That’s when Emerson’s Civic pulls up behind me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Emerson
I don’t think I’ve seen anything more pitiful than Finley in this very moment. She’s cowered against the car, and when I jump out of the Civic and run over to her, she’s almost despondent. Her eyes are vacant and searching, and her teeth are chattering.
“How did you . . .?” she starts, and then she stops, looking up at me.
“Hang on. Let’s get you out of the cold first.” I help her grab her purse and overnight bag, and we load the Civic. I turn the heater up as she buckles in. She watches me expectantly as my fingers tap the steering wheel. I’m trying to mask my shaking hands. I don’t want her to know that my thoughts wandered to the worst-case scenario when I located her on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I’m so relieved she’s okay.
“Well, when you didn’t show up, I figured something happened. I tried calling you a million times, and when you didn’t answer, I enlisted Hannah’s help to find you. She used Find My Friends and we located you. Well, your last known location, anyway.”
“What about Irma?”
I chuckle. “Triple A is coming. They’re going to tow her, and I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”
She nods and seems to relax instantly with the heat. It’s starting to get dark, so I turn onto the road and race home as fast as safely possible. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, watching me through large eyes.
“Why are you sorry? I forgot to tell you about the gas gauge. It’s not reliable, so you have to track your miles. You were probably out of gas.” What I don’t say is how I’ve been kicking myself for the last hour for putting her in this predicament.
“And the roof wouldn’t close,” she adds, and I grip the steering wheel harder, berating myself silently.
“Yeah . . . the switch is actually on the other door. Something I should’ve mentioned. The manual in the car isn’t for my model—it’s for the British model.”
“And they drive on the other side,” she finishes, frowning. “I wish I would’ve thought to look there.”
I sigh. “Finley, this wasn’t your fault. It was my fault, okay?”
She looks up at me, and she’s so unguarded at this moment that it makes my chest tighten.
“Okay,” she whispers, pulling her knees to her chest.
“Are you warming up?” I ask, watching her reaction.
She smiles. “Yep. I’m feeling much better. I can’t wait to get out of these wet clothes though.” I ignore the feeling those words give me. I shouldn’t think those things. “So, I should probably call Hannah, huh?”
I laugh. “She’s waiting for your call.” Finley doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “She’s a good friend. How long have you two known each other?”
Finley’s face lights up when she responds. “Since we were eleven. She’s my platonic soul mate. I don’t know what I would do without her.”
“How’d you meet?” I pull off the highway and drive down the main road to the house.
“It’s a funny story, actually. See, my parents were the type to hire nannies and housekeepers. When I was eleven, our beloved nanny retired, so my parents hired Hannah’s mom, Beatrice. The two of them were a part of our family, and even though I’m sure my parents disapproved of our friendship, they never said anything. It’s the one thing they did right as parents. It was like growing up with a twin sister. When Hannah’s mom died of ovarian cancer when we were twenty, I also felt as though I had lost a parent. We became even closer because it was like we only had each other left. I’ve always felt the need to take care of her.”
“But who takes care of you, Finley?” I have no idea where this question comes from. I’m not even sure it’s a question I want an answer to, nor deserve the answer to. She works for me. We’re not friends who share deep and meaningful conversations, yet last week there had been many of those. Surprisingly. It’s been two days. And even though we have stayed in contact with witty and fun text messages, I’ve missed her presence. Her light. Her jovial youth and vitality. The house has seemed somehow bereft. Weird. Before I can give that more thought, she answers.
“She does. We take care of each other.”
And because my mouth doesn’t seem to have a filter, I ask carefully, “Do you have any siblings?”
“I had a sister. Chloe.” She stops and shuts her eyes tightly. “I don’t like talking about it. I’m sorry,” she whispers. I pull into the driveway, waiting for the garage to open, and neither of us says anything. I stare ahead and I hear her sigh. “She was brilliant,” Finley continues. “A business major. I adored her. She was going places. But my parents . . .” She shakes her head.
“Go on,” I whisper.
“My parents weren’t the best parents. We grew up in a place that valued money over everything else. Their version of fixing things involved financial bribes. We never got the handmade cake for our birthday—instead we got the expensive designer cake. Whenever my mom wanted to spend quality time with us, she would take us shopping. Sometimes, you know, they meant well. But I honestly think they never should’ve had children. Some people are just way too selfish, you know?”
I nod and take in her words. She sniffs and continues.
“She committed suicide my freshman year of college. She was supposed to graduate later that year with summa cum laude honors. She had a 4.2 GPA. She’d been accepted into five Ivy League business graduate programs. She wanted to go in a different direction for her graduate degree. But my parents pushed her too hard. They wanted her to be just like them. Creativity was the devil to them—they wanted her to have a practical degree. She hated it. I could see it in her eyes. She wasn’t eating; she wasn’t sleeping.” A single tear drops down Finley’s face, and I reach out and brush it off her soft cheek.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quietly.
“I wish I’d known just how bad it was. But I was eighteen. I was such a baby—I couldn’t read the signs. I never forgave my parents. I majored in creative writing despite their concerns. By that point, I think they realized it wasn’t worth it to pressure me into business or law. They’d learned their lessons. I accepted those tuition checks, but the minute I graduated, I cut them off.”
