I pull out my headphones and get to work immediately. I don’t like staying for more than two hours. Randy is a friend, and I don’t want him to sacrifice a well-paying table for me. I’m writing the first line for the fifth time when Randy brings my fries and coffee. I smile at him gratefully.
“No worries, girl.” He walks away, leaving me to my own thoughts.
Absolutely zero inspiration comes though, and after a while, my eyes begin to sting. I’ve been staring at my computer for over an hour when I see a man slide into the booth across from me. My head whips up—is this guy actually going to sit at my table? I open my mouth to speak, but my tongue sticks to the top of my mouth.
It’s the man from last night—the one who paid for my drinks. He’s sans hat today too, which allows me to admire his dark, messy hair. He’s watching me with an amused expression.
“Stalking me?” I quip, smiling.
He returns my smile with a heart-stopping smile of his own. Oh, shit. I’m in trouble. “Let me guess,” he starts, his low voice captivating. “Writer.”
I suck my lips in and look away. “Caught me.” I feel myself blush.
He nods once. “What do you write?”
When I look up at him, he’s leaning in with his face propped up on one hand. His bright, copper eyes are intoxicatingly beautiful. He’s scruffy, but not too much—and he’s wearing a black button-up. Something about him is familiar, but I can’t quite figure out why. He looks thoroughly interested in talking to me. Why?
“Umm, nothing yet. I’m kind of stuck at the moment.”
His piercing eyes study me. I wipe my hands on my jeans and have to look away. I glance at Randy, who is watching me with an entertained expression behind the counter. I roll my eyes at him and turn back to the man in my booth.
“Am I boring you?” he asks, his voice sharp like a needle but his expression lighthearted.
I feel my blush deepen. “No. I’m sorry, but do you need something?” I challenge, hoping to make it very clear that I have work to do. I pull my laptop closer to drive the point home.
He sits up straight and crosses his arms. “Have you eaten?”
I eye the empty plate of fries and the coffee I slurped in three sips. “Yes.”
“Besides the side order of fries. Have you had a proper breakfast?” God, his voice is so deep. I want to write the way it sounds. Intense. Rich. Stony.
What is this guy’s deal? How did he know I ordered fries? My eyes wander over him—he’s very good-looking in a reclusive, mysterious way. His skin is pale, and the small, dark circles under his eyes worry me. Is he crazy? In New York City you can never really tell.
“No. As you’ve probably guessed from last night, I’m not made of money at the moment.” I hate myself for having to admit that to a handsome stranger, but there it is. “Thank you again,” I say quieter. I look down and tug at my sweatshirt zipper.
“What’s your name?” he inquires, his eyes twinkling. For all I know, this guy is piss-drunk. He probably doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Like I said, crazy.
“Finley.” I reach my hand out. “You?”
“Emerson.” His warm hand grips mine firmly. I feel a small tug in the pit of my stomach as everything suddenly becomes clearer. Emerson.
“Emerson? As in . . . Emerson Whittaker?” As in one of my very favorite authors, Emerson Whittaker?
He grins. When he smiles, the lines around his mouth get super-defined. It makes him look younger than I’m sure he is. His face makes me want to do stupid things. “So you’ve heard of me.”
My mouth is open in a large O. “I am such a huge fan,” I gush. “The epilogue in your last book . . .” I trail off. “Come to think of it, every epilogue you’ve ever written has reduced me to tears.” I bite my tongue to keep the word vomit at bay. I could compliment him for hours.
He nods indifferently. “Thanks.”
I shake my head. I’ve seen pictures of Emerson Whittaker before on the sleeves of his books. But those must be old pictures, because the Emerson before me is slightly older and more rugged. The scruff drastically changes his looks.
Why is Emerson Whittaker talking to me? He’s a brilliant genius. He should be home writing his next genius novel—not here, talking to me. “Why are you talking to me?” And then it dawns on me—the man from last night was Emerson Whittaker. I want to smack myself on the forehead. Did it have to be Emerson who witnessed my failed adulting?
