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“Getting to know me personally is a lot of work.”
“Why? Are you a lot to handle?”
“So I’ve been told,” she replies.
A smile creeps across my face. “Sounds like you just need to find the right man to handle you. We’ll see if I’m that man, I suppose.”
Her next email takes a while to show up. Just when I start to close my computer, she finally responds with,
“I guess we’ll see. Get started on those edits, Liam. Have a good night.” She ends her email with another smiley face, only this time it’s winking. I chuckle and put my laptop on the nightstand.
In the morning, I make sure to sit down with my coffee and get started with some of the edits. With fresh eyes and a little bit more perspective on where she’s coming from, it’s much easier for me to make the minor changes. Word repetition and over-descriptors seem to be my biggest issues, so I start there, going through and tweaking and restructuring my sentences. Despite my grumpiness yesterday, I actually feel much better working on my manuscript today.
By the time lunch rolls around, I’m worn out and in desperate need of a break. I take a quick shower and decide to trim my beard. There are weeks where I write eighteen hours a day and barely leave the house, I look like a homeless starving artist. I get lost in my writing for weeks on end, and once I’ve hit my deadline, I attempt to resemble some form of human again. However, after my manuscript gets slaughtered by edits, I need to try another approach.
After I’m all cleaned up, I head back into my bedroom and pack a bag. When it comes to the extensive editing process, I prefer to spend it secluded, in the middle of nowhere with limited distractions. This trip will allow me to get a lot of work done, as well as start outlining the sequel to Dirty Little Secrets. With the twist ending that my main character experiences, the second book picks up right at the end, and I’m eager to get started.
I stuff T-shirts and sweaters into my duffle bag along with shorts and sweats. After making sure I have all the supplies I’ll need, I zip up my bag and carry it to the front door. I pack a second bag with necessities and snacks, and take the two out to my truck and toss them in the back.
My folks handed over the keys to our cabin a few miles out of town before they passed away, and I’m eagerly looking forward to getting out in the Colorado wilderness and spending some time alone, away from the hustle and bustle of my busy city. Once I’m sure everything is ready to go later today, I head back inside to make lunch. To my surprise, I find another email from Harlow. It’s short and sweet, and I smile wide. I’m already starting to like this woman.
She writes, “I prefer Liza with Josh. He’s fun and spontaneous, even if he’s much younger than her. Plus, his six-pack abs don’t hurt either. I find Charles too obvious and…stale.”
3
Harlow
I usually consider myself a rational person. Realistic. Someone who can weigh the pros and cons of a situation and decide the course of action based on what those results yield. But something about Liam makes me want to be reckless.
Last week, I’d tried being professional, but even that was a struggle. “Maybe I needed the right kind of man to handle me?” It was something right out of one of his novels, and the way it made me feel…devilish, maybe? I knew I couldn’t tell anyone. It definitely crossed the lines between professional and personal.
Even if I wanted to tell someone about his flirty banter, I never could. If I did, the judgment from my coworkers would be never-ending. Liam has a reputation as a being a real-life Casanova. He’s slept with more women than anyone can count, and I’m not too sure he knows the definition of a stable relationship. Not to mention, mixing business with pleasure is what they call a conflict of interest.
This project is not only my first big book deal, but with an author as well known as Liam, the scandal would rock the publishing world. I’ve worked too hard to let myself fall that far.
Something about him is just so magnetic—I can’t describe it. It’s the way that, despite only hearing his voice in interviews during my research period, I can hear his southern drawl and the twang in his words. I can hear his laughter, husky, masculine. And because I’m a glutton for punishment, I even imagine can smell him and his strong cologne.
What makes it worse is that for the past week, we’ve been talking nonstop. At first, I thought he was just an inquisitive writer. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve worked with one of those. During my second year at Hart Publishing, I had an author that would keep in contact with me at least twice a day. She had all kinds of questions for me, ranging from the development of her plot to certain phrases and whether they made sense in the time period her story was set in. While it had been stressful, the book had been a huge hit, and all that work was well worth it.
This situation with Liam isn’t like that. I can tell that he’s being flirty. Whether he realizes it or not, the words he chooses are so obviously coated with innuendo, I’d have to be blind and facing the other direction not to see them. As guilty as I feel is to admit this, even to myself…I’ve enjoyed them.
It’s something about the way he speaks, the way he can paint a picture with only a few words, that makes me cling to everything he has to say. In less than ten days, I’ve become a complete addict, waiting impatiently for the next time I hear the ding from my computer and find a shiny new e
mail sitting in my inbox.
When I come home from work, I see that my wish has been granted. It takes everything I have not to immediately reply. I’m not that kind of woman. I rarely get giddy over men, and if I do, the feeling usually fades within a few weeks. So, to keep my head level, I put my bag down and begin working on dinner. I let Liam sit and wait for me.
After I eat, I flip through TV stations, occasionally glancing back at my computer. It’s a lighthouse, steering me toward shores that I know aren’t clear, and into a situation that’s incredibly rocky and dangerous. I tell myself that the longer I hold out on him, the more work he can get done, and it’s enough to keep me planted on the sofa watching bad reality shows about housewives until almost eleven. Finally, I give in.
He’s asked a simple question that I’m not stupid enough to think is all that innocent. “How does your boyfriend feel about you messaging me every day?”
I smile and roll my eyes. He knows what he’s doing, and so do I. Why not have a little fun? “He’s into it,” I write. “I know it sounds crazy, but we’ve been trying this thing at bars where I flirt with random guys. Something about it really turns him on. And I get to flirt with hot guys, so it turns me on too.”
“This is a surprise to me.”
“We’re an experimental couple. But of course, he has nothing to worry about with you, does he? I mean, this is all strictly work-related. Professional.” I grin and hit send, biting my thumbnail in anticipation for his response. I can’t help but imagine him reacting in two ways. Part of me expects him to respond in disgust, suddenly put off by the idea of a man reading these emails over my shoulder. The reaction I secretly hope for though is excitement. I want him to be at least a little aroused knowing that this game we’ve been playing has just evolved into something more interesting. What I don’t predict is his actual response.
“Strictly business, yes. I’ll talk to you tomorrow when I have more edits. Have a good night.”
