As I hear her run out of the back door and onto the deck, guilt wracks my body. Maybe I was too harsh. It’s her first day. Maybe Brady forgot to give her the house rules. She’s naturally curious. I appreciate that. It makes for a good writer.
I sigh and run my hand through my hair. As I cool down, I recognize I definitely overreacted. In my defense, it was simply a gut reaction. I slowly close the door behind me, glancing at the desk as I do. I wonder what she saw—and then I feel sick with the possibilities of what she could’ve seen.
I make my way down the stairs, and Brady looks at me and then to the back door, concerned. “She seems upset,” he says, flipping a grilled cheese sandwich.
“Yeah. I caught her in my office.”
Brady doesn’t say anything. A smile curves onto the edge of his lips. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
“I think I overreacted,” I add.
“You probably did.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose and looks at me expectantly. “Go apologize. Make it quick though. Lunch is almost ready.”
I eye him before letting myself out onto the deck. I spot her sitting on the sand near the water. I look back at Brady, and he’s full-on grinning as he flips the sandwiches again.
A small smile begins to creep onto my face. I regret my reaction, because to be quite honest, I’m intrigued by her audacity. Even the other day at the diner, I wanted to know more about Finley Matthews. I still want to know more.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Finley
Mortification.
Humiliation.
Shame.
Guilt.
Remorse.
Do you know what all of those words have in common? They’re all attacking my mind like little buzzards, making it impossible to feel anything but self-loathing. Emerson had one rule, and within an hour of starting my new job, I broke that rule. I’ve always considered myself to be clever; smart even. However, right now I feel like scum.
“Finley.” I tense. Emerson is behind me, and he’s probably about to berate me for intruding. God, can I just die right now? Like, right this very second?
Instead, he sits down next to me and stares out at the ocean. I can’t help but scrutinize him—is he mad? Disappointed? The latter would be worse, especially coming from a man I greatly admire.
But he doesn’t say anything. He just wraps his arms around his knees casually and ignores me, watching a pair of seagulls chase each other along the shore. Is this his way of silently torturing me? His thumbs begin to work against each other. I’ve noticed he fiddles with his hands a lot.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. He grimaces and turns his head to me. “I didn’t mean to react that way.”
Is he serious right now? “Why are you apologizing? I’m the one who broke the rule,” I say loudly. There’s a tint of anger to my words—not directed at him, but at myself. I think I’d almost rather he be mad. At least that way I could wallow in my self-loathing and hate myself even more.
“I know. And I’ll tell you one more time. Please don’t go into my office.” He frowns and watches me, his honey-brown eyes inquiring, studying. Writer’s eyes. Always observing.
“I won’t. I promise.” I tuck my chin into the space between my knees.
He nods once and turns his head toward the sea again. I follow his gaze, saying nothing. In fact, we’re both quiet for a few minutes. The squawks of seagulls are our only soundtrack. Emerson is the first to speak.
“Why did you feel the need to spy?” His words aren’t accusatory. Instead, he’s merely curious. Normally, a sentence like that would mortify me, but with Emerson, I just smile. He has a way of phrasing things to make me feel completely at ease.
“I don’t know. I guess I just realized I know almost nothing about you. Aside from the information your book jacket provides. I was curious. And I happen to be extremely nosy.”
He chuckles, and the sound erases all my tension. I realize he’s not going to fire me. Not today, anyway.
“Well, what do you want to know?” he asks, placing the side of his face in one hand and turning his head to look at me. I study his scruff for a second, and the way his eyes are so distinguished and weathered. Not weathered as in aged—just wise. For a second, my stomach flips, and his smile widens. God, his smile makes me delirious.
“Lunch,” Brady yells from behind us. It startles me—I’d forgotten about Brady and about lunch for that matter. My stomach grumbles in response.
“We’ll have to continue this discussion later,” Emerson says, his demeanor relaxed and blithe. He hops up first and holds a hand out for me. I try not to notice the way his fitted jeans hug his thighs or the way his white button-up is loose around his hips. This guy was a professor, yet he dresses like a college student.
