Between the Pages: A Novel (3 page)

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?

I laugh. “If only. Emerson Whittaker.” Even his name gives me goosebumps.

“Wow! That’s great! But . . .?” She watches me apprehensively.

“I have to move out for six months,” I say slowly, waiting for her reaction. I’m not sure how she’ll take it. I’m pretty independent, but she’s the kind of person who needs someone around. We’ve known each other since we were eleven, and she’s the extrovert of our duo.

She doesn’t say anything at first. I think it’s because she’s about to cry, but then she gives me a small, guilty smile. “Geoff wants to move in together.”

Now I’m the one who’s stunned into silence. “What? Really?” Hannah never keeps secrets from me. I know her intentions weren’t conniving, but I am genuinely surprised. I know she loves Geoff. However, I had no idea they were serious enough to consider cohabitation. We’ve lived together for almost eight years—since our freshman year of college. In the ever-changing atmosphere that is the East Village, we’ve always remained constant—even our rent has stayed the same thanks to rent control.

And now it seems like everything is being flipped upside down.

“When he brought the new coffee table over yesterday, he asked me. He wants to move in.” She looks at me with wide eyes. “I wanted to ask you last night, but I chickened out.”

I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m really happy for you guys. I’m glad you won’t be alone.”

Thinking about it, this might actually be a blessing in disguise. Geoff can take care of Hannah, and I can keep my room here if need be, rent paid.

“You’re not moving out permanently,” Hannah says, and at first I think it’s a question. She glares at me, and that’s when I realize it was a statement. “You’ll come back, right?”

I laugh. “As long as you guys will have me. Emerson is paying my rent, so if Geoff is moving in, you guys can pay less.”

“That’s a relief. I didn’t get the
Annie
job, by the way.” She studies me apprehensively. “So,
why
exactly do you have to move out?” She finishes her coffee and curls up under the covers again. I envy her ability to sleep late. I’ve never been able to.

“He wants me to move into his house in the Hamptons.”

“Shut the front door,” she gasps, sitting up again and taking my hands. “Can I come visit? Please?”

“I think that might violate the nondisclosure agreement I signed an hour ago,” I reply, laughing. “But it’s not entirely off the table.” For some reason, I don’t think Emerson would mind if I told my best friend. Speaking of . . . “Oh, remember that guy who paid for our drinks last night? The one who humiliatingly watched both of my cards get declined?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“That was Emerson Whittaker.”

“Shut. The. Front. Door,” she repeats, grinning from ear to ear.

“I know.”

The smile drips off her face as realization sets in. “Wait, so you happened to run into him at Remedy less than twelve hours later?” Her eyes are narrowed in concern.

I shrug. “He found me because I checked myself in on Facebook. He lives somewhere in the East Village,” I add defensively. But, she has a point.

“That’s creepy,” she mumbles. “Remind me to stop checking myself into places.” I laugh. “So, when are you leaving?” She phrases it in such a way that I figure she doesn’t really want to know the answer.

“I don’t know.” She gives me a small, sad smile. “But now you have Geoff.”

“He’s not the same.” She throws her covers off and stands. “He doesn’t know to bring me coffee in bed.”

“I’ll leave him some notes before I go.” I walk over and hug Hannah tightly.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispers. “But I’m so happy for you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” I pull away and take her hands. “This is a good thing. At least I think it is.”

*

After a ninety-minute writing session, where I got
no
writing done, I decide it’s time to quit my day job. My hands shake as I dial the number to Diptyque in the West Village. I know it’s shitty to quit without giving two weeks’ notice, but to be honest, I’m not sure they’ll want me to return once I tell them I’m leaving. Samantha, my manager, has a tendency to burn bridges when she’s scorned. It’s like she’s personally offended when people don’t love the suffocating smell of burning soy like she does.

“Welcome to Diptyque, this is Miranda. How can I help you?”

I let out a sigh of relief. “Hey Miranda, it’s Finley. Can I please speak to Samantha?”

“Sure.” Her voice is overly perky, and I begin to feel guilty about leaving my awesome co-workers. “Hold on one second.”

The background music begins to play, and it’s The Black Keys. I sing along to
Fever
for a few seconds before Sam comes on the line.

“Finley? Please tell me you’re not calling in sick. We’ve been swamped, and we really need you this week.”

I gulp. Talk about a guilt trip to the max. “Umm, I’m actually calling to be taken off the schedule. I booked a writing job, and it starts next week.” Silence meets me on the other end. “I’m sorry,” I add hopefully.

“I’m just finding this a bit unprofessional,” she says slowly. My heart drops. I hate disappointing people.

“I know. But it all happened this morning, and I wanted to tell you as soon as possible.”

“You can’t come back,” she barks. “When this whole writing thing doesn’t work out.”

I don’t know what to say, so I mutter, “O-okay. I understand.”

“You’re screwing us over, Finley.” She sighs. “But I guess I have no choice.”

I feel like crying. “I’m sorry.” I mean it. I didn’t mean to screw things up for everyone.