How embarrassing.
“Well, I saw you from across the diner. I came over to see if you wanted to have breakfast with me.”
My mouth hangs open. “Because you know I’m poor?” I say a little too loudly. That has to be it—he pities me.
I want to crawl underneath the table and disappear forever.
He laughs. “No. Because I find you interesting.”
His words stump me. Interesting? Me? I mean . . . I guess you could call my quirks interesting. “I swear, I’m just your run-of-the-mill struggling writer living in the city. There are thousands like me.”
He furrows his brow and frowns. “No, I don’t think there are.”
My stomach flops. And then it flops again when the corners of his mouth tick up into that heartbreaking smile again. “Breakfast would be lovely. I like fried eggs, sunny side up. And bacon. Actually, since you’re paying, make that extra bacon.” I mean it as a joke, but the second I say it, I clamp my hand over my mouth. “Oh God. I was kidding. I don’t want to assume you’ll pay, because—”
“Finley,” he says gruffly, “it’s fine.” His eyes leave mine, and he catches Randy’s eye. I groan. Now Randy is getting involved too.
“Hello, Finley’s guest,” Randy says, smirking at me. “Would you like to order?” His eyes wander over Emerson’s body not-so-subtly.
“Yes,” Emerson starts. I admire the way his jaw moves when he talks. “We’ll both have two fried eggs, sunny side up, with bacon.” He closes the menu. “Actually, make that extra bacon. For both of us.” He looks at me as he hands Randy the menus. “More coffee?” I nod. “And two coffees.”
Randy scribbles something into his pad. When he looks up, he winks at me. “You got it.” He turns quickly and walks away.
Emerson leans in and clasps his hands together. I have to remind myself to inhale. And exhale.
“Friend of yours?” he pries.
I nod. “Yep. I kind of come here a lot.”
He smiles. “So, struggling writer?” His smile is so endearing. It’s lopsided, and I have a feeling he uses its charm to his advantage.
“I’m not struggling, per se. I have a retail job at Diptyque.”
“Those are the overpriced candles, right?” How can Emerson Whittaker be thoroughly absorbed in the fact that I sell candles? I feel like I am living in an alternate universe.
“Y-yeah,” I stutter, watching him as his eyes flick over my face quickly.
“I’m writing a new book, and I need some help,” he says slowly. “Would you be interested?”
I begin to speak and stop. Is he being serious? One minute, I’m sitting in here with headphones that don’t even work because I’m too poor to get them fixed—and how I dearly hope he hadn’t noticed that they weren’t connected to anything—and the next minute Emerson Whittaker is offering me a job?
Is this real life?
“Are you serious?” I whisper.
He nods. Then he bites his lower lip, a look of guilt overcoming his face. “If I’m being honest, you have a reputation in the industry.” I begin to speak, but he interjects. “The bestseller maker. You do ghostwriting, right?”
“How . . .” I trail off.
He shrugs. “Madeleine Martel gave me your information. Next time, don’t check yourself into places on Facebook. Especially since your profile is public. There are real psychos out there, Finley.” His inflection is authoritative, and it startles me.
“Wait, so you are stalking me?” I have to admit, the notion doesn’t scare me as much as it sh
ould. His reference to my old agent throws me off though. I left Madeleine’s agency a month ago—is she still referring clients to me?
He laughs. “Lightweight stalking. I wanted to see if you’d be interested in ghostwriting my next novel.”
I look down, taking in his words. “I don’t work for Madeleine anymore. I decided to leave the world of ghostwriting and write my own stuff.”
“I think that’s great.” He watches me and I can tell he’s wondering how he should say what he’s about to say. “Please? This can be the last gig you do. I can even pay you a bonus.”
My ears perk up, as does my body. I really need some extra income right now. “A bonus?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. And you could write your own stuff on the side. At the end of it all, I could refer you to my literary agency.”
I stare at him.
“You’re bribing me.” I barely whisper the words due to my utter embarrassment and anger.
Everything comes into focus.