I place my hand in his, and the warmth shocks me. He pulls me up in one fell swoop and grins, and my heart definitely skips a beat. His eyes are blazing, hot. Why does he have this effect on me?
“Yes,” I say, barely a whisper. He releases my hand the instant I’m up, and we walk toward the house together.
“I think you’ll like it here,” he says, watching me inquisitively. I nod, and look back at the beach. The white sand mixed with the dark blue ocean really does have an inspiring effect. No wonder so many authors write by the beach. The blue goes on and on . . . the possibilities are endless, just like the salt water.
“Yep, I think I’ll like it just fine.”
Emerson, Brady, and I sit down at the rustic, wooden table in the formal dining room. Brady carries in a steaming pile of grilled cheese sandwiches and three bowls of tomato soup with fresh basil. My mouth begins to water. As far as cooking goes, Hannah is the chef in our apartment. She’s like a food ninja. I’ve attempted different recipes, but cooking does not come easily to me. I’m always burning the garlic in the oil.
“Mmm,” I say, reaching out for a sandwich. “Thank you, Brady. This looks delicious.”
Brady gives Emerson a smug smile, and they share a weird moment. I don’t dwell on it though, because this is the best meal I’ve had in a long time. I can tell the cheese is expensive, and the soup is homemade. Hannah and I usually use Velveeta and canned Campbell’s tomato soup. This is gourmet shit.
“Ina taught me,” Brady says.
I almost choke on the crusty bread. “Ina . . . Garten?” My eyes are wide as I stare at Brady expectantly.
“She’s a friend of mine,” Emerson begins. I turn my face toward him. “I organized a cooking internship for Brady with her last summer. She lives down the street.”
I’m stunned. Hannah and I steal cable from our neighbors (something Geoff helped set up—I’m still not one hundred percent sure how it works. I am, however, one hundred percent sure it’s not legal). For three months we watched nothing but the cooking channel. Which for us was ninety-nine percent Barefoot Contessa, i.e. Ina Garten and her amazing, fresh, not-so-healthy cooking. I adore her.
“I’m so jealous that you know her,” I mumble, sipping my soup. “She’s like the Julia Child of my generation.”
“She’s pretty great,” Brady agrees, smiling. “Did you know she spends one hundred dollars a week on cheese alone?”
“I believe that,” I counter, grinning. “Gotta love cheese.” I sigh.
Emerson laughs. “I’ll have to introduce you. I had no idea you were such a huge fan.”
I drop my spoon on the table, and tomato soup flies everywhere. “Seriously?” I exclaim, giddy. “I would love that.” I wipe the soup off my tank top.
“Can you cook?” Emerson asks, chewing his sandwich.
“Oh, no. I’m a terrible cook. But Ina gives me the confidence to try.”
They both laugh. The three of us finish our meal, enjoying a casual conversation. Brady excuses himself first, clearing the table with impressive speed and efficiency.
“I’ll say my goodbyes now,” he says, balancing the plates and bowls in one hand and shaking my hand with the other. I wonder if Ina taught him that t
oo? “Nice meeting you, Finley. I look forward to working with you.”
“Thanks, Brady.” He gives Emerson a thumbs up and leaves. “Is he leaving for the day?” I ask Emerson.
“Yeah. His work for me is on call. He has a lot of schoolwork to do. Crazy kid is taking online summer courses. In my day, summer was for play. I guess that’s not the case anymore. Your generation is too ambitious if you ask me.” He leans back and puts his hands behind his head, and a sliver of skin appears below the bottom hem of his shirt. I have to look away, because the pale skin with a small trail of dark hair is distracting.
“My generation?” I smile and place my chin in the palm of my hand, resting it on the table. “Why do you keep saying my generation? I’m really not that much younger than you.”
He chuckles. “Nine years is a long time. I was thinking of ways to feel up Mindy Hawthorne when you were three.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Please tell me you at least succeeded?”