“God, Finley,” I whisper. I look over at her. The sun is starting to set; the summer light is tinged with blue. It brings out the dark-blue diamonds in her eyes. “I bet she’d be proud of you. She would’ve wanted you to pursue your passion.”
She nods. “Yeah. I wish I’d known her better, you know? When you’re eighteen, you’re such a little shit. You’re involved in your own stuff. We were really close growing up. She was always the wild one. She rebelled every chance she got. She was clinically depressed, and it affected her moods.”
“I think she would’ve loved the person you grew up to be,” I reply, smiling.
“I hope so.” She turns to face me and wipes the area under her eyes with the pad of her fingers. “God, I’m such a mess. Tell me about your life. I feel like I’ve blabbered on about my sad life for the last ten minutes.”
I hate sharing my story. I hate how it makes me sound vulnerable. Torn. Weak. But somehow with her, that’s not the case. Instead, sharing my past with her feels effortless and safe. Normal. I watch her for a second before responding. How does she do that? Make me feel so conflicted about everything? This whole situation . . . my past . . . she’s still so innocent. Well, here goes.
“My father was MIA and my mother was addicted to heroine. She’s been using for most of my life. When I was seven, Child Protective Services came and took me away. At least, I think it was called that back then. So I spent most of my childhood in a foster home in Long Island. It was actually great. Foster homes get a bad rap sometimes, but I’d like to think mine was okay. Fran, my foster mom, was this fat old lady from Texas. She raised me. My mom would get clean periodically and the judge would send me back. But it was a constant back and forth. Finally, when I was sixtee
n, I emancipated myself. Fran, with the help of Brady and Isaac’s parents, set me up in an apartment in Long Island. I graduated high school when I was seventeen, and then after a stint of travel and other crazy things, I went to college for creative writing. I went on to get my PhD.”
She watches me with a furrowed brow before replying. “Wow—just . . . wow. Emerson, I had no idea. When Brady said you grew up down the street, I just assumed . . .” She trails off and stares out the car window.
“They lived five houses down from Fran’s house. I still talk to Fran, actually. And Isaac is still my best friend. That’s why I employ Brady—though he was so young when all of this happened. A part of me wants to pay them back for everything they did to help me.” I swallow, and I’m not sure if I should tell her about the next part. I clear my throat and go for it. “My mom is still alive, still an addict. Just like when I was a kid, she’s clean periodically. I know because she doesn’t call. When she calls . . . I know she’s trying to hit me up for drug money. She plays the poor, starving mother figure very well.” Seven days. Seven days since her last attempt to find me.
“It must be awful to get those calls,” she says, twirling her wet hair.
The car is steamed up from the rain.
“Yeah. Hey, let’s get you inside. Why don’t you change, and I’ll make you a pot of tea?”
“Sure,” she says simply, and we get out and walk inside.
As she changes, I boil some water in the kettle and dig around the cabinets for some cookies. I know I used to have some in the cookie jar, but I suspect Brady eats them all. Finally, I find some Biscoff cookies and make a nice plate of them to have with her tea. I hear the shower turn on, and I have to busy myself with unloading the dishwasher to distract myself.
I don’t know what it is about Finley. She’s somehow found a way to dig herself deep into my life—deeper than any of my other ghostwriters. Maybe it’s her past, or maybe it’s mine, but I somehow feel connected to her on a deeper level. Plus, she’s very wise for a twenty-six-year-old.
“Done!” Finley chirps, fresh-faced and cozy in grey sweats and a loose black T-shirt. Her wet hair is tied up into a bun. I can smell her from here—soap and coconut. Those scents will forever drive me crazy.
“Good,” I say, pouring some hot water into a mug and placing the plate of cookies next to her. “Fran always told me that a cup of tea and some cookies could make any bad day better.”
“Fran is a wise woman,” Finley says, smiling as she takes a bite of one of the cookies. Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, these are amazing. Are they gingerbread?”
“No, I think they’re just a spiced shortbread biscuit. I honestly don’t even know where they came from. Isaac probably brought them over at one point. He’s a world traveler,” I explain. “He works as a film editor—travels all over the world when he has downtime.”
“When do I get to meet this famous Isaac?” she asks, her voice alluring and seductive. I try to ignore the tight feeling I get in my throat when I imagine Isaac meeting Finley. He’s a man whore, and I know exactly what would happen.
“Hmm, we’ll see about that,” I tease, being vague on purpose.
She finishes her cookies and looks at me with grateful, tired eyes. “I’m so beat. I think I’m going to head upstairs. Thank you for rescuing me, and for the tea and cookies. They really did help.”
Disappointment swirls in my gut. “But don’t you want supper?”
She shrugs. “I’m not that hungry, to be honest. Thank you though.”
“No problem,” I reply, taking her mug and plate. I walk to the sink. “Sleep well.” I turn around and she’s giving me a weird look—half-confused, half-reverent—as if she’s not sure how to feel.
“I will. You too.” She waves and turns awkwardly on her heel before heading up the stairs, two at a time.
