Writing Mr. Right Read online

  They met shortly after his first marriage ended – a marriage as loveless as could be. He’d showered her with affection and assurances of his love, proclaimed his desire to father her children, something Georgia had always wanted with a hint more desperation than she wanted anyone to know. And Georgia fell, hook, line, and sinker. There was another rather telling detail of his character that made him irresistible.

  See, Walter Timlin was what Georgia came to refer to as a ‘fake Scot.’ He owned a kilt and often wore it out drinking with his friends, claiming he liked the attention it drew. He often faked a Scottish accent while having a few drinks for the same reason. Along with these particular details, he was a dark haired, barrel chested Virgo with the sex drive of an Arabian Stallion, when he wasn’t commenting on her weight.

  Georgia remembered Nana’s comment often – ‘You’ve already met him.’

  That fake Scot tricked her Nan into thinking Georgia already found her love. At least she passed away before discovering how wrong they’d both been. The fates had nothing to do with Walter Timlin.

  Yet he’d fooled them all. Why? Because as everyone in Georgia’s life knew, since her first visit as a little girl, Georgia was in love with Scotland. When she sat down to write her wishes on the New Moon each month, the most important wish was always for love, followed immediately by living in Scotland. When she wrote this same wish around Nan, Nan demanded she combine the two. Georgia obliged, writing ‘I marry a man in a kilt.’ When a man in a kilt named Walter Timlin appeared and began showering her with affection, there wasn’t a single person in her life that didn’t believe he was the one.

  But he wasn’t the one. He wasn’t even a fraction of the one.

  Yet, despite his complete failings as a human being, he’d done one great thing for Georgia.

  Enter Douglas MacCready. Douglas was the perfect man. He was tall, dark haired, hilarious and kind, honest and courageous. He was a green eyed pirate who loved a strong woman and loved tossing her around the bedroom with painstaking regularity. He was also born of the Highlands of Scotland, and was known to wear a kilt from time to time.

  The being Scottish wasn’t what made him perfect, nor the green eyes or the dark hair. Those pieces were just details that had been as much Georgia’s control as the Earth orbiting the Sun. Still, once she’d written them, they became such integral parts of the character, and she found herself fixated on those details – and on Douglas MacCready.

  The only problem was that Douglas MacCready was one hundred percent fictional. Georgia had written him herself, and he was now the focus of several thousand readers’ affections as well. He really was a spectacular specimen of man.

  And he didn’t exist.

  Yet, when Georgia was in the middle of mourning her Nan, of mending her heart after Walter Timlin shattered it, she escaped in the act of writing her novel, and in thoughts of Douglas MacCready.

  She was midway through writing the book when Nana passed, and in the weeks leading up to Walter’s betrayal, she found that strange gift of hers rearing its ugly, fickle head. First there were little things; the way Walter tucked her hair behind her ear one day, exactly as she’d written it the night before, or the way he spoke of the sea when he sprung the news that he was going to buy a boat – direct quotes from her yet to be finished manuscript. By the time he broke her heart, he’d recited parts of her novel as though he’d learned it for a stage play.

  Yet, one of the many red flags Georgia overlooked when they were together was that despite his claiming to be madly in love with a writer, Walter never once read a single page of her writing. Not a single word.

  Now, he was staring at her from her iPad screen, married to a woman exactly like his first wife in every way save for her hair color – the very woman he broke her heart to pursue.

  Georgia’s phone was ringing. She woke in a strange daze of memory. She wasn’t distressed, but her chest was still tight. Then she remembered, and the pain rolled in anew. She rolled onto her side, snatching up the cell – it was Cassie.

  “I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Well, cut it out. They’re going to call around five, your time.”

  “I know. Don’t I have hours?”

  “Um, no. It’s 4:40 PM there, isn’t it?”

  Georgia glanced at the small alarm clock on her nightstand. It was indeed. She’d slept all day. She was still exhausted.

  “God, I don’t want to talk to fucking anyone right now.”