She hangs up without another word, and I blow a breath of air out of my mouth and fall back onto my bed.
Shit.
Am I crazy for agreeing to this? The money
is
good, but the terms? I’ll miss Hannah. I’ll miss the city. I’m giving up a steady job to write for someone else.

Again.

This was always supposed to be temporary. I was lucky enough to get a meeting with Madeleine right out of college at NYU. One of my writing professors referred me, and when I began to write for other people, I loved it. The pay was good and the work was easy. That was four years ago. It was my ticket out of the strong, controlling grip of Mary and Gabriel Matthews: my parents. I gratefully accepted their financial help to get through college, but the second I had my diploma in my hand, I cut off all contact with them.

I wanted to make it on my own. Without them. Without their influence. Without their
money.
Money was all they knew. I wanted more. I still want more. I wanted to make a name for myself.

So is writing for someone else
again
really the best way to do that? Maybe in this case, it is. It could lead to good things if all goes well. And why wouldn’t it go well?

I groan and turn onto my stomach. Just then, my phone rings. I glance at the screen, still in my hand. It’s Emerson, and he’s FaceTiming.
Shit.

I answer hesitantly, holding my finger over the camera. It takes a few seconds to connect. And then Emerson’s face pops up.

“Finley? Hello?”

I’m not ready for him to
see
me. I sit up. “Yes, one second,” I say quickly. I throw the phone facedown on the floor and stand, studying my reflection in my mirror above my bed. I tame my long hair, tucking it behind my ears. I smack my lips together and pinch my cheeks. I grab the phone and quickly hold it up, standing against the pale blue wall in my bedroom to ensure neutrality. I don’t want him to see my filthy room. He already knows too much about my depressing life.

“Hey,” he says, smiling.
Aaand he’s not wearing a shirt.
“Don’t mind me. I just got back from the gym.” A tribal tattoo creeps along his left collarbone. I want to know the story behind it. Also,
hello biceps.
They’re nice and meaty for someone who spends most of his life sitting at a desk.

“Oh. No worries.” I give him a tight smile.
Not interested in your chest,
I think, hoping to convey my indifference.
Or the way I find tattoos extremely attractive.

“I hate phone calls. Luckily, there’s this thing called FaceTime.” He smiles even wider.

“Yeah,” I say, agreeing nervously. “Technology is cool.”
Technology is cool?
Could I be any more awkward?

“Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about everything.” He’s walking somewhere—it’s too bright to see what it is. The beach maybe? “First of all, can you come out here tomorrow?”

My mouth hangs open.
Tomorrow?
“Uh, yeah. What’s the address?”

He scrunches his brows together and scowls. “I’ll send my assistant to get you,” he adds flippantly. “I don’t want you to have to worry about transportation. Just text me your address.”

“Sure. Sounds good.”

“Also, I don’t think I mentioned this earlier. You have weekends off. I’ll let you borrow my other car. That way you can drive to and from the city, and you can continue to hit up Ace Bar and Remedy Diner.” He winks.

I laugh. “You caught me,” I joke, throwing one hand up in surrender. I want to ask him if he followed me to Ace Bar, too, but that’ll have to wait until another time.

“I’m going to hook you up with Brady, my assistant. He’ll need your bank account and routing number. I’ll transfer the twenty-five thousand tonight, and if everything works out, once the book releases, we can work with the publisher to distribute your share of the royalties.”

God, this is really happening. In less than two hours, everything changed.

I nod, and when he looks at the camera expectantly, I realize I’ve been staring at his sweaty neck. “Yes. Fantastic.”

“Umm,” he says, looking away in thought. “What else . . .?” His eyes widen. “Oh, right. So tomorrow, come prepared to do some writing exercises. I want us to get a feel for each other’s writing. It might get a little intense.” He chuckles, waiting for my response. I try to act nonchalant, but a nervous smile appears on my lips. I study my reflection in the small square. Is that what I look like? Afraid and worried? I relax my face and smile like a real person. “I’m not afraid of a challenge.”

“Good.” He laughs. “Do you have any questions for me?”

I look up and touch my finger to my chin.
Only about a thousand . . .
“I don’t think so.” I want to plead,
Why do you have to be so good-looking?

“Okay, righteous. I’ll have Brady pick you up at nine, if that works.”

“Yep,” I say cheerfully.

“Oh, and Finley?” He’s walking into a house now. “Bring a bathing suit.”

The smile drops from my face. I hate swimming in the ocean. “Why?” I blurt. Before I can correct my rudeness, he just laughs harder.

“We’re right on the beach.” Just then, he rotates the camera and I get a glimpse of a wooden patio looking out onto the ocean. White sand, blue water, sea grass . . . what more could I need?

“That looks incredible . . .” I say quietly. The truth is, I love the beach—just not the water. My parents had a house in Montauk growing up, and my summers there as a child are some of my favorite memories. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He winks again and salutes. “Have a good day, Finley.” And then he disconnects the call.

I’m still smiling when I set the phone down on my nightstand.

“Oh, hell no.” Hannah’s voice reverberates from the doorframe. I jump.