“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “I mean, I would’ve remembered you, but I thought maybe we crossed paths or something. I didn’t take any advanced classes until my sophomore year.”
Cross paths. I can barely contain the irony I feel toward those words.
I perk up. “So, you would’ve remembered me?” Now she’s flame red, and I fucking love it.
“Well, yeah. I mean, you’re one of my favorite writers. Not that you were a famous writer then,” she babbles on.
“I think the fact that you’re a fan might become a conflict of interest for us. You have to stop brown-nosing me.”
She frowns. “I’m not brown-nosing you.”
I laugh. “Whatever you say. What’s your favorite book of mine?”
“Underground Love,” she says without thinking. She’s looking at me like I’m foolish for even asking.
I look at her almond-shaped dark blue eyes to gauge her sincerity. I find it twisted that that’s her favorite book.
She’s unwavering. That’s the thing I’ve come to find about Finley. One second she’s scared and uncertain, like after I caught her in my office. And other times, she’s genuine and unyielding. There’s something fierce and brave about Finley Matthews, yet at the same time, something timid and vulnerable. How is it possible that one person can contain such a myriad of personality traits at once?
“That was my first book. That was the only book I wrote entirely myself.” She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she just closes her mouth and pushes her lips together, nodding in understanding. “I just couldn’t focus after that book. I think because it was such a huge success, it paralyzed me. The pressure was insurmountable.”
“Have you tried?” she asks, her voice soft.
“A few times. But the ideas are so much easier than the words.”
“You should try again, Emerson. You have to commit to it though. You have to sit down and write whatever the fuck you want to write. Because your writing is wonderful, and I think it could be even better than a damn ghostwriter.”
I smile. Her words feel like a satin hug to my ego. “Hey, that’s your job you’re criticizing,” I tease. But she doesn’t laugh. She just watches me with tight, worried eyes.
“I know,” she utters quietly. “But it would be worth it to me to read your words.” She reaches out to my chest and places a hand above my heart. “Words from here.”
CHAPTER NINE
Finley
Oh my God. Oh my God. What am I doing? I slowly remove my hand from Emerson’s chest.
His chest.
I can’t look up. I won’t look up. It was a reflex—I had no intention of touching him so intimately, but I got swept up in our conversation. After a couple seconds, I have to look up at him, and when I do, I wish I hadn’t.
He’s watching me with dark eyes. His normally copper eyes are brown; almost black. His breathing is ragged, and the electric surge coursing through my body surprises me. I swallow and wait for him to say something.
Say something! I urge.
He begins to speak, opening his lips and then closing them again. Confusion passes across his face, and then concern. Speak! I beg him silently.
“Well,” his low voice starts. I love the way his voice sounds like a deep purr. Did I really just think that? “Thanks. Maybe you’re the inspiration I need.” He looks into my eyes, and I suddenly have tunnel vision. Emerson and his beautiful face. Emerson and his genius words.
Emerson, Emerson, Emerson. A whooshing sound begins in my ears.
“Was that the writing activity?” I ask timidly. I don’t want our day to be over, but now Emerson seems uneasy. He stands.
“No. I was just trying to get to know you. Maybe we should resume tomorrow. I need to finish up my outline for the first chapter anyway.”
My heart sinks. “Okay. We’ll regroup tomorrow. What time?”
He shrugs, and he looks as though he can’t wait to get the fuck out of here. “Whenever you wake up. There are some leftovers in the fridge for supper, so please help yourself.” He rocks back on his heels and slips his hands in his pockets.
“Goodnight,” I say quietly, even though it can’t be later than two in the afternoon.
“Night, Finley,” he says, almost a whisper. Then he turns, and he’s gone, walking quickly into the house.
I bring my knees up to my chest and continue to stare out at the ocean for a few minutes before going in. I have nothing to do, so I peruse the bookcase in the living room for a book. I pick out an old copy of Moby Dick. It’s not necessarily the captivating read I’m hoping for, but I need some sort of distraction. When I get to my room, I flip through the pages for an hour, soaking up the words. When that’s done, I decide to call Hannah back. She picks up on the first ring.