I sigh and lean against the counter. As I wash up and look around, I decide to eat with company. I did make dinner for two, after all. I text Sylvanna and begin to reheat the beef stew, hoping she’ll agree to join me. Though I wish it were Finley . . .
No. That’s enough. I’ve got to stop thinking about her like that. Finley is the girl I hired to help me write. I need to realize this. Why her—why Finley? Why does she intrigue me so much? Sylvanna is the one I should be making dinner for. She is the one I should drop everything for. She is the person I should be thinking about all day.
Not. Finley.
Sylvanna responds—says she’ll be over in twenty minutes. I open a bottle of wine and wait.
Untitled
By Emerson Whittaker
PROLOGUE
At the age of six, I thought it was normal for all children to make their own breakfast. I’d use a step stool, and I would heat the butter in a pan. I would add the eggs, one at a time, and grit my teeth if the butter sizzled and splashed onto my skin.
We didn’t have an apron, so I just had to endure the temporary pain.
My mother never questioned my abilities. She never asked how I miraculously learned to cook lasagna before the first grade. When she woke around noon, she would wander over and envelop me in a tight hug, the shame from the night before all encompassing. I could see it in her eyes—the wonderment that I was sticking around, like no one else ever had.
The thing she didn’t know was, I had no choice. As a child, she was my mother, my savior, my everything. I didn’t know any better.
So when I was taken away at the age of seven, and the nice ladies explained what was happening, something clicked. I felt hatred for the first time. I was ashamed of my mother for forcing me to do the things she should’ve been doing for me.
The hatred burned a hole in my heart and it stayed there for years. I’m not entirely sure it’s gone.
I’m not entirely sure it’ll ever go away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Finley
I pace around my bedroom for an hour and wring my hands together, overthinking every single fucking thing. I don’t know why I feel the need to go back downstairs. Perhaps because I feel like we’re unfinished business? Because he rescued me? Maybe it’s because I feel rude for leaving so abruptly.
I left when I did because I was overwhelmed with his kindness—what kind of guy is that nice? I mean, really? Rescues me from the pouring rain, blames himself for the whole thing, understands me in a weird, connected way, and then proceeds to make me tea and serve me cookies?
Does Emerson have feelings for me?
It’s the thought that’s been running around in my head for the last hour while I burn a hole into the wood from walking around in circles. Better yet, do I have feelings for him? And if so, how the fuck did this happen? I definitely find him attractive. What warm-blooded woman wouldn’t? But . . . feelings? That’s a whole other ballgame.
This is crazy. He’s older, he has more experience, and he’s probably a natural flirt. I think about the student he had an affair with. I want to know more about her—how did she die? Did Emerson love her, or was it just physical? How did the relationship start? A heated glance? A smile? A touch?
I want to pull my hair out, because on the one hand, I want something to happen. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. He’s extremely good-looking, talented, and I know he’s a nice guy. On the other hand, I’ve committed to working with him for the next five months and three weeks, or whenever we finish this book. It could be longer. What if it doesn’t work out? Is he worth risking my career? Am I worth risking his?
He basically promised to hand my writing career to me on a platter, and yet I’m thinking of risking everything because I can’t contain my hormones?
I sigh and open the bedroom door. I’m just going to go downstairs and pretend I’m hungry for supper. He’s probably not even down there anymore. I listen for some sort of sound from his office, and . . . nothing. Sometimes I can hear him typing, and he always listens to music when he outlines. I look down the hall. His bedroom door is open but the light is off.
Do I rea
lly want to do this?
I walk out into the hallway, and my stomach rumbles, confirming my decision. I really am hungry. That justifies it. I’m heading down—if not for him, than at least for the food I know I really want.
I tiptoe quietly, retying my hair into another bun and licking my lips. Maybe I should change into something more . . . no. This is silly. I can’t act like I care. Even if I do, he has to think I don’t. Right? I’m not exactly sure. I don’t like playing games.
Then don’t.
I straighten up and pad quietly into the kitchen. All the lights are off. I see the aftermath of a good meal on the dining room table. Two bowls. I wonder if Brady is here? Or possibly the ever-elusive Isaac? I don’t notice them at first, but then I catch the movement on the deck out of the corner of my eye.
The first thing I notice is how the rain has stopped. The second thing I notice is . . . legs.
Long, tan legs.
Wrapped around Emerson’s waist.
I stare for a little too long. I watch them kiss. The deck railing holds her up—so do his legs. He trails his hands along her toned thighs. Up and down, up and down, up and down. Excruciatingly slowly.
I want to vomit. But a small part of me wants to continue watching. I duck behind the island and observe them, like a sick motherfucker.
What am I doing? I want to scream. I can’t take my eyes away from Emerson’s toned arms, stroking, stroking, stroking . . . I wonder what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of those hands.
I hear the woman giggle. He replies in a low, gruff voice. It sends frissons through my body. I want to know what he said. My stomach clenches delightfully when I close my eyes and imagine myself out there with him.
I am a sadistic, sick fuck. I stand to leave but quickly duck down again as I see her hop to her feet. They’re coming inside.
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