by Katie Ford
“Yeah, fine. I just need some fresh air.”
Keys clack through the phone line.
“Okay. Everything is canceled for you. Do you need me to call your car service?”
“No, thanks. I’ll walk.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Carmichael. See you tomorrow, then.”
Trevor knows better than to ask my reasons. We hang up, and I grab my coat. It’s a bit cold to be walking home, but I need the cold air to calm down my cock and clear my head.
Our receptionist Nathan gives me a wave when I pass his desk. The rest of the employees in my office are engrossed in their individual tasks, so they don’t pay me much attention as I leave. I take afternoon walks regularly to meet with agents or editors from other publishers, so my leaving isn’t that abnormal. It’s a good thing because I’m sure my erection would be obvious to everyone who looks at me. It’s right at eye level for anyone sitting at a desk.
Once outside, I pause and take a deep, bracing breath.
What the hell happened in the last two hours?
When I pictured the meeting with Ali, I pictured an frumpy housewife with a wide middle, a giant stomach, and gray hairs popping out from her chin. Instead, I got the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
She was so sweet with her questions about the publishing process. I meet with most of my authors, though rarely in my office. The conversation always goes pretty much the way it did with Ali … well, up until the desk sex. They ask questions about the process and what comes next. But it’s weird – the woman didn’t ask anything about money or payments, which is a natural line of questioning. I get the feeling she depends on her agent for that stuff, which is good. Authors should always have someone to make sense of contracts, so they don’t get taken advantage of. We try to make our contracts as simple as possible because we’re not in the business of tricking authors. We’re here to publish quality books. Still, it’s good to have someone well versed in contracts to go over things.
I start walking faster, joining the rush of people walking down the sidewalks. The cold air feels great against my face, and my cock has deflated.
Taking a stroll in the city isn’t relaxing for most people what with the honking taxis and throngs of people, but it is for me. Growing up here got me used to being in the thick of things. I’m calmer when there are hundreds of people around than when I’m in a small group. I could never live in a small town, like the one in Ali’s book, which is modeled on the one she grew up in. My mind would never relax with so much space, and so few people.
With my mind wandering, I’m not paying attention to what’s going on around me. I turn a corner on my way back to my penthouse apartment and bump into a man talking on his phone.
“Watch where you’re going, asshole,” he spits, giving me the stereotypical New York dirty look.
“Sorry,” I say, but he’s already moved on. The rudeness is something I wouldn’t miss if I ever left the city. I bet everyone is really nice in a small town. Bumping into someone on the sidewalk would probably end in an hour-long conversation, not a rude look and swearing.
I keep walking. I won’t let the jerk ruin my good mood. My mind struggles to make sense of what happened in my office earlier. But not too much because if I go down that road all the way, I’ll embarrass myself in public. Not the weirdest thing anyone would see in New York today, but I’d rather not put that impression out there. My job requires me to be respected, not laughed at.
After twenty minutes, I reach the glass doors of my sleek, modern apartment building. I live about a mile from where I work, and I like it. It’s convenient, especially in the city. Some people have to commute for an hour to get to work. I can walk in pretty much any weather or take a car service if needed.
“Welcome back, Mr. Carmichael,” my doorman says as he pulls the door open for me.
“Thank you,” I respond.
I stride through the marble lobby to the elevator, my wingtips squeaking on the polished floor. A bellhop in a gold tasseled uniform pushes the button for me. It’s ridiculous. I am fully capable of hitting an elevator button myself, but I guess that’s what people pay a ton of money to live here for.
Because this is a stark difference from how it was when I was growing up. My parents gave me up when I was a baby. My mom left me at a fire station with my birth certificate and one thin, cotton blanket she’d probably gotten free from the hospital. I was only a few days old.
The elevator dings, and the doors open into my penthouse apartment. I throw my coat onto the rack by the door and loosen my tie. With a grunt, I collapse onto the couch, losing myself in thought.
Because the thoughts come swirling back. I spent my entire life not knowing who my parents were. My birth certificate wasn’t signed by either of my parents, so my mother always planned to give me up. It didn’t matter that much, to be honest. I grew up in foster care, but I had it better than most. Never having a stable place to call home sucked, but I dealt with it. I kept myself busy by reading. No matter what foster home I ended up in, I always had books to keep me company. In fact, some of the families had shelves of books in the living room, and I would work my way through them, no matter what genre. Other times I spent my days at the library reading everything I could get my hands on. The librarians always knew me by name and would save me new releases, so I could have first dibs.
When I went to college, I majored in English. It made the degree easy because most of the assigned reading were books I’d already devoured at age ten. I got to look at those books in new ways and learn more from them than I ever did reading on my own.
It wasn’t until I was in college that I started looking for my birth parents. I had aged out of foster care when I started my freshman year, and while I’ve kept in touch with some of the families I lived with, none of them were my family.
