“Um. I just need a second,” he mutters, making me sigh in exasperation. “It’s … complicated.”
“Which bit?” I ask, unimpressed. “The bit where you revealed yourself to be Vivienne Faulkner, or the bit where you booked me to ghostwrite a book for you? Because that was you, right? I’m not imagining this? There’s not two Vivienne Faulkners out there, both writing romance books, is there?”
“No, that was me,” Elliot admits, shamefacedly. “Well, it was Harper, really. She’s the one who found you on the ghostwriting site and got in touch. But I asked her to do it, obviously.”
“Harper.” I nod, thinking about how wrong I was when I’d pictured shiny-haired, well-dressed Harper Grant as some kind of jolly old cat lady. “Right. But how did you even know to look for me there? How did you know I was ghostwriting? I only told you about it a few days ago, but I’d already been booked by ‘Vivienne’ before that. Or … wait. Did you use ghostwriters forallof your books as Vivienne? Is that what you’re saying?”
I cross the room to one of the sofas and let myself sink into it as I consider this horrible possibility.
“No! No, of course not!”
Elliot tries to sit next to me, but changes his mind when he sees the look on my face, and takes a seat opposite, instead.
“I wrote every word of those books myself,” he tells me, firmly. “And I didn’t hire you for the latest one because I didn’t think I could write it myself. I did it because I wanted to help you.”
“Tohelpme?” My eyes are so wide the air is hurting them. “Why would you think you needed tohelpme? And you haven’t answered my question about how you knew I was a ghostwriter in the first place?”
Elliot stares at his feet.
“I found out completely by chance,” he says. “Honestly. I have a lot of contacts in the publishing industry, that’s all. One of them had become a pretty good friend, and he recognized your name from some work you did for his publishing house. He told me because … well, I guess I’d mentioned you a few times. More than a few times, really. Okay, a lot. I mentioned you a lot. And you have quite a memorable name, so…”
“That’s totally unethical,” I interrupt. “All of my ghostwriting was supposed to be confidential. This is a complete abuse of trust.”
“I know,” Elliot says miserably. “And I’m sorry. Really. But once I knew you were writing, Holly, I had to know more. It was the first thing I’d heard about you in years, and I just … I just grabbed it.”
“I can’t believe you let me sit there and tell you all about my amazing new career last night when you already knew about it,” I go on. “Why didn’t you say something then?”
“I wanted to let you tell me in your own time,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “I wanted to tell you — really, I did — but I felt like it should come from you. And, I mean, it’s a hard thing to just blurt out, isn’t it? Especially when we were having such a nice time. Well,Ithought it was nice, anyway. I thought we were starting to get somewhere, and I didn’t want to ruin it by suddenly revealing I was Vivienne. I figured it might be a bit of a mood killer.”
“You don’t say,” I reply sarcastically.
“I was planning to tell you, though, Holly,” he says earnestly. “It’s just … last night I felt like you were finally starting to open up to me again, and I didn’t want to ruin that by telling you I’d read all of your books.”
“Oh, God.” I put my head in my hands. Not even Aunt Lorraine has read all of my books. And Dad says they’re ‘not quite his thing’. But now Elliot’s read them, which is all kinds of mortifying, really, until I remember that this is the man who apparently wroteDancing With a DaydreamerandPassport to Passion, and I feel a bit better.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says, chuckling. “I really liked them.”
“Really?” I peer at him through my fingers.
“Really.Boss Babe 101is my favorite. It’s like a road map for your soul.”
“That’s a line from the blurb.”
“I know.”
He smiles again, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling back at him.
I wish he didn’t have this effect on me. Especially when I still don’t understand even half of what’s going on here.
“I’m not lying when I say I liked the books, Holly,” Elliot says, seriously. “You’re a great writer. I’ve always known that. But I also know this isn’t the kind of thing you want to write. Self-help. Non-fiction. You were born to write stories. And that’s why I got Harper to invent a book for you to write. I thought if I just gave you that nudge you needed, then maybe…”
“Do you have any idea how patronizing that sounds?” I object. “Seriously? The big shot, published author, coming riding to the rescue of poor little Holly, who can’t come up with a plot on her own? And you were going topayme to do it? Like I’m some kind of charity case? I just … I’m sorry, I still can’t believe this is happening.”
My cheeks are burning with shame as the full weight of what he’s telling me finally hits me.
I was absolutely fine with not being credited for my work when I thought it was someone other than my ex-boyfriend who was paying me for it. But the thought ofElliotdoing it fills me with the kind of fury that makes me pop up from the sofa like a rocket about to launch.
“Holly, no,” Elliot insists, jumping up too, and grabbing me by the arms. “It wasn’t charity. It was a fair wage for the work.”
