Page 1 of Duty and Desire

San Francisco

Gio

I sat at the huge table at Philz , surrounded by six people beavering away on their laptops, cups of fragrant coffee placed at a minimum safe distance—yeah, been there, and I didn’t want to go there again—their focus locked onto their screens, their notebooks, their phones.

A couple of them were students, judging by the textbooks, but a few were writers.

Frequent visitors. Probably mired in their first book.

They might even have been working on their second.

Bastards.

Except I didn’t mean that. Nearer to the truth would be I envied the hell out of them.

My phone pinged , and I knew without looking who was messaging me. Only because he’d done the same thing every goddamn morning for a week.

One week? Try three. He was getting to be a pain in the ass .

Someone needed to back Patrick Wilson into a corner, then point out to him that breathing down an author’s neck might yield results occasionally, but in most cases, all it did was piss the writer off, pushing them deeper still into the creative slump threatening to overwhelm them.

For confirmation, I glanced at my phone.

Patrick: How’s it going? Any movement on the manuscript? Or do you have your eye on something new?

Christ, the urge to stab my fingers on virtual keys and tell him to go to Hell was all-consuming. The way I was feeling? I’d go so far as to send him directions.

“Gio?”

I jerked my head up, and couldn’t rein in my smile. “Roger. What are you doing on the west coast?” I stood and he gave me a typical Roger bear hug, squeezing the last drop of air from my lungs. I swear he cracked one of my ribs.

Roger released me. “Business, of course.” He gestured to the counter.

“Let me grab a coffee, and we can talk. I want to hear all your news.” He strode off, and I had to chuckle.

Roger Farris was a force of nature, a self-made man who’d risen above his extremely humble origins—and some desperate times—to become a tycoon, an entrepreneur… and a close friend.

And when was the last time you spoke with this close friend?

My gut clenched. Way too long ago. Then a trickle of suspicion slid through me.

This is no accidental meeting. I’d bet any amount on that. Which meant Roger would want to talk.

About me.

And knowing my friend, he was going to push until I caved and bared my soul.

Not gonna happen.

I glanced at my fellow table occupants. I wasn’t about to let them overhear the conversation I knew was coming. Then the guy on one of the high stools by the window got up and walked out, and I grabbed my chance. I scurried over to claim two stools, hauling my crap with me.

There was a time when my laptop was my baby, my Precious, the fount of all knowledge, gatekeeper to my words.

Lately it was starting to feel like nothing more than a plastic-and-metal brick. On some days I even considered launching it out of the window.

Roger joined me a few minutes later.

“I always forget how long it takes to get a coffee in here. Which I assume means it’s going to be good.

” He removed his brown leather jacket, folded it and placed it on the ledge, then sat beside me.

The aroma of ginger reached my nostrils.

“I was beginning to think you’d died. I was about to check the obituaries.

” His blue eyes twinkled. “Imagine my relief when I saw you in here. Good to see some habits persist.”

My suspicious nature kicked in. “You just happened to be in San Francisco on business? In the Castro?” He opened his mouth, undoubtedly to protest his innocence, and I held my hand up.

“Before you come up with some elaborate cover story, may I say something first?” I looked him in the eye. “I know you, Roger Farris.”

He flushed. “Okay, I am actually here on business.”

“In San Francisco?”

His flush deepened. “Fine. I was in LA. I thought I’d fly up here to make sure you were still breathing.” He returned my forthright stare. “Because I hadn’t heard from you for six months. And no, I don’t count a birthday text as a meaningful interaction.”

“And here? What brought you to this particular spot?” I wasn’t going to let him off the hook right away.

“A hunch. I remembered you liked writing here. I guess I was counting on old habits dying hard.” He took a sip from his paper cup.

“So do me the courtesy of not feeding me any bullshit, and tell me what’s going on.

” He grimaced. “I’m feeling guilty as hell, by the way.

I should’ve been in touch long before this, but life got in the way.

Doesn’t it always?” He cocked his head. “When did you last put a book out?”

I winced. “I forgot, you always go for the jugular.”

Roger shrugged. “You’re an author. It’s a fair question.” He fell silent, his watchful gaze focused on my face.

I couldn’t tell him everything. That would take up the rest of the day. But I could offer up a few crumbs in the hope of satisfying him.

“Look, right now, I’m going through what you might call a period of…

creative stagnation. Simply put, I’ve run out of ideas.

I feel like I have nothing to offer.” It was the most simplistic explanation I could come up with, and it didn’t even scratch the surface of what was really taking place in the depths of my tortured soul.

