You Had Me At Goodbye. Jane Blackwood

thing was I’m the one who told him about the house. I loved it and talked about it like some far-off dream. Maybe someday we’ll own a house like that. I actually said that to him.”

      Larry looked at her grimly. “That’s just about the lowest thing I’ve ever heard of a man doing to a woman. And you say you’re going to have a tough time resisting him?”

      Kat let out a humorless laugh. “You have to know him. I’m sure he feels sick about what he did. Brian’s not an evil person, just weak.”

      “What?” he said in pure disbelief.

      “Okay. He’s evil. And I’m cursed because even though I know he’s a big time jerk and the worst kind of liar, when I saw him…” She let her voice trail off. “I didn’t hate him. I wanted to. I know I should. But I didn’t. That’s what I need you for.” She grinned, and he smiled back.

      “I’ll tell you what. I’ll help you get rid of him in grand fashion if you help me.”

      Kat lowered her eyebrows. “Help you what?”

      “Nothing nefarious if that’s what you’re frowning about. I’m having a bit of trouble with my writing, and well, I could use your assistance.”

      Unless he was doing research on how to screw up your life completely, Kat didn’t think she’d be much help to him. “What’s the trouble?”

      Larry took a deep breath and looked more uncertain than she’d ever seen him. “My agent believes I need to write a book that is more appealing to…” He stopped as if searching for the right word. “Well, appealing to people like you.”

      “Me? You’re going to write a romance?” She laughed aloud.

      He gave her a quick smile. “What I mean is that I have to write a book that appeals to the lower classes.” He stopped and looked at her, gauging her reaction to his inadvertent and horrible insult. Kat knew he hadn’t meant to sound like an ass, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t one.

      “The lower classes,” she repeated slowly.

      “Well, that’s not precisely the way I should have phrased it, but yes. Something that will appeal to the masses.”

      “I see. Something simple. Without all those big words and metaphors.”

      “Precisely,” he said a bit uncertainly.

      “For people like me.”

      “I’ve insulted you.”

      “Garsh, no. I’m just happy to have a smart, classy guy like you talking to one of the lower classes,” she said in her best redneck accent.

      Larry laughed. “You know I meant nothing by that.” He smiled and looked so damned cute and sorry that Kat couldn’t help but try to forgive him. This was a dangerous man. She should be heading out the door or kicking him out, but instead she was standing, smiling at him and thinking he was cute. Must be the accent, those dimples, those deep brown eyes that just sucked you in and made you want to forget he was a bit of a snob. Maybe it was that kiss.

      “I need your help, and you need mine,” he said.

      Kat wrinkled her nose. “True. But what about the house? Who gets it?”

      “I think for the time being, we agree to be roommates.”

      “And here I thought we were so much more,” she said, bringing back his theatrics in front of Brian.

      “I thought I was brilliant.”

      “You were,” Kat said laughing. “But I don’t know if that kiss was really necessary.”

      “I had to make you look like you’d just been up to no good,” he explained, and Kat wasn’t sure she liked that gleam in his eye—especially coming from someone who’d so casually asked her if she’d wanted a summer fling.

      Chapter 4

      They walked silently, side by side, with the Atlantic Ocean to their right and Victorian water-view cottages to their left. Any brief sense of camaraderie that they’d had in the cottage was gone, and they were strangers thrown together with nothing in common but the awkward silence they were sharing. Kat put her attention on the houses they passed, mostly ornate Victorians with front porches, tower rooms, and gingerbread trim. The houses had been built at the turn of the century as summer cottages for New England Methodists who camped annually in the summer there. While the Methodists were long gone, many of the homes were still used only as summer homes or had been transformed into inns or bed and breakfasts like Roy had done.

      Kat looked to see if Roy was on his porch and had a sudden pang of sadness for Carl, who’d wander over to Roy’s at martini time, sometimes with Lila and sometimes without. “I bet Roy misses Carl,” she said wistfully.

      “I know he does. He’s talked about him often,” Larry said, looking over to his bed and breakfast. “I like Roy. He’s the only American I’ve met who actually read one of my books.”

      “Ah, so he obviously makes the cut.”

      “Absolutely,” he said without a hint of irony.

      “Did he like your book?”

      Larry looked out at the beach where several families were digging in the sand or splashing in the mild surf.

      “He didn’t?”

      “He didn’t actually dislike it. He just felt it was lacking something.”

      “What?” Kat asked.

      “Soul. He said my book lacked soul. He must have read The New York Times review because that is precisely what that reviewer said when he tore it to shreds.”

      He’d said it lightly, but Kat had a feeling both the Times review and Roy’s criticism didn’t sit very well. “Not everyone can like everything. I’m sure someone liked it.”

      “I’m beginning to wonder.” He stopped, braced both hands on the pitted, green-painted railing that separated the boardwalk from a steep drop to the beach, and looked out at the sea.

      “Are you having a pity party?” Kat asked with a grin.

      “A what?”

      “Are you feeling sorry for yourself?”

      He looked at her and gave her the oddest smile that, for some reason, made her breath catch in her throat.

      “Actually, yes, I am. I’ve been lamenting my inability to write, but I’m beginning to fear that even if I could write, I’d end up writing…” he floundered.

      “Something without a soul?” Kat offered.

      “Yes,” he said grimly. “Precisely.”

      “Maybe you need to suffer more. You’ve lived a privileged life, right?” He nodded. “So you need to suffer, to live.”

      “I’ve suffered enough, thank you.”

      Kat let out a snort. “Let’s go find something fun and middle class to do. You’re bringing me down.”

      Kat loved Oak Bluffs. Although Martha’s Vineyard was a relatively small island, its small towns were decidedly different. Edgartown was posh, trendy, and touristy. Chilmark, with its green rolling hills and isolated beaches, was quiet and rural; Vineyard Haven, quaint; and Oak Bluffs, fun and a bit rough around the edges. Oak Bluffs, one of two towns on the island that served alcohol, teemed with activity in the summer months, thanks mostly to nonstop ferries that dumped boatload after boatload of day trippers onto its shores. It was one of the few places on the island where a family could eat for under thirty bucks. But its most well-known characteristic was the tiny gingerbread cottages that spread out in a labyrinth of narrow streets, placed side by side and painted fairy tale colors like pink and bright yellow.

      The center of town was tacky and loud and