Mr. Love: A Romantic Comedy by Sally Mason Read Free Book Online

gesturing at a wooden bench on the edge of the village square, “sit down.”
    She sits but rises as quick as a jack-in-the-box when he says, “I’m not Viola Usher.”
    “Gordon, stop wasting my time.”
    “Sit. Hear me out.”
    She stares at him then sits.
    “I didn’t write that book but I know who did.”
    “Who?”
    “My sister,” he says. “My sister Bitsy wrote Ivy .”

11
     
     
     
     
    Gordon self-medicates on red wine as he waits for his sister to return home, pacing the threadbare carpet in the living room, listening for the clatter of her Volvo.
    But all he can hear are the voices of doubt in his head.
    Is he mad?
    Introverted, withdrawn, wifty-wafty little Bitsy will never agree to Gordon’s plan.
    A plan that, no matter his empty assurances, would certainly thrust her into the glare of the media spotlight.
    All he has managed to do is stall that predatory she-agent, leaving her holed up in the B&B, waiting for him to call her to come over and meet Viola Usher.
    Not going to happen, Gordy.
    The sneering voice of the high school football captain, the bully who had terrorized him through his teenage years, who he had lampooned in Ivy .
    Ivy.
    God, why had he ever written that thing?
    “ Because it’s the bomb, Gordo.”
    And there’s Suzie, smiling at him from across the room.
    “A bomb that’s going to blow my life to smithereens,” he says, rushing at her.
    She disappears, of course, and all Gordon can do is top up his wine glass.
    Not too much , he tells himself.
    You have to stay focused, in control.
    Tells himself this even as he drains the glass of wine.
    He ’s ready to pour another when he hears the old Volvo wheeze to a halt outside the house.
    Gordon sits on the couch, legs crossed, fixing a smile on his face.
    The door opens and Bitsy enters.
    She stares at him.
    “What’s wrong,” she says. “Are you ill?”
    “Not at all,” he says. “Let me get you a glass of wine. Sit, have a chat.”
    “You are ill.”
    “Please, Bitsy. Join me.”
    She shakes her head.
    “Forgive me, Gordon, but I’m not in the mood. I’ve had a distressing morning and I think I’ll just do a little reading in my room.”
    “I have some very important news, Bitsy.”
    She stares down at him.
    “About your book?”
    “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
    She perches on the edge of a chair, hands in her lap, long-suffering eyes on him.
    “Can I get you a glass of wine?” he asks.
    “Thank you, no. I feel a migraine coming on.”
    He pours himself a nother glass, takes a sip and tells her about writing Ivy and publishing it.
    Bitsy stares at him, mouth hanging open on her slightly protuberant front teeth.
    “Gordon, are you drunk?”
    “No, not all.”
    “Then surely you’re suffering some kind of breakdown? You don’t honestly expect me to believe you wrote that book, do you?”
    “Well, you did urge me to write something more commercial.”
    She shakes her head .
    “No, Gordon, I have no time today for silly pranks. Please.”
    She stands.
    He rises, too, and holds up his hands.
    “Okay, I’ll prove it to you.”
    “How?”
    He digs his laptop out from beside the couch and powers it up.
    Then he clicks open a folder and calls her across.
    “What is this folder called?” he asks.
    Bitsy peers at the screen.
    “ Ivy .”
    “Yes. And look.”
    He opens the folder and shows her all the saved drafts of the book.
    Opening them at random, showing her the work in progress.
    Bitsy stares at the monitor, then up at her brother.
    “My gosh, Gordon, you’re serious.”
    “Dead serious,” he says, sinking down onto the couch.
    Bitsy sits again, her eyes wide.
    “I never thought you had it in you to write something so . . . passionate.”
    He shrugs, “Well, there you go. Dark horses and all that.”
    “It’s doing terribly well, isn’t it?”
    “Selling up a storm.”
    “Gordon, how wonderful for you.”
    “Us.”
    “Huh?”
    “Wonderful for us , Bitsy. Fret not, you will share in