He knew I was a writer, because Madeleine told him.
He knows how much I would love a meeting with any literary agency, let alone his agency.
I can feel my face redden as anger permeates my body. It doesn’t feel great to be bribed with money, especially since he knows I could use it. He’s taking advantage of me. I shake my head and stand, grabbing my laptop. “And here I just thought you were being nice and buying me breakfast.” I don’t look at him as I turn to leave. I get about three feet away when I feel his hand on my arm.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” he says sincerely. I look up at him, standing right next to me. He’s tall—almost a foot taller than me.
“I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your help either.” I tug my arm free but he steps in front of me. Damn.
“Please,” he begs. “Think of it this way. I’m sure you’d rather be helping me than slinging seventy-dollar candles for minimum wage.”
He has a good point. I slowly retreat back to the table and sit down with a huff. “What are the terms?” I request, my voice annoyed. I don’t want to come across as easy, but this is Emerson Whittaker, an author I have respected for years. And he is asking me to ghostwrite for him. You have a reputation in the industry . . . The bestseller maker. How can he know that? Isn’t that meant to be a well-kept secret? Did Madeleine tell him? I’m done with gigs, but maybe I should make an exception for him. Think of all I could learn working alongside him. And damn those golden eyes. Why does he have to be so seriously good-looking?
He smiles as he sits. “I can pay you really well. If you do decide to help me, just know that I have connections. I can get you an in with my agency. Six month commitment.”
“Talk to me in numbers,” I say, impatiently. After all, he’s the one hiring me.
“Twenty-five thousand down, and twenty percent of anything I make.”
I sit up straighter. “Are you kidding?” The going rate is about half that. “There has to be a catch.” I cross my arms.
He clears his throat. “It’s a live-in position.”
I gulp. “I’ve never lived with any of the authors I helped.”
He nods. “I know. But I write at my house in the Hamptons, and it really does make it easier to communicate.”
The Hamptons? Well, twist my arm . . .
I pretend to contemplate his terms. The money is great—more than great, even. It would help everything. The location is awesome. It’s not like he’s a crazy stalker. He’s a famous author. He has a Wikipedia page, for God’s sake. His eyes scan me, and I feel my body heat under his unyielding gaze. Why do his eyes feel like round X-ray machines? His focus on me is making me uncomfortable, and I try to focus on my chipped nail polish, pretending to be in deep thought.
“Have you ever used a ghostwriter before?”
“Yes,” he utters simply. It doesn’t surprise me. Most authors have at one point or another. That’s why Madeleine’s agency, which represents solely ghostwriters, does so well.
He reaches into the messenger bag I didn’t see before. He pulls out a few pages. “Here’s a contract my lawyer helped me with. In case you need some legitimacy.” His tone is serious.
I glance down at the papers. “You came prepared.”
“I knew you’d say yes.” He smiles.
I frown. “I haven’t said yes yet.”
I read through the nondisclosure agreement first, trying to ignore Emerson’s distracting fidgeting across from me. The agreement is pretty standard. I obviously have to commit to full secrecy. I’m not allowed to tell anyone about my arrangement with him. Except, of course, Hannah—I tell her everything. I’d trust her with my life. But he doesn’t have to know that.
I nod and continue on to the contract. I get to the part about payment. There it is, those magical numbers. My eyes pop when I see the line about lifetime royalties.
“Most authors give me a cap on royalties. One month, six months . . . why lifetime royalties?” I ask quietly.
He adjusts himself in his seat and clears his throat. “I just want you to be compensated fairly.” I nod. That’s a first. I continue to read. “I also pay your rent and utilities back in the city, so you don’t have to worry about it while you’re gone,” he adds.
I snap my head up. “This all sounds way too good to be true.” I slide the papers back to him. “Tell me seriously. What’s the catch? Do you have a weird fetish? Are you going to work me twenty hours a day?”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “No catches. Well,” he starts, leaning forward, “I turn off the Internet and television while I write. So if technology is your thing, you might be bored.”