“Finn! How is it?” she squeals, her voice high. An aching feeling forms in the pit of my stomach. God, I miss her. Already.
“It’s great,” I start. I tell her all about the house, how Emerson and Brady know Ina Garten, and how inspired I feel here, which is true. I don’t mention the weird moments I’ve shared with Emerson, but I do tell her about getting caught in his office.
“You’re such a snoop,” she says, exasperated. “Will you ever learn?”
I giggle. “Apparently not.”
“He should’ve spanked you,” Hannah jokes.
I cringe, but the truth is, the thought incites me. “You’re disgusting.” I laugh.
“Oh, please. I looked this guy up earlier. He’s a fox.”
“Hannah,” I warn. I already agree with her, but I don’t need the motivation to continue thinking it. “Seriously, don’t say stuff like that.” I already have to picture him as Geoff just to keep myself in control. Although that hasn’t been going so well.
“Did you know he taught at NYU?” she asks between bites of something.
“Mmm-hmm,” I say, lying down on the bed with my feet straight up against the wall. “He left before classes started in the spring of 2009.”
“Yeah, I know,” she says urgently. “Do you know why? Did you ask him? You’ll never believe it.” She half-whispers the last part, and it sends shivers down my spine. I realize I never asked. I’m not sure I want to know now.
“Erm, no. He never said,” I say slowly.
“Well, apparently he was involved in some sort of affair with a student.”
I suck in a breath of air. “Really?” I hiss. “And?”
She’s quiet for a minute. “Rumor has it, he was somehow involved in her death.”
The blood drains from my face. “She died?” I ask, glancing at the bedroom door. Did I accept a job offer from a MURDERER?
“Yeah. The circumstances were very . . . strange. Geoff doesn’t know very much, only that a female student died, and he was called in for questioning.”
“Tell me more,” I beg, my heart racing.
“That’s all he knows, Finn. Geoff only said that he was called in for questioning by the university and let go because of his involvement with her. It was a couple weeks after his first book came out.” We’re both quiet. I don’t know what to say to that. Truth be told, I’m surprised. “If anything seems strange or suspicious, just leave, okay? Don’t even question it. Hightail it outta there.” And how would I do that? Brady collected me.
“Oh, Hannah.” I laugh. “You’re overreacting. He probably had nothing to do with her death. He’s a really nice guy.”
“Ted Bundy was a nice guy too,” Hannah says under her breath. She sighs loudly and I have to chuckle at her hardheadedness. “Okay, I believe you. I just want you to have all the facts about the guy you’ll be working with closely for the next six months.”
“Is that why you called me five times today?” I implore, smiling.
“Yes. Finley. This guy could be a sociopath.”
“Okay, calm down, Detective Burrows. I have this under control.” I twirl the ends of my hair in my fingers. “But, thank you for worrying about me.”
“I
t’s my job,” she says nonchalantly. “We might not be related by blood, but I’m your soul sister. And I play the role of your mother, and father for that matter, because those guys suck.” Yes. Yes, they do.
I laugh. “You’re the best. Thank you for standing by my side.”
“Always.”
We hang up shortly after, and I sit with the phone on my chest for what feels like hours.
At one point I must fall asleep, because when I wake up suddenly a few hours later, my room is pitch black. At first I’m not sure where I am, but then it all comes back to me. I check my phone—8:45 p.m. How did I sleep for almost four hours? I slowly uncurl and shake my legs out before going to the window and shutting it. Goosebumps rise on my arm when I realize I don’t remember opening it.
I sit down at the desk and open my laptop. I wish I had the Internet to research Emerson. I text Hannah and ask her if she can do some sleuthing for me. She responds immediately.