Inwardly, I smiled bitterly. Hey, that’s good. I should’ve been a writer.

I drew air into my lungs. “What used to feel like an exhilarating exploration of my imagination? Now feels like a chore.”

Roger studied me, and thank God, I didn’t see an ounce of pity in his expression. Finally, he nodded. “So that’s why you’re sitting in a coffee shop? Awaiting inspiration?”

“Hey, it’s warmer in here than it is out there,” I remonstrated.

Roger’s eyes gleamed. “So how about instead of shivering in sixty degrees, with the fog rolling in and making everything damp as hell, you could sit in eighty degrees, staring out at crystal-clear waters, blue sky that stretches as far as the eye can see, the sound of waves lapping all around you?” Another tilt of his head.

“Think inspiration might strike you in those kind of conditions?”

I laughed. “And where do you think I’d find those conditions?”

He didn’t pause to take a breath. “Bora-Bora. In the South Pacific. French Polynesia.”

I rolled my eyes. “I did geography in high school too, you know. Why there, specifically?”

He clasped his hands. “I recently bought a property out there. One of those overwater bungalows you see on the travel ads, you know, on stilts? I’ve spent a lot of time on the island these past few years.

It’s become my second home. This latest purchase is primarily an investment, for the rental market.

I’ve just spent three months paying for it to be upgraded.

The work has almost finished.” He smiled.

“It’s yours for four months. Let’s say from now until the end of July. ”

It took more than a few seconds for his offer to register.

“Roger, it’s a great idea but I can’t afford that.” Hell, the way things were going, I probably couldn’t afford to stay in San Francisco. Rents, prices, utilities… they were all rising, and my income was flowing in the opposite direction.

He chuckled. “Did I mention anything about money changing hands? No, I did not. I haven’t put it on any of the usual websites yet.

So let me repeat. It’s yours. I’ll even pay for your flight to Tahiti, and then the flight to Bora-Bora, and once you get there, I’ll arrange for a boat to take you to the bungalow.

” He smiled. “Actually, it’s my motorboat, and you’d have the use of it for the duration of your stay.

April is the end of the rainy season, so you might get a few violent storms, and the humidity could reach as high as ninety percent, but you’d have three decent months. ”

“I… I don’t know what to say.” I was light-headed, my mental numbness giving way to an escalating sensation of… gratitude? Definitely that, but also relief—and hope.

Pragmatism struggled to reassert itself, however.

“I can’t let you do all that. You’d be losing out on four months of income.”

Roger sighed. “That’s not how I see it.” He paused, his face tightening. “You were there for me in college. Remember?”

I’d never forget. He’d been through hell, and I’d been at his side every step of the way. In fact, I was the one who’d made sure he came out the other side.

He nodded. “This is payback, Gio. I always promised myself I’d return the favor, I was just never sure how.

” A spasm of pain flickered across his eyes.

“I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for you.

So let me do this. Four months is a drop in the ocean of what I owe you.

” He smiled, his brow smoothing out. “Think of it as a reset. Sunshine, glorious beaches, a chance to get your writer brain back online…” He stared at me.

“Say yes? Please? I want to do this for you.” His earnest expression morphed into a grin.

“And if it works out, you can dedicate your next book to me.”

I couldn’t fight him, not when every cell in my body was screaming at me to accept his generous offer.

“Thank you.” I bit my lip. “This bungalow… what’s it like?”

His grin widened. “Trust me. You are going to love it.” His gaze intensified. “Is there anyone here who’ll be pining for you? Someone you hate to leave behind?”

I couldn’t rein in my snort. “If that’s your not-so-subtle way of asking if I’m in a relationship, then you can relax. I’m still single. I don’t do dating, remember?”

“But that’s been your choice, right? I mean, I’m sure you’ve had guys interested in you.”

“Sure, and if I have an itch, I can get it scratched. But a relationship ? That boat has sailed.”

And I’d missed out on the opportunity to build something real with someone.

Roger gave a superior eye roll. “For God’s sake, Gio. You’re only thirty-seven. There’s plenty of time left.” That grin was back. “Who knows? Maybe even as we speak, there’s a gorgeous guy waiting for you on the shores of Bora-Bora. Someone who’s perfect for you.”

“Well, unless he can fit into my luggage, he’ll be staying there.”

Besides, that was a complication I didn’t need. I was having enough problems wrestling with a book that didn’t want to be written.

The last thing I need is a man.