Lori Foster - Men of Honour - Ready, Set, Jett / When You Dare / Trace of Fever / Savor the Danger / A Perfect Storm / What Chris Wants / Bare It All

Regret had Molly biting her lips, but she accepted his decision. “If she’s still on spring break, she could be away from her phone.”

Keeping his hands off her wasn’t an option. It seemed the more he touched her, the more he needed to. He craved the feel of her skin, the scent of her hair, her warmth and gentleness. It drew him like nothing ever had.

Trying to keep it casual with an arm around her waist, Dare led her from the bedroom. But even that affected him. He could feel her resilient flesh beneath the material of her top, the narrowness of her waist and how she fit so nicely into his side.

“What do we do now?” Molly asked.

“I want to hear about that note, but you’re pushing it today. The long trip was enough, but then to find this mess … You need to eat something, drink—”

“Dare, I’m okay,” she complained with a short laugh. “And I’m not hungry.”

He stopped with her in the kitchen. Smoothing back her hair, he studied her face. She looked pale, stressed and beautiful. “All right.” He couldn’t keep smothering her. She was too independent for that. “I’m not really hungry, either. But we might as well sit down to talk.”

She looked around at the remaining mess. “I still have so much to do.”

“We’ll get to it.” He cleared a chair and a spot on the table, then urged her to sit. “Take a few breaths, honey.”

She did a double take at the endearment. “I really am okay, you know.”

“I never doubted it.” Her inner strength never ceased to amaze him. She took one blow after another, but always rallied. It was that, as much as anything, that set her apart. “Just humor me.”

After ensuring that the carafe wasn’t broken, Dare started the coffee prep. He’d noticed where she kept things earlier when he’d checked the kitchen. “While I get this ready, why don’t you explain the gist of that note?”

She put her head in her hands. Voice muffled, she said, “It has to do with a book. The one that was so criticized.” She raised her face. “You remember what you read in the most scathing comments?”

Dare thought for a second. As he measured coffee into the basket, he recalled the dominant complaint. “You redeemed a character, right?”

Molly nodded. “In the beginning, he did some pretty awful things, mostly out of misguided emotion. He’d had a rough life, and because of that his outlook on certain things was skewed.”

“What kind of awful things?”

“He was a thief, a liar. Those sorts of things. He stole cars, credit cards. Definitely crossed the line. But while he was capable of it, he never really hurt anyone physically. Later in the book he realized his mistakes, tried to atone and the lead characters forgave him.”

The idea of forgiveness intrigued Dare—maybe because he, himself, wasn’t a very forgiving person. Cross him, and he never forgot, and he sure as hell stopped trusting. “Some readers felt duped.”

She gave one short nod. “I guess everyone doesn’t buy into second chances the way that I do.” As if she had a growing headache, Molly rubbed her temples. “I wouldn’t even make the connection, but one reader in particular sent me plenty of emails detailing different, sort-of-threatening scenarios about what it would take to push me past the point of forgiveness. She would always end the setup by asking if I’d still be forgiving if that happened to me .”

“The hell you say.” Dare took the seat beside her. “You didn’t tell me any of this.”

She dismissed that with a look. “It was bad enough that you saw those reviews. And honestly, until now, I really didn’t think that much of it. Over the years, I’ve gotten plenty of scathing letters from readers. It’s part and parcel with the job.”

“Give me an example.”

Keeping her attention on the tabletop, she thought back. “I once had this secondary character who was a father.”

Dare could feel her tension with the topic, and he hated it—but he needed details.

“After the character’s wife died, he emotionally bailed on his kids. He wasn’t there for them at all, didn’t see them through the tough times or encourage them.”

Had she drawn comparisons with her own father? From what she’d told him, he’d sure as hell neglected his daughters, especially when they needed him most: after their mother had died.

Molly folded her hands together. “He supported them financially, but that was it. I didn’t paint him as a total jerk, but neither was his self-absorbed pity written off as acceptable.”

“And?”

“A male reader was so outraged by my lack of understanding for what the character had gone through, he threatened my life.” Irritation growing, she added, “As if there’s ever any excuse for not taking care of your kids.”

“No, there’s not.” Cautious of her mood, Dare asked, “How’d he threaten you?”

“He wrote me a bunch of letters—twenty or more. All of them were angry, some more insane than the others, but his overall theme was that I needed to be shown what it was to feel real loss before I judged anyone else on their own reactions.” She made a rude sound. “I didn’t tell him that I had lost my mother, so I knew what it felt like to lose a loved one.”

“Good.” To Dare’s mind, it would never be smart to share too much of her private life with her readers. “Anything come of his threats?”

She waved it off. “Not really. I shared the letters with the local police, and they contacted a forensics team. There was some checking done. Other than telling me that the guy was back on his meds, they couldn’t say much because it would have infringed on his rights.”

Dare scowled. “Fucked-up logic, if you ask me.”

“It doesn’t matter. I never heard from him after that.” Restless, she tapped her fingertips on the tabletop. “Then there was the guy who came to every local signing, and he’d buy the same book over and over again. I don’t mean two or three copies, but like … dozens of them. I think in the end he must’ve owned forty or more copies of one title. It was downright creepy.”

Deadpan, Dare said, “He must’ve really liked the book.”

She rolled her eyes. “I finally told him that he had to stop. It was so awkward. For both of us.”

“I can imagine.” Dare took her hand. “How’d he react to that?”

“He got all flustered and stuff. I think he almost cried. But he didn’t show up at any more signings, and as far as I know, he’s never written me since then.”

“As far as you know?”

“A lot of readers send anonymous letters. They don’t sign a name or share an address.” Her lips quirked. “Especially the angry ones.”

“You say this stuff happens all the time?”

She lifted a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “I’ve gotten immune to it. I mean, I hate upsetting readers, but it’s just part of the business. What one reader loves another hates.” Her breath released in a sigh. “When that one reader kept telling me that no one would be that forgiving, I just ignored her at first.”

“Her?” Dare cocked a brow. “Do you know that it was a woman?”

“Well …” Molly frowned. “Not really, no. Her letters have all been unsigned and unaddressed, too. It’s just that most of my readers are women.”

“But not all?”

She made a face at him. “Both of the readers I already told you about were guys.”

“So let’s don’t make any assumptions, then.” The coffee machine hissed to a finish, and Dare got up to find the mugs.

Molly went to a different cabinet to retrieve powdered creamer. “I don’t even want to open my refrigerator. I’m afraid what I might find in there.”

Struck by that, Dare looked at her, then went to the fridge.