Already on it. Xx
While I wait for her to text me back, I meander out of my room and down the stairs. The house is dark and quiet, and for a second I consider leaving. Is Emerson dangerous? What were the circumstances? He doesn’t seem like the type to have an affair with a student, but I barely know him. I literally met him yesterday morning. Was I a complete idiot for agreeing to do this job without doing some research? Who’s to say he’s not some serial killer on the side?
Just as I flip the light on, Hannah texts me back.
Okay, so . . . apparently the girl who died was a senior at NYU. She was in his advanced creative writing class. It doesn’t give details: no name, no cause of death. Just that he was let go. Sorry, babe. I’ll keep asking around. Love you.
I lean against the counter. The mystery surrounding Emerson just keeps building and building. I shake my head and open the refrigerator. I pull out some chicken and vegetables, heating them on a plate in the microwave. I find myself checking over my shoulder, expecting Emerson to be standing there with a knife or something.
The thought makes me laugh. He’s completely harmless. He’s a famous writer. I’m sure his fans are just as curious about this as I am, so if he murdered someone, they would know. I would know. Wouldn’t I?
“What’s so funny?” Emerson’s voice makes me jump and yelp out loud. He saunters over and smiles, his mouth lopsided. “Sorry, did I scare you?”
Yes, I want to say. Because you might be a psychopath. “Uh, yeah. It’s just the windows in this house. It’s so . . . dark out there.”
He glances out. “Yeah. It’s pretty isolated.” He walks to the fridge to make himself a plate.
“Yeah,” I say nervously. “Um, so tell me more about NYU. Why’d you leave?” Filter, Finley. Filter.
He visibly stiffens. I want to kick myself for inciting a possible murderer. But I need to know. How am I supposed to work with him after knowing he may have been involved with the death of a former student?
“I was let go. It was a misunderstanding, but it ended up working out because they fired me around the same time my first book released. And, as you know, it turned out to be huge success.” He hasn’t turned around. His knuckles are white against the steel of the fridge, and I swallow before responding.
“Oh,” I say quietly. “If you don’t mind me asking, why were you let go?” Did you kill her?
He slowly turns, and he furrows his brow before looking up at me in anguish. “There was an accident with one of my students. It was the absolute worst day of my life. I was trying to help her, and . . .” He trails off and puts his face in his hands. “Anyway, there was a lot of publicity surrounding it,” he continues, talking through his fingers, “and the university thought it best for me to take a permanent leave of absence.” He looks up at me and grimaces.
Oh. OH. An accident? “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, moving closer to him. He looks up at me and his eyes are rimmed with red.
“I don’t like talking about it.”
“You don’t have to,” I whisper, and I resist the urge to take his hands, even though I really, really want to touch him.
He just nods. “Anyway, under some awful circumstances, my first book made bestseller lists. So, the darkness birthed greatness.” He gently shrugs his shoulders, but he doesn’t look away. His face is mesmerizing.
“Sometimes you need to wade through the shit to get to the gold,” I add. “And look at you now.”
He looks at me sadly. “Yeah. Something like that.”
The microwave beeps and I walk over, taking my food out. I ask the question I want an answer to. Hannah said he’d had an affair with the student. I’m not about to ask that, but I compromise with a question in between. “She must’ve meant a lot to you. To inspire a book.” I grab a fork and look up at him before retreating to the dining room. I know I’m fishing—it’s possible the girl who died had nothing to do with his book. But something tells me she did.
He’s watching me funny, his head sideways, a small smile on his face—a small, sad smile. “She did mean a lot to me.”
We continue to stare at each other for a few seconds. I say the only thing that enters my mind. “I’ve never felt that kind of love before.” I sigh. “To inspire a whole book? Pshaw. My exes don’t even deserve a paragraph.”
He smiles, but it’s a tight smile. “That bad, huh?”
I nod. “God, I’ve always had bad luck with men.”
He watches me for a beat before he comes out of his stupor. “Well, anyway . . . do you want to eat supper together?”
