Page 3 of Happy After All

“I don’t want you wandering around outside and dying. Plus, there are ... armadillos.”

“I don’t think there are armadillos here.”

I shrug. “I’m new. It feels like there should be.” The truth is, I know there aren’t armadillos. I looked it up as soon as I arrived.

But sometimes I just say things when I’m nervous. He makes me nervous.

He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at me. It’s a very particular expression, and something about it scratches at the back of my brain. He looks familiar, even if I can’t place him.

I lived in LA for years, so I’ve seen my share of unreasonably hot men, but I don’t think he’s an actor. Mind you, in LA there are unreasonably hot men who only ever wait tables. Toiling hotly in obscurity. It’s a common story.

My ex Christopher was one of those men for a very long time.

Sadly, now he’s a lot less obscure. At least to a niche group of people who love cheesy, romantic holiday movies. I did at one time. Another thing Christopher ruined.

Thinking about Christopher right now should help, though. His memory is a libido killer at this point, regardless of how good looking he might be. Nathan Hart transcends the tyranny of my Christopher memories.

I round the counter and find that the impact of Nathan is even stronger without it between us. He’s notHollywoodhandsome, I decide. He’s too rugged for that.

So I still can’t figure out why he’s familiar.

“This way,” I say cheerfully, leading us through the bright-pink lobby and out into the punishing heat.

I do my best not to react to it. I definitely don’t have the fortitude of a local yet. I try not to let him see that.

The exterior of the motel is painted bright pink, and all the doors are turquoise. There’s a gold sunburst on each one, around the peephole, and gold numbers on the left side. It’s all arrayed in a horseshoe around the courtyard, our social area.

The courtyard is empty, which has become the norm during summer. My long-term residents spend their mornings and evenings there and retreat into the AC once it gets surface-of-the-sun-levelhot. We have croquet, and tables set with checkers, backgammon, and cribbage—my older guests love that.

“We just revamped the courtyard area,” I say, gesturing toward the gleaming pool surrounded by magenta loungers. “We do these things called dive-in movies where everyone sits on little floaties and watches films on a big projector screen. It’s fun.”

He doesn’t react to that. He seems to be taking all this in with a level of skepticism.

“Every room has a different theme,” I say. “But you probably saw that on the website. Malibu Dream House is pretty great, but I can see how it wouldn’t be to your taste.”

He says nothing, and I keep talking. “Yours is my favorite, actually. I mean, other than mine. I live here. So if you need anything, I’m around most of the time. I love your room because it’s set up specifically for a writer and ...”

I stop.

Suddenly I imagine him standing with his arms crossed and that expression on his face.

“Oh my God.” It hits me then. “You’re Jacob Coulter.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “I’m Nathan Hart.”

“You ...writeas Jacob Coulter, though, don’t you?”

He makes a deep noise in the back of his throat, and I can see that he’s searching the doors for his number.

Jacob Coulter, who writes bestselling hardcover military thrillers. His real name is never on anything, and I think I read somewhere he protects it closely because he doesn’t want backlash from the government for revealing details that border on classified.

When I was deciding whether I wanted to write under a pseudonym, I’d looked into all the reasons people did it. I’d also chosen one to protect my privacy, though more because I didn’t want the people who knew me before to keep tabs on me in any meaningful way.

Though I’m writing category romances, and your picture doesn’t go on the back of those. The author is secondary to the publisher andthe category itself when you write them. If people want a small-town romance with no sex, they know exactly which line to choose. People who want glamorous settings, angsty conflict, and lots of sex choose the line I write for. The story is more important than the name on the cover.

Not true with Jacob Coulter, whose book series became a huge show on Amazon Prime. I’ve watched it, even though it’s historically not my thing. The lead actor is extremely hot, though, and I’m only human.

I’ve never read one of his books, though I’ve seen them in so many bookstores, grocery stores, and airports that I’ve picked them up before and examined them.

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