He winks. “You bet I succeeded. I’ve never had any issues with succeeding.” He stares at me with amusement. “I don’t know why I just told you that.” He straightens up, the smile disappearing. “I don’t remember what my point was.”
I smirk. “You attempted and failed to prove that we are from different generations.”
He pushes back from the table suddenly. “We should get to work. Did you come prepared to write?”
I hear Brady load the dishwasher. I want him to stay. He’s the buffer. Without him, how am I supposed to function properly around Emerson? I guess the third wheel is a good thing sometimes.
“Yep. Let’s do this. I’m just going to go change.” I stand and gesture to my tomato-soup-splattered shirt.
“Sure. Why don’t you meet me on the deck in ten minutes.”
“Okay,” I agree, and I quickly jog up the stairs. I can feel Emerson’s eyes on me as I go up, but I don’t allow myself to look back at him. I get to my room and close the door behind me.
I can do this. Six months isn’t that long in the grand scheme of things. So what if the man I’ll be working with is beautiful, enigmatic, and intense? Geoff is good-looking too, and he’s off limits. I’ve never felt this way about him, but from now on, that’s my new tactic.
Emerson is Geoff—off-limits. Unavailable. I laugh at myself. Hannah would get a kick out of all of this. I quickly take my tank top off and throw on a baggy white T-shirt before slipping into some leather sandals.
I check my phone before leaving. Five missed calls from Hannah. I plug it into the charger and leave it on my nightstand. I’ll call her later. I check myself in the standing mirror next to the dresser.
It’ll do. I can’t look like I’m dressing up for Emerson. Because I’m not, nor do I want to. I resolve to get rid of these funky feelings today. It’ll make the next six months bearable.
I walk down the stairs slowly. The house is quiet now that Brady is gone. I walk to the living room and glance out the window leading to the driveway. The Subaru has vacated the driveway. I briefly wonder what car Emerson will be lending me for the weekends. I turn around and inspect the rest of the living room. A large bookcase covers one whole wall, and I glide over quickly, perusing the titles. Some I’ve heard of; most I haven’t. I’ll have to borrow a few in the coming weeks. A brown leather sectional, a Moroccan rug, and dark wood make up the rest of this room. I notice a few candles, a lighter, and some magazines—my kind of room.
Down the hall, I peek my head into the kitchen to soak up more of the house. Brady must’ve cleaned because the marble counters are sparkling. Copper pots and pans hang above the small island, and four stools are arranged across one side. I smile when I see six Ina Garten cookbooks stacked next to his coffee maker.
Coffee. I check the clock. I still have a couple minutes. Luckily, it seems as if Brady left the coffee maker on, because I’m able to pour myself a small mug of steaming, black liquid. I hunt in the fridge for creamer, but I only see milk. Blegh.
“Looking for something in particular?” Emerson inquires, startling me. He’s leaning against the counter with crossed arms. How did he walk in so quietly?
“Uh, yeah. Do you have coffee creamer?”
He raises his eyebrows. “As in Coffee Mate creamer?” I nod, relieved. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but we don’t have any creamer. You shouldn’t be drinking that stuff anyway.”
I open my mouth, appalled. I shut the fridge and put my hands on my hips. “Oh, so you’re a food snob? Is that your thing?”
He laughs. “I’m not a food snob.”
I let out a loud, frustrated breath of air. “I’m sure you and Ina get together and laugh at us plebeians. Right?” I cry, outraged but smiling.
Emerson smiles smugly. “Yes. That is exactly what we do in our free time.” He reaches out for my mug. “Can I show you something?”
I shrug. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person to wait for permission. I step aside as he gathers a few ingredients.
Whole milk. Sugar. Vanilla extract.
I watch him as he mixes the milk, sugar, and vanilla into a small pouring bowl. He adds a dash of cinnamon and pours the concoction into my coffee, handing the finished product to me.
“Try that and compare.”
I reluctantly take the coffee and take a sip. My eyes widen. “Holy shit. It’s delicious.” Better yet, it doesn’t leave the same film of oil on the roof of my mouth as creamer does, which is undoubtedly a good thing.