  Cassie gave a sympathetic whine. “I told you not to go on Facebook.”

  Cassie had been Georgia’s assistant for less than a year, but she knew her damn well.

  “God, why did that asshole have to post so many pictures? You were doing so freakin well! How are you holding up?”

  Georgia took a deep breath and sat up. “I’m alright.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah.”

  Cassie listened a moment as Georgia shuffled into the bathroom and fearlessly peed with Cassie still on the phone.

  “If it makes you feel any better, there was literally only one picture of the bride and groom together,” Cassie said, stumbling for consolation.

  “Nope, can’t say it makes me feel better.”

  “Well, I mean – that means that even on their wedding day, his bride was more interested in being near her bridesmaids than her groom. I mean – exactly what you said, right? Back when? About his choosing women that don’t -”

  “Cassie, can we not talk about it?”

  “Oh god! Of course. Of course! I’m sorry. Just thought you might want to vent, or something. You know? I mean, I’m worried it really upset you.”

  Georgia took a deep breath. “It did.”

  It had. She’d seen the picture of him, and it was the only attractive photograph she’d seen of the man that broke her heart in well over a year. Still, seeing the pictures didn’t break her heart or make her long for the man she’d once thought so well of. It made her angry at the gods.

  The true crime of Walter Timlin wasn’t that he’d broken her heart, or that he’d waited until the day her beloved Grandmother died to break the news that he’d ‘never loved her.’ No, Walter’s greatest crime was something far more sinister.

  He’d taken her faith – in love, in magic, in destiny. He’d taken her belief that there was someone out there for her, waiting to love her with the same unbridled passion she offered in return. Given that Georgia was a romance novelist, that was a pretty awful crime to commit.

  “Well, lay it on me. I’m here for you. I’m happy to remind you of what a shitty human being he is -”

  Georgia chuckled. “Surprisingly, I don’t need a reminder of that, thank you.”

  “Well, I’ll do it nonetheless. He’s a scum bag. He’s a soulless cu -”

  “Honestly, Cass. I don’t need that. I’m not upset he married her. They can have each other, they deserve each other.”

  Cassie paused. “Then what’s wrong?”

  Georgia slumped back down on the edge of the bed, her head down, the phone tucked under her wild tangle of dark red curls. She exhaled. “I’m heartbroken. I’m upset that he’s married.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That he’s married. That someone who is that soulless and terrible gets to have all the things I want, and I don’t even have the memory of ever really being loved.”

  Georgia’s words broke off as she heard them from her own lips.

  “Oh Gigi -”

  “Why does a man that awful get to have the Happy Ending, and I’m sitting in a hotel room alone, again?”

  Cassie paused as Georgia’s face contorted, twisting in a rampant ache of hopelessness. She knew this feeling well. She felt it more often than she’d ever admit. Georgia hoped Cassie couldn’t hear her weeping.

  “For what it’s worth, he doesn’t have what you want.”

  Georgia forced a laugh, and it was the snottiest, most patheti
c noise a person could make. “How do you figure?”

  Cassie sighed. “Well, we know one half of that marriage is him. That alone tells you of its depth.”

  “A pot for every lid -”

  “And he isn’t in a single picture, Gigi. If you were getting married, would there be a single photograph where you weren’t fawning all over your honey pie?”

  Georgia sniffled, loudly. “No.”

  “Exactly. He got what he deserves. The universe keeps a balance, sweetheart. Give it time. You’ll have something far better than he could ever have. You should write it. Do you have a pen? Write it down, ‘I am Mrs. MacCready.’ Then, bam. Bound to come true.”

  Georgia laughed again, and it was only a little less pathetic. “Yeah, that’s part of the problem. I thought Walter was Mr. MacCready.”

  The tears started up again. She tried to swallow the feeling as her phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced at it to find an unknown British number phoning in – the interview. Shit!

  Georgia put the phone back to her ear just in time to hear Cassie speak.