With the help of some helpful city employees, I searched relentlessly for my parents. We found my birth mother pretty easily. She was a prostitute in the streets of the city. Not a high-end prostitute who was hired out by rich business people on the Upper East Side, either. Nope. Michaela was a street hooker who literally walked the stretch of Morningside Avenue between 143rd and 144th streets, day in and day out. A prostitute who slept with anyone who paid her fee. She did what she had to do to survive, but she couldn’t afford a child.
Knowing who she is was enough for me. I didn’t try to contact her, or look for her. Now, I knew where I came from on the maternal side.
Because my father was harder to find. I haven’t been able to locate him, and I doubt I ever will. He could be any of the guys my mother slept with for business or for pleasure. I’ve made peace with the fact that I won’t know who my father was because sometimes, you have no choice. Life gives you peanuts, and you can only eat the peanuts and be grateful.
Besides, I guess I’m a chip off my mother’s block in a way. I’ve never paid a woman for sex, but I’ve slept with a lot of women. Does it make me a male hooker? No, because I wasn’t paid. But am I a male ho? Yeah, sort of.
Through college, I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a ladies’ man because frankly, I wasn’t interested in charming the women. All I was interested in was fucking them until they screamed. And as I got more successful, it only became easier. The women flocked to me when I started making money a few years ago. Being the owner of my own wildly successful publishing company attracted attention from ladies all over New York City.
But hopes springs eternal because even though I’m crystal clear about the fact that I don’t do relationships, still the women try. They hope to change me, to turn me into the marrying kind. They don’t love me. They don’t even care about me. They just see green, and they want that green for themselves. Women sleep with me in hopes that we’ll get married and they’ll get my money. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of these women were already planning our divorce a couple years down the line.
So yeah, to each their own. I’m not offended by their rapacious ways. It just is. May
be because I was thrown from family to family as a kid, I lost that longing for a family. I’ve never wanted to have a wife and kids. Play dates, soccer games, school plays, parent-teacher conferences. None of that was me.
But maybe it could be?
For the first time in my life, I think I could do the family thing. I could be a dad and have a wife to kiss every night when I get home from a long day at the office.
And all because of one woman I’ve known for less than twenty-four hours? What the hell? This is delusional for sure, and yet I can’t help how I feel.
I knew it the second Ali walked into my office and took my breath away. It was even clearer when we were having sex on my desk. And when she left my office, it felt like there was something missing in my heart. Ali is the woman who could change it for me.
The thought freaks me out because I don’t know the first thing about being in a relationship. Ali was a virgin when we had sex earlier, so she’s probably not an expert either. Would I even be good at it? I know I’m good at the sex part. It’s the rest I need to work on.
I sigh and find the TV remote from the coffee table. I flip on whatever channel I last watched, but I’m not all that interested.
I need to get my mind off Ali before I make any major life decisions. I don’t even know how she feels about me, let alone how to interpret my own feelings. I’ll be seeing her again next week, so I have a few days to get my mind in order.
Until then, I mindlessly watch TV, but my head’s not in it. Instead, I’m remembering those sweet curves and that generous smile … and counting down the minutes until we meet again.
CHAPTER 6
ALI
Thursday takes forever to arrive. Darla’s back in the city from her West Coast conference, and she wants to meet today so that we can go over my contract and make a final decision on whether we’re going to sign it.
“Hi,” I say when I see her. My tiny, redheaded superstar of an agent takes the seat across from me at our favorite New York City café. This is where I signed her agency contract, where we spent hours going over my manuscript, and it’s the perfect place to finally sign a publishing contract. If that’s what we decide to do.
“How are you, Ali? How are you feeling?”
I play with my hands nervously. “Anxious,” I admit. “It all feels so real. Being a published author has been my dream since I started writing princess stories in second grade. And now… I’m almost there.”
Darla beams at me. Having an agent like her has been amazing. I had a few offers when I was starting out, but Darla’s personality and her friendliness won me over. She’s an amazing businessperson and an amazing person. We work together perfectly, and I adore her.
“How did the meeting go last week?”
I blush, but I don’t think Darla notices. There’s no way I can tell her I slept with the CEO. She would probably take the contract and destroy it. She certainly wouldn’t let me go to Chris’s office tomorrow.
“It went well,” I lie glibly. “Jenny and the CEO, Chris, they’re both really passionate about the project. They want to publish my book. Chris even said that there wouldn’t be a lot of edits for me to do.”
“That’s great, Ali. It sounds like we’ve found the perfect place.”
“I think we have.”
“Well, let’s not beat around the bush then.” Darla pulls a stack of paper from her briefcase and lays it on the table in front of us. “This is an incredible contract. We’d be crazy not to sign it.”
My heart pounds so hard I’m sure it’s trying to fight its way out of my chest. “What?”
