okay, sure. Whatever." He
shrugged.

She wanted to assure him she'd make
it up to him, but actions were stronger than words, and she didn't know how to
act. So she walked out, feeling worse than she had at the office.

"What
are you drawing?" Laurel said as she pulled out a chair and sat down next
to her.

Gwen hadn't
even realized she'd been drawing anything. She'd come in to the Purple
Elephant, the children's art foundation she'd started a couple years ago,
hoping volunteering would get her mind off Rick and the way he'd kissed her.

No such
luck. That kiss dominated her thoughts. She sighed. "Nothing, really. I
was just doodling."

"That's
really good for a doodle."

She studied
her sketch. Apparently, the kiss dominated her drawing too. The couple she'd
drawn was locked in a passionate embrace. It was different than her usual work—more elegant, more
abstract, more passionate. She'd never done anything like it.

Laurel was right. A shiver ran up
Gwen's spine, the way it did when she knew something was
good
. It'd be perfect for the de Young.

Not that she was going to accept the
commission—no matter how much she wanted to.

"I
couldn't draw that if I meant to," Laurel continued.

"That's
not saying much." Gwen tugged the girl's ponytail. "You
did
fail art."

The
teenager rolled her eyes. "Isn't it against some teacher code that you're
not supposed to harass students?"

"I'm
not a teacher, and you come here of your own will." Laurel had come to the
Purple Elephant at the beginning of the summer because she'd failed her eighth
grade art class. Her dad, a creative type, considered it important that she learn
to draw. Laurel couldn't even draw a stick figure.

But the
girl could do anything technological, so Gwen had put the girl to work redesigning
the Purple Elephant's website. It was a win-win for everyone, except Laurel's
father, who still thought his daughter was taking drawing classes. Gwen had
wanted to tell him the truth, but Laurel had begged her not to.

So Gwen
kept her mouth shut. She understood the strain of parental expectations and
needing to live your own life.

Laurel
pursed her lips as she looked at the drawing from another angle. "Are they
having sex?"

"What
do you know about sex?"

"I'm
fourteen," she said, as if that explained it all.

It was
Gwen's turn to roll her eyes. "Have you ever even been kissed?"

"Yes.
Last year." She frowned.

"It
doesn't look like it was a good kiss."

Laurel
looked at her like she'd just exclaimed that she was from Mars. "It was
awesome
. But he doesn't skate, and when
I tried to teach him he fell and scraped his elbows. He hasn't talked to me
since."

Gwen
brushed a lock of hair back from the girl's face. "Then he didn't deserve
you."

"He
really didn't," Laurel agreed matter-of-factly. "But it was just as
well, because we only had two things in common, and everyone knows you need at
least four things in common with someone to make it work."

"I
didn't know that."

"Yeah,
but you're kind of clueless." The teenager wrinkled her nose
apologetically. "I mean, sorry, but you can't deny it. When was the last
time a boy kissed you?"

Last night,
she wanted to brag—and it was awesome, too. Goose bumps rose on her arms,
thinking about it. He was like one of the heroes her author-friend Lola wrote
about in her romance novels. Masterful. Confident. Hot.

She wasn't used to feeling like
this—the aching deep in the pit of her belly and the restlessness. She'd
had crushes, and she'd had a couple boyfriends, but it'd been a long time.
Frankly, it was hard being intimate with someone when you had to hide your
past. Lately, she'd been so focused on establishing Outta My Gourd that she
hadn't thought about dating at all.

Not that she was thinking about dating
Rick. She just wanted to handcuff him to her bed and have her way with him.

Did private investigators have
handcuffs?

"Earth
to Gwen." Laurel knocked her arm. "Has it been
that
long since a boy kissed you?"

"Like
I'm going to tell you."

"Because
it was probably during the eighties."

"I was
a child in the eighties."

"That's
what I'm saying." Laurel shook her head. "Seriously though, you
should date. You're pretty and smart. A guy would totally tap that."

"Thank
you. I think." Why
had
Rick
kissed her? What did the
kiss mean? He didn't like her. At least, she'd never thought he did.

Now she had doubts. You couldn't kiss
a person you didn't like—not like that. She'd felt that kiss all the way
to her toes and back. Not even her bath had been able to relax after Rick's
kiss. She'd gone to bed, agitated and disturbed.

Yearning.

"Only
you have to be careful who you hook up with because you don't want to be
miserable." Laurel's young face looked strained.

Gwen had the
urge to soothe the worry from it. Laurel had mentioned once that her parents
were fighting at home. That sort of thing weighed heavily on everyone in a household,
especially a teenager. Her own parents had never fought, but Gwen understood
strain.

"So you
need to ask the right questions," Laurel said in all her adolescent
wisdom. "Like if he likes opera."

"Opera?"

The girl
nodded. "If you like opera and he doesn't, it'll just make you guys fight.
You'll want him to go with you but he'll say that's three hours of his life
he'll never get back, and then you'll get made and make him sleep on the
couch."

Gwen
blinked. "That's harsh."

"No
kidding."

"I
don't like opera."

"Good."
Laurel nodded in approval. "Make sure he doesn't either."

She tried
to picture Rick at the opera, hunched in a small seat without nearly enough
legroom to accommodate his long legs. But she could picture him in a tux,
eating her up with his darkly intense gaze, secreting her into a dark corner
and kissing her until her toes curled.

She cleared
her throat. "So what else do I need to find out?"

"If
he's a vegetarian, because you'll get pissed if you want to make a steak for
dinner and he just wants spinach."

Gwen made a
face. "Gross."

"I
know, right?"

"But I
don't cook."

"That's
good then, unless he doesn't cook either. Then how will you eat?"

"Take
out?"

"Good
point."

Gwen
laughed. "You've thought about this a lot."

Laurel
shrugged. "I want to be prepared if I ever meet someone."

"Good
decision. Thanks for the advice." Not that she needed it. She planned on staying away from Rick
Clancy. He wasn't interested in
her
—he
wanted to ferret out her secrets. It was in his DNA to need to solve a mystery.
"How long are you going to be here today?"