Emerson beams, satisfied. “I personally like my coffee black, but in lieu of creamer, I’ll make a batch of this for you in the mornings.”
“You would do that?” I look up at him in surprise. I don’t know him very well, but the kindness he continues to display astounds me.
He shrugs casually. “Sure. Happy writer, happy life.”
I guffaw. “I’m pretty sure it’s happy wife, happy life.”
“Well, you’re not my wife. You’re my writer.” His smile drops.
For the second time today, I want to crawl under the house. An awkward moment passes, and I look down as I sip my coffee. Shit, shit, shit.
“Right. Shall we?” I point to the back door, the bright deck summoning us.
“Yep. Let’s go.” His voice is stiff.
I let Emerson walk ahead of me as I berate myself for saying and doing so many stupid things on my first day. Then again, speaking before thinking is commonplace for me. I tend to spew imbecilic things when I’m nervous.
He casually sits down on one of the lounge chairs, and I take the seat next to him.
“You ready for an icebreaker?” he asks, his charming smile squeezing my heart with every beat. Man, this guy is hot and cold.
“I’m not sure,” I whisper, because it’s the truth.
An uneasy smile pervades my face once again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Emerson
“Okay, first question,” I start, twiddling my fingers together conspiratorially. She takes a deep breath and nods. I like that she’s nervous—it means she cares about this job. I need that security, especially for this book. “If there was any country in the world that you would travel to, where would it be?” I always ask my writers this question, and I’m extremely curious to hear her answer.
“That’s easy. I’m more than infatuated with the royal family, so it would be England,” she answers with absolute delight in her eyes. “I’ll get over there one day.”
She’s honest. I like that. Most writers give me an exotic location: Peru, Oaxaca, Japan. I smile as I think of the next question.
“Where’d you grow up?”
“New York City,” she says without a beat. I don’t say anything for a few seconds, and her inquiring gaze penetrates mine, waiting for me to answer her. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Upper East Side?” I query innocently. Her cheeks redden, and I stare at the beauty mark under her right eye. “I have a knack for accents,” I explain, answering her question. She doesn’t need
to know that it’s a lie.
“Upper East Siders have an accent?” She looks impressed, and it makes me strangely happy to have impressed her.
“No, not necessarily. But people who grew up in Manhattan do.” I smile and lean back in my chair. Nailed it.
“Okay . . . but how did you know I’m from the Upper East Side specifically?” She says it accusingly, but her full lips are turned up at the corners. She’s amused.
“Well for one, you seem hard up for cash.” She narrows her eyes. “No offense,” I add.
She crosses her arms. “Okay. And?” Again, her voice may seem annoyed, but now she’s curious. She leans forward to look at me. Her cleavage is showing. I have to look away before I stare for too long.
“Two, you live in the East Village.” She waits for me to continue, but I just raise my eyebrows.
“I’m not understanding,” she says slowly.
“The East Village is a mecca for kids who grew up on the Upper East Side but want to make it on their own. Thus, a lot of them are broke because they refuse Mommy and Daddy’s money.”
She stares at me. For a second, I think I must’ve overstepped a boundary because she scowls and narrows her eyes at me.
“You know, we’re not all like that. You’re pigeonholing.”
I laugh out loud. “But I’m right.”
“So?” she asks, flinging her arms out to the side. Her voice is high-pitched and frustrated. I have to bite my lip from laughing again, because she looks so goddamn cute.
Cute? Jesus, Emerson. Get a grip. I sigh and look down. Am I flirting?
“Anyway,” I say casually, “that was a good icebreaker, no?”
She repositions herself so that her hands are on her knees. A look of mild detestation passes across her face. “Sure. Now why don’t you tell me about Emerson Whittaker? I read you were a professor at NYU. I went to NYU. When did you leave?”
“Right before spring semester in 2009,” I say hesitantly.
“That’s crazy. I started in the fall of 2008. What class did you teach?”
“Advanced Creative Writing,” I say carefully.
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