Darla puts her hand over mine. “I negotiated some better terms. Different rights agreements and more percentage points on royalties. This contract is one of the best I’ve ever seen. Carmichael Publishing wants you and we should want them back.”
“I do,” I say breathlessly. “You know they’ve been my number one since we started submitting.”
“I know. So what do you say? Are you ready to sign?”
I smile and take the pen from the table. “You promise this is a good contract and I’m not signing my life away? Like they won’t be asking for my firstborn child and pinkie finger next?”
Darla cackles with laughter.
“I promise. I wouldn’t lead you wrong, sweetheart. You’re like a daughter to me.”
I know she wouldn’t. An agent gets paid when the author gets paid. It’s in her best interest to get me a good contract because she would be screwed over by a bad contract, too.
Darla pushes the sheaf of paper to me, and I sign the flagged pages. When it’s done, I sit back and let out a deep, cleansing exhale. It feels like I’ve been holding my breath since I sent my first query letter. And now I’m going to be a published author.
“This is it, girlie. Do you want me to run this contract over to Carmichael right now?” Darla asks, already starting to pack up her bag.
“No,” I say, careful not to sound too desperate. “Jenny and Chris asked me to stop by with it tomorrow.”
Darla shrugs. “Okay. I’ll leave it with you, then.” She places my newly signed contract into a folder and pushes it across the table to me before checking the time on her watch. “Listen, I hate to sign and ditch, but I have another meeting in twenty minutes. This is what I get for leaving town for two weeks. I’ve been in meetings all week. I need a drink.”
I giggle.
“It’s ten in the morning.”
She wriggles her brows at me.
“A mimosa it is then. Definitely,” my agent says with a laugh. “Give me a call after you meet with Carmichael Publishing tomorrow.”
We stand, and Darla blows air kisses before running out of the café for her next meeting. I still have coffee and a muffin left, so I sit back down and finish my meal.
Reading through my manuscript that night, my brow furrows. I haven’t read it since Darla started submitting it to publishers. The last thing I want to be is conceited, but as I’m going over my own work, I end up crying with the characters. My writing is powerful. I’m good at this, and a rush of gratitude and elation fills my heart.
Plus, with the help of Carmichael Publishing, more people are going to see my talent. The company’s going to market me and turn my life upside down, making me into one of the Thirty Under Thirty new must-read new authors. I can’t wait, and with a contented sigh, turn in.
But when I wake up in the morning, my laptop has fallen off the couch from where I fell asleep. Oof. These things are expensive and I don’t have the money to replace it yet. Lifting it up, the screen buzzes back to life and I flush. Because oh god, but I spent an embarrassing amount of time looking at pictures of Chris last night. The gorgeous man in these photos was literally inside me last week. How did that happen? Plus, I’m meeting with him again today at his offices once more.
I won’t sleep with him again. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. Not that there’s even a possibility of it happening. After all, this is a professional meeting where we’re going to sign papers and do other boring professional things.
Except I make sure to put on my best bra and panties before heading to the train station into the city. I head out earlier than I need to. The train ride from my town into the city is only twenty minutes, but I leave at ten thirty, so I can psych myself up for the meeting and convince myself I should absolutely, under no circumstances, sleep with Chris again.
I walk around the city for an hour, careful not to work up a sweat because the last thing I need is to show up at my meeting smelling like I’ve been walking around the city for an hour. Ugh. Exhaust fumes and NYC garbage don’t exactly make for an appetizing mix.
I arrive at the sleek Midtown building that houses Carmichael Publishing with fifteen minutes to spare. My stomach grumbles as I hit the elevator button to the seventeenth floor. I should have spent my extra hour eating, but then my breath might have smelled bad. That would have been worse than smelling like sweat. Why am I so nervous about going in with my
best foot forward? The contract’s already in my hands, and it’s signed, no less. I can relax and let go a little. This is really happening.
The elevator opens onto the Carmichael Publishing floor. The same receptionist I met last week is sitting at the large front desk, phone pinned to her ear. She holds up a finger, asking me to wait. Once she hangs up, I approach the desk.
“Hi, I’m…”
“Ali Hartman. I remember,” she interrupts. The receptionist smiles at me, her face open and friendly. “I’m good with names and faces.”
“That must make your job a bit easier.”
She laughs. “It really does. Jenny is expecting you. Do you remember how to get to her desk?”
“I’m not great with directions,” I tell her honestly. “Can you point me where I need to go?”
“Of course. Her desk is at the end of the row just to your left.”
“Perfect. Thanks so much!”
“Sure thing!”
I walk to Jenny’s desk, and the woman jumps up and gives me a hug as I approach. “Ali! Are you here with good news?”
I pull the folder from my bag. “I am!”
Jenny practically shakes with excitement. She’s a friendly person and I love her for it. “This is amazing. I’m so excited to get to work! I shouldn’t tell you this, but I’ve already got your editorial letter ready. I figured I’d trash it if you went somewhere else.”
