The Write Man

By Lisa Ricard Claro

She's afraid to trust . . . Trust comes hard for kid-lit author Merry Sunjoy, who survived a rough childhood and rocky marriage to a pathological liar. But Merry ignores her painful past and seeks silver linings everywhere, though she's tested by Scurvy Rickets, a writer of raucous pirate stories for kids, who has engaged Merry in a humiliating social media battle. Adding to her anguish is her sister's miscarriage and the upcoming anniversary of their mother's death. Merry escapes to the golden beaches of Mimosa Key to hide from the world and write her next book.

He can't tell her the truth . . . Syndicated sports columnist Nick Brubaker isn't looking for love when he meets Merry Sunjoy on the beach, but her sunny, impetuous ways heat him up fast, and she soon owns his heart. They take moonlit walks and share deep confidences, but Nick withholds his most important secret: He is Merry's detested online nemesis, Scurvy Rickets. A legal contract enforces Nick's silence, and he can't divulge his nom de plume or his misbelief that Merry knew the online ribbing was arranged by others for promotional purposes.

Hidden words, hidden meanings . . . When Merry accidentally discovers Nick's secret, the betrayal cuts deep, and Merry uses Nick's contract of silence against him. It will take deft writing on Nick's part to convince Merry that he's worthy of her love and trust, and that while he may be The Write Man, he is also, and will always be, the right man for her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Ricard Claro
• Release date: Sep 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386015390

Book preview

Chapter 1

Toes in the water, ass in the sand, bikinis, bikinis all over the land.

Nick Brubaker adjusted his sunglasses and settled back in his low-slung beach chair to enjoy the water play of three twenty-somethings as they squealed and batted a beach ball in the gentle surf. His little poem wasn’t exactly the spectacular prose that had earned his alter ego, Scurvy Rickets, the Newsome Award for Children’s Literature last year, but it made him smile because it was true. For the moment, anyway. Later today he’d be hunkered down in his rented villa here at the Casa Blanca Resort & Spa on Florida’s gorgeous Gulf coast pounding out the first chapter of a new book for kids. But for now, right this second, he’d enjoy the morning view, happy the ladies hadn’t allowed the cool December waters to keep them off the beach.

And he did, in fact, have his toes in the water and his ass in the sand—more or less—and there were bikinis dotting the beach like wildflowers. Except … for her.

The woman to his left sat in full shade under a lemon-yellow umbrella. Covered from neck to ankles in gauzy white cotton, including bug-eye sunglasses and a face spotted with some kind of pink goo, she was an anomaly in this bikini paradise, and nothing grabbed Nick’s attention like something that didn’t belong. He’d built a career on writing about incongruous things, from an underwater city inhabited by ghosts to a footless zombie working as a shoe salesman.

So what was her deal, anyway?

A warm breeze whipped off the water and swirled across the silky sand. It ruffled Nick’s hair and caught the broad brim of the woman’s floppy hat, pink to match the face spots. She cried out in surprise and snatched at the hat, but not fast enough to stop the waterfall of pale hair from tumbling out and cascading over her shoulders. In her grab for the hat she upended her sunglasses and they landed in her lap.

The wind kicked up again, and for an instant the silken strands of hair danced around her head like an electrified aura of white gold. A second later the woman had it twisted and hidden beneath the hat once again. She lifted her sunglasses from her lap and turned her eyes, morning-glory blue, toward Nick.

Something wrong?

Spoken by any woman of Nick’s acquaintance, under these circumstances, those two little words would have contained a mountain of snark and would have really meant: Hey, you can stop staring at me anytime now, asshole. But somehow, when this woman said those words—Something wrong?—it sounded like genuine curiosity.

Her lips curved in a self-conscious smile, and she pressed down on the crown of her head to better secure the hat. There. Maybe it will stay now, she said, and a dimple winked at him from her cheek.

Sorry, he said, returning her smile. It’s rude of me to stare.

Oh, that’s okay. I know I look silly. My sister and I were doing some yard work a couple weeks ago, clearing some brush. I got into poison ivy, hence the calamine lotion. I look like I have the measles, right? Pink measles. Anyway, I already had this trip planned, and I love the beach and didn’t want to cancel, so—here I am! She flung up her arms, but her hands hit the brim of the hat and sent it off her head again. It tumbled across the sand where it settled against Nick’s leg.

Oh, my gosh. I’m such a klutz, she said, shaking her head.

Nick laughed and picked up the hat, wondering if he should hold it hostage for her name and room number, or be a gentleman and return it with a gallant bow. He chose the latter and watched for a second time as the goldilocks disappeared beneath the hat. She rewarded him with another adorable flash of the dimple.

I’m Nick, he said, removing his sunglasses.

I’m clumsy, she said, and they both laughed.

Something about her tickled the back of Nick’s mind. The eyes? The hair? The smile? What was it?

Have you vacationed here before? He squatted to meet her at eye level, flipping through the catalogue in his mind in an effort to place her. Recognition danced a sliver beyond reach.

No. I’m a first timer to Mimosa Key and Barefoot Bay. I usually stay on Siesta Key when I visit the Gulf, but Casa Blanca was recommended by a friend.

I’m sure you’ll love it. The staff is top notch, and you can’t beat the beauty of the place. He glanced toward the water. One of the beach ball bunnies waved and blew him a kiss.

Nick winced. I wasn’t talking about them.