That’s the catch? I can deal with that. “Are you planning on murdering me, Mr. Whittaker?” I tease. “It sounds like you want to kidnap me and make it impossible for me to communicate with the outside world.”
“No.” He chortles. “But I do know your generation cares more about those kind of things than I do. Hence the extra money.”
“My generation?” I look at him. “You’re not much older than me.”
This time he really laughs. His head lolls back and a deep, booming sound comes out of his beautiful mouth. “You can’t be older than twenty-five.”
I harrumph and cross my arms. “Twenty-six, to be exact. And you’re, what, thirty?”
“Thirty-five.” He’s watching me for my reaction. I study his bright eyes, laugh lines, and overall demeanor. He’s thirty-five? “But I know my youthful good looks throw some people off.”
He is not wrong about his youthful good looks. Sigh. Am I really considering this? How could I not? I only need to give two weeks’ notice for my retail job, so I would need to know when he wants me to start. Hannah. She is going to think this is crazy. How could she not? I do! Will she cope living on her own? Will we still see each other? We’ve lived inside each other’s pockets for the last eight years. Twenty-five thousand and royalties. But not just the money. Connections. Connections so hard to come by. I can’t say no.
I smile and look down. “Do you have a pen?”
He beams at me. His teeth are bright and mostly straight, except for his right incisor, which overlaps slightly with the tooth next to it. Somehow, it makes him more charming.
As I sign, I sigh loudly. What the hell am I agreeing to? I hand the papers to him, and he tucks them away into his bag.
“Are you able to start on Monday?” he asks, reaching into his pocket for his phone.
I nod. My manager at Diptyque is going to hate me for agreeing to this. “Sure.”
He grins and hands the phone to me. “Program your number. I’ll call you later.”
I take his phone gently, finding his contacts and entering my name as Finley, and company as Super Secret Helper. He laughs when I hand it back. “Nice.”
Just then, the food comes. We chat for a bit about his books. I don’t talk about anything deep or personal for fear I’ll scare him away. I don’t want to ruin my chance at making good money and
getting a legitimate meeting with an agent down the road. This could open a lot of doors for me.
Soon after we finish, he excuses himself. He leaves an undisclosed amount of cash hidden in the check holder.
“I will call you later, Finley.” He reaches out to shake my hand. “I’m looking forward to doing business with you.” His eyes search mine, and I feel that same pang in my stomach as before.
“Did I really have a choice?” I joke.
He chuckles and walks off, saluting me. I automatically salute him back. I watch him as he leaves, and then I look over at Randy. He rushes over and opens the check holder. A one-hundred-dollar bill sits atop the twenty-three-dollar check. He waves it around and raises his perfectly arched eyebrows.
“Ohhhh, girl . . . you in trouble.” He clucks his tongue and saunters away, humming a song.
I am indeed in trouble.
CHAPTER THREE
Finley
“Hello?” I close the front door behind me. Silence greets me. Hannah must still be asleep. I hang my purse up and slip my sandals off.
“Finley?” Hannah calls from her room.
“Be right there.” I pour some coffee into a mug with creamer and walk into her bedroom. My hands are still shaking from breakfast. I have to keep checking my phone to make sure it’s real. Emerson texted me shortly after I left the diner.
Finley—now you have my number.
From,
Your Super Secret Boss
I read the text at least thirty times on my walk home.
When I get to her bedroom, the blinds are still shut and she’s lying on her side, staring at her phone.
“I have good and bad news,” I say, sitting on the end of her bed and handing her the mug. She takes it gratefully.
“Spill.”
“I got offered a new gig, and it pays extremely well.” She sits up and opens her mouth to talk, but I continue speaking. “I know I said I wasn’t going to take anymore gigs, but you’ll never guess who swindled me into working for them . . .”
She stares at me. “J.K. Rowling?” With her lopsided ponytail and pillowcase-lined cheek, she is the epitome of cute. What are these scouts not seeing in her to deny her roles?
Between the Pages: A Novel Page 2