  “We both know he wasn’t Douglas, because Douglas would never let you go. Never. And he wasn’t a spanker, am I right?”

  Georgia snorted. Cassie had a naïve way of saying the right thing, it seemed. “Yeah, if he were real. Hey, my phone is buzzing -”

  “Shit, you sure you’re ready?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll call you later.”

  “You better. I love you, hon. Don’t let this get to you.”

  Georgia nodded, ended the call, and took up the second one, sitting up a little straighter as she said ‘hello.’

  “Miss Mason? Is this a good time for you to talk? We’d love to ask you a few questions?”

  ***

  “He took her hand, squeezing it tentatively as he led her to the dining room table. The leavings of their dinner still strewn across it, Douglas wasted no time swiping it aside to lay her on the flat surface, helpless before him. Deirdre braced against him, kicking her heel into his thigh to hold him at bay. He gave her a dark smile, spun her around, and threw up her skirts before she could protest, walloped her backside so soundly, it echoed off the walls –“

  The woman had to be in her seventies if she was a day, and she read with such fervor and passion that Georgia felt almost voyeuristic to watch her. Still, it was clear that Mary wanted to relish each word, letting everyone hear her recite her favorite part of Woman in White for all the other readers to agree.

  “The sting of his hand slapping across her backside drew such a cry, the men in the nearby tents roused in confusion.”

  The crowd cheered for her rendition, fawning in agreement. A few of them even clapped as Mary finished her recitation and shot Georgia a wide, satisfied grin.

  “If that doesn’t do it for ye, ye must be dead!”

  Georgia chuckled, holding out her hand to receive the copies of her books. The Seafarer was crisp and brand new. Woman In White was dog-eared and clearly well loved.

  “I’ve read that near to a dozen times, love. You’ve a wonderful gift.”

  Georgia exhaled, smiling. “Thank you so much, Mary. You’re too kind.”

  Mary snatched up both her newly signed copies and glanced inside the cover. Georgia signed it, ‘I should have you do the audiobooks.’

  Mary fawned over the page a moment, then leaned in, putting a hand to her lips in conspiracy. “Tisn’t even my favorite part.”

  Then she winked and was on her way. Georgia waved after her and took the book from the next reader in line, giving a wide smile and a quick chat.

  “You’ve got yerself some wild fans, ye do.”

  Georgia nodded at the middle aged woman with stick straight straw colored hair, bundled in the puffiest green coat she’d ever seen.

  “Believe me, that was nothing compared to some of my American readers.”

  The woman’s eyes went wide as Georgia signed this copy of The Seafarer to Martha.

  It was true; a quick recitation was nothing compared to some of the awkward individuals who wanted to inform her of the various sex acts they’d performed, and of how perfectly it would fit in her next Douglas MacCready novel.

  “How’d ye come up with such a lad, anyway?”

  She flexed her fingers, trying to ease a writer’s cramp and mulled over this question a moment. “Honestly, he just appeared.”

  Martha’s brow furrowed. “Really? How is that?”

  Georgia shrugged. “I don’t know. I saw Deirdre wash up along the shoreline, saw her stumbling over the rocks, and when she looked up, he was just there. Like I’d looked up myself.”

  “And he was just standing there in yer mind, like?”

  “He was. Green-eyed monster of a man.”

  Martha tittered at this, taking her newly signed book and pressing it to her poofy jacketed chest. “Thank you. I can’t wait to read this one!”

  The day went as any other. She would sit at her table in the bookstore, smile and greet each person in line, ask their name, and sign away. Even in Scotland, there were patterns to the type of people she would encounter at such signings; the devoted reader, who would gush with appreciation; the disinterested ebayer, who would have her sign a dozen books; the critic, who would comment on writing style, content, character, or delve into the aforementioned examples from their own sex lives; and the writers, who would often attempt to offer her a copy of their own manuscript. In America, such people would be directed to her assistant, Cassie, but being on her own, such bundles would be collected by the bookstore manager.