I know. The woman beside him chuckled and slid her sunglasses back on. I do love it so far. I needed a quiet place to work and unwind, and get away from— She shook her head. Meany-heads. Well, one meany-head in particular. Another children’s author. Not that I can do that, because the internet is everywhere.

Before Nick could ask what the hell she was talking about—because what grown woman uses the term meany-head?—she shifted in the beach chair to face him. The breeze plastered her outfit to her body, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to the weather gods for creating such a glorious sculpture.

I’m talking about social media. Trolls. Mean people. There’s no getting away from them. No matter how nice I try—how nice people try to be, other people are still rotten. You know?

That prick of recognition sent a warning tingle down Nick’s spine. He still couldn’t place her, but now he was certain he knew her somehow. It wasn’t her looks which, even hidden behind pink dots and miles of cotton fabric, he’d determined to be spectacular. No, it was her delivery, that Dorothy-Gale-girl-from-Kansas likability. There was only one woman in all the universe who made him feel like he was breathing cotton candy. Only one. And her name was—

Merry Sunjoy. She held out a slender hand and gave his a solid shake. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself before. Anyway—her cheeks bloomed pink as if she were suddenly embarrassed, and she pushed from the beach chair and grabbed the tote beside it—I’m actually here to work, so I better get to it. It’s been nice meeting you, uh…

Nick, he supplied, standing from his crouch.

That’s right. Nick. The dimple winked. He wished it weren’t so damned sexy. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again, Nick. Enjoy the rest of your day.

Nick kept his gaze on her willowy form until she disappeared around the tiki bar, moving like flames licked at her back.

Merry Sunjoy.

Nick narrowed his eyes and slid his sunglasses back on. This was too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. There was no way that his arch rival in the world of kidlit, Miss Sunny Sunshine herself, Merry Sunjoy, was at the Casa Blanca resort by accident. Was she here to up the ante in their ongoing social media feud? And how could she have found him out?

Scurvy Rickets was Nick’s pen name for the books he wrote for the young middle-grade set, and he was contractually bound—as was everyone associated with Scurvy Rickets—not to divulge who he really was or be photographed as the writer whose pen name was Scurvy Rickets. The image of Scurvy Rickets, used online and in other media, was created by a graphic artist. The real identity of Scurvy Rickets, namely Nick, was a well-kept secret, and it was a secret Nick was eager to keep. The mystery of authorship was one of the things that made Scurvy Rickets so popular, and no one outside of Nick’s agent and publisher knew his real name. Well, them, and Poppy Washington, a Casa Blanca housekeeper with a big personality and a kind heart, who had discovered the truth during his stay here last year, thanks to a scheduling mix-up that brought Poppy into the villa at the same time Nick was on his way out costumed as Scurvy Rickets. He wore the pirate costume with full theatrical makeup for book signings and public appearances and had been on his way to a bookstore in Fort Myers when Poppy let herself into the villa to restock the kitchen for him. Nick had asked her to keep his secret, and to his knowledge she had never blabbed to anyone what she had seen. The point was, no one knew. It was part of the mystery and fun that was Scurvy Rickets.

The stories Nick wrote as Scurvy Rickets were fantastical and borderline grim, with enough bathroom humor to take the edge off. Young boys especially laughed maniacally at any reference to flatulence and burps—gassiness in general was always good for a guffaw—and Nick made sure his popular series, The Pukefaced Pirates of Fartbutt Hollow, contained ample references to both.

He’d written the first Pirates book—a gory tale of what happens to bad men who earn their just rewards—after his father’s death via a drunken tumble down a steep flight of stairs. The tale he wrote was intended as a personal allegory for Nick about how he wished he’d been the one to make his abusive old man walk the plank. As it turned out, he’d hidden the truth behind so many funny and fictional words that the work was neither as dark nor as deep as he’d supposed. What it was, was literary gold. Young kids loved the Pukefaced Pirates and their gassy leader, Cap’n Smellmore Beanbottom. So did most adults. But not every adult.

Not Miss Merry Sunjoy.

Merry Sunjoy wrote children’s literature as well. Hers were heartfelt, sunlit stories featuring fun-loving faeries and bluebirds of happiness, none of which farted or puked or had earwax fall into their soup. Merry Sunjoy was all bliss and butterflies. Nick didn’t have a problem with it. In fact, he thought her work was well written but didn’t understand how anyone could be so sunny-side-up all the time. Life wasn’t like that.

Nick considered Merry’s complaints about internet trolls and assumed she was talking about him. Well, not him, but Scurvy Rickets. This made no sense, as Merry Sunjoy knew as well as Nick did that their social media battle had been cooked up by their respective agents as a promotional ploy. True, the idea had germinated after Nick, channeling Scurvy, had posted a snarky random comment on a blog post dissing Merry’s Foundling Faeries books. He hadn’t done it to cause trouble. He’d done it in character as Scurvy Rickets. Old Scurvy left zany comments all over the place, and most people played along because, clearly, Scurvy Rickets was not a real person. Still, he’d hit a nerve with Merry Sunjoy when he’d had something to say about children’s stories that created unrealistic expectations. She had responded with some prim and pithy retort that had proved to be a hilarious defensive salvo, and the next thing Nick knew his agent, Phoebe, had talked to Merry’s agent, and their social media feud was underway. Their back-and-forth banter had escalated over the last few weeks from funny to—well, maybe