“Supper? I thought you grew up on Long Island? Last time I checked, they say dinner,” I tease. I walk into the dining room and he follows me. I glance at his plate. “Also, don’t you want to heat that up?”
He shakes his head. “No, I like my food cold. And yes, I did grow up on Long Island. But the woman who took care of me was from Texas. Old habits die hard.” He sits down across from me, and I watch as he cuts up his cold chicken. For whatever reason, I like his many odd his quirks. It makes him unique.
“Huh,” I say, acknowledging the information. “See, and I hate cold food. I hate cold anything.”
“You’ll get to know about all of my weird little habits as the days go on,” he says between bites.
I smile into my food. “Yeah. I guess so.”
*
I text Hannah later that night when I get back to my room.
Me: I seriously don’t think he murdered her. I asked him about it, and he got really sad and emotional. He mentioned an accident. I’m still curious about the affair though. I have a lot of time to get him to confess all of his dirty little secrets.
Hannah: Okay. Just be safe. :) If you learn anything new, let me know.
Hannah: ASAP.
Me: Love you xx
Me: The guy says supper, for God’s sake.
Hannah: LOL
I stay up and read until about midnight, and when I finally fall asleep, I dream of Emerson. Except it’s not Emerson—it’s Geoff with Emerson’s body. When I wake a little after eight the next morning, which is the first time I’ve slept past 7:30 in a long time, I shake my head and laugh into my pillow.
Welp, that’ll do it.
CHAPTER TEN
Finley
Except it doesn’t.
I thought dreaming about Emerson with Geoff’s head would help—Geoff is Hannah’s boyfriend. He’s unequivocally off limits. But Geoff is not Emerson.
Emerson is Emerson. My lewd and depraved thoughts about him constantly assault my mind, and there’s nothing left to do but accept them as reality.
My first week on the job is intense. Emerson and I spend most of the days together, reading a sentence and writing a short scene to go with it. He’s trying to groom me—to tweak my writing so it suites his needs. Also, if we’re on the same page about verb tense and narration style, there will be way less work down the road.
For example, I naturally write in first person. Emerson’s book will be in first person, so that’s been easy
enough. However, I like writing in present tense. Emerson prefers past tense. It’s not so easy to switch tenses like that when you’re used to writing a certain way.
I will say though, working side by side highlights the things I like about Emerson—his messy hair, his sloppy clothing, and the way he interrupts me on almost every occasion he gets. He doesn’t mean to. He’s just really excited about this project, which is extremely endearing. He still won’t give me too much information on the book. It’s about a man named Ethan who has lead this crazy, wild life. I asked him if it’s an autobiography, and he replied simply, “Of sorts.” I want to know everything about him. I have to push my blooming feelings to the side though, because not only are they inappropriate, they’re inconvenient.
Sometimes it’s hard to ignore—like when he leans in a little too close, and I get a whiff of his cologne, which smells like coriander and basil. Or when I make him laugh, and the self-satisfied little monster inside me applauds gleefully. The worst is when his eyes get sad, like they do a lot of the time, as if he’s bearing the weight of a million people, or like he’s had the life of an eighty-year-old man. I want to touch him; I want to take his hands. How weird is that? I hate PDA. I always avoided it with past boyfriends. I never wanted to let my guard down like that—until now. I liked my own space and presumed others did too. Until now. I want my hands all over Emerson.
On Friday afternoon, after I spend a few hours working on the prologue for Emerson’s book, he comes into to my room with a set of keys. Without saying anything at first, he tosses them to me. I’m taken by surprise so I don’t catch them, and they drop to the floor. He comes over and retrieves them, setting them next to my computer.
“Go. Get out of this room,” he starts, smiling widely. “You’ve worked hard all week, and you deserve a nice, relaxing weekend.”
I look at the clock. “But it’s only one—”
“I know. This way you’ll beat traffic.”
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