  Manager Craig assured her that such a thing would never happen in his Edinburgh shop. Only halfway through the day and he was now the proud guardian of two such bundles, and he didn’t seem too pleased with the job.

  His displeasure was more than likely amplified by the signing running over by two hours.

  That’s what you get for waiting until two to start, she thought.

  The shop shut its doors at five, Georgia continued to sign until seven thirty, and Craig was standing outside the bookshop door fumbling with the keys by eight.

  “Never seen the likes of that in the shop. You’d think you were Rowling or somat.”

  Georgia chuckled. “It just started happening a few weeks ago. Not sure what did it.”

  Burgess assured her it was a magical potion of luck, sex, New York Times Lists, and word of mouth. Burgess was her editor, and though she wasn’t sure what to blame her sudden burgeoning success on, her Woman in White books were suddenly taking off with such fervor, she’d barely the time to catch her breath.

  Georgia glanced around the street, catching the eye of a few nervous ladies from the signing all huddled in small groups on nearby sidewalks, still clutching their books. Georgia wriggled down into her jacket and made her way across the cobblestone street.

  “Well ladies, I’d ask you all to show me to the best pub, but I’ve an early train in the morning. You do have a good night, alright?”

  The women burst into happy chatter, offering her the same as she waved and made her way down a steep cobblestone street, heading toward New Town.

  Edinburgh wasn’t a city she was wholly familiar with. She’d visited as a child with her family, clamoring through old castles with her sister Samantha constantly on her heels.

  It wasn’t the best family trip.

  Still, she had a pocket map and a good memory of the cab ride over. She passed a couple pubs, bustling with noise and banter, then came into view of the gardens. Prince’s Street Gardens? Princess Street Gardens? Which was it? No matter. She knew it had once been a cesspool, and that was enough for her. She’d add that historical detail to her next Woman in White novel.

  Georgia’s pocket began to buzz.

  “Hey Sam.”

  “You’re all set. Locking up the storage unit now.”

  Georgia stopped on the sidewalk, her bare legs cold against the Scottish winter. She pause
d. “Really?”

  “You alright?”

  Sam had a deep, almost husky voice – a voice that many men likened to Jessica Rabbit when she answered the phone. Georgia was once jealous of it. The message it carried now made it almost unnerving to hear.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. In one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I should be good.”

  “Didn’t you hate Edinburgh when we were kids?”

  Georgia shook her head. “No, I hated you. Edinburgh had nothing to do with it.”

  “Truth. Just don’t get in trouble with the police this time, yeah?”

  Georgia stopped, rolling her eyes. “Seriously? God, you sound like Dad.”

  Sam chuckled. “Just sayin. Well, if you need anything, let me know. Cassie says she’ll come grab the key from me tomorrow.”

  “Great. That sounds great.”

  Samantha went quiet a moment. “Sure you’re alright, G?”

  Georgia was walking so slowly, she barely moved down the curving slope. She was lost in the realization of what this phone call meant.

  Her lease was up. Her one bedroom apartment was empty. All her things were in storage.

  She was homeless.

  “Yes. Just had a bit of an existential moment.”

  “I’m sure. Well, look on the bright side – meet your Scottish soul mate and you don’t have to come home anytime soon.”

  Georgia chuckled. “I think I’ve had enough of guys who wear kilts.”

  “No. That asshole shouldn’t count. Was about as Scottish as my left ass cheek.”

  “Which is actually French Canadian, if I remember correctly.”

  “Mais oui,” Sam said without skipping a beat.

  Georgia smiled, pulling her collar up around her jaw as she spotted the line of taxis down by the train station. Though her hotel was only another half mile away, the cold was creepy into her bones. Or perhaps that was this sudden overwhelming sense of doom.

  “You’re alright, G. You’ve got money. You can find something in no time when you get back.”

  Georgia quickened her pace, heading for the taxis. “Yeah, if my royalty check ever comes.”

  “Hey, I said it, so it must be true.”