Between the Pages: A Novel (2 page)

“It’s no problem at all,” he says simply. I think I see the hint of a smile on his face, but then he looks at his martini.

“Well, thank you again.” I smile, even though he’s not looking in my direction. I turn and walk back to Hannah, careful not to spill our free drinks.

“What was that about?” she demands, taking a sip of her Old Fashioned.

“Nothing. I was just making small talk.”

“Finley . . .” Her voice sounds annoyed, but she’s watching me lovingly.

“Fine. My cards were declined, so that man paid for our drinks. It was very nice of him.”

“And?” she grills, sitting up straighter.

“And I thanked him,” I reply. I sip my drink.

She’s quiet for a minute. “We still don’t have money for skee-ball.”

I burst out laughing. “When did our lives get to this point?” I ask, suddenly melancholy.

She shrugs. “When we grew up, I guess.”

We don’t stick around long enough to get any more free drinks. Instead, we decide to go home early and watch reruns of Sex and the City. Curious about the quiet, generous man, I look for him as I pass the bar. Something about him draws me. But his stool is empty.

CHAPTER TWO

Finley

Predictably, I wake at 6:55 and get ready for my day off. Pulling on a pair of old jeans, a white tank top, and a lavender zip-up hoodie, I then slip into some tan sandals and secure my hair at the top of my head with an old pencil. Once my teeth are brushed and my face washed, I grab my laptop and head out to Remedy Diner, two blocks away on Houston.

I love this diner. It’s open 24/7, and I definitely take advantage of that as well as the
very
large-portioned fries for four dollars. If I’m feeling crazy, sometimes I’ll order the $5.50 onion rings, but today I can only scrounge $4.95—just enough for the fries and a small tip. The retro décor appeals to me, and if I take my headphones, I can concentrate better here than at home.

My usual spot is a sunny booth all the way in the back. As Randy comes over I smile brightly.

“You’re up early,” he says, his bright smile welcome. He checks his watch and whistles to emphasize his point. “7:23. That’s a record for you, Finley.”

I laugh and shrug. “I’m determined to write a thousand words today. I’ve rewritten the first sentence a billion times.”

He shakes his head. “Good luck with that. I’ll bring the usual. Coffee’s on me.” He struts away.

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 should. 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 . . .