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“You can read it,” he says, his perceptive blue eyes narrowed as if he’s just seen into my thoughts.
“Most writers would get defensive,” I say.
He shrugs. “The work isn’t finished, but this is something Icangive you.”
Ah, I get it. He won’t—or can’t—give me answers, but he can let me peer into his soul in the form of his work.
“Anyway,” he says, “I’d be a fool to turn down an editor who wants to read my book.”
I beam, cheeks flushed. It’s so shocking how just a few morsels from him can have me glowing like this. It makes me feel a little silly, but it’s also just so freaking exhilarating for another person to have this effect on me. It’s almost like we were made for each other, andthat’swhy I experience such a sudden rush of joy.
“I’m not an editor yet,” I say.
He smirks. “Don’t play coy with me. I saw you light up just now. You can’t fake passion like that.”
“Passion doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll be any good.”
I take a bite of panini. Jamie looks at me, his eyes playful, then takes an even bigger bite of his. He chews with exaggerated slowness, his eyes on me all the while.
“That’s one hell of a defense mechanism,” he says after swallowing. “Chew, chew, chew.”
“I’m that transparent, am I?”
He chuckles. “No comment.”
“But it’s true,” I go on. “Passion doesn’t equal skill.”
“Maybe I should hire you to edit my book, then. We can put your skills to the test.”
A moment later, he frowns, looking down at his food. I know what’s running through his head. He’s thinking about the fact hecan’thire me because he doesn’t have the cash. I wish he’d stop putting himself down, even mentally to himself.
“We could work out a deal,” I reply. “A percentage of your sales. When you’re a worldwide bestseller, I can leech off you.”
“Do people do that?” he asks.
“Not usually, but I think we can agree that these are very, very,veryunusual circumstances.”
He laughs gruffly. “You can say that again. Okay, let’s do it. A fifty-fifty split.”
I roll my eyes. “Fifty-fifty is a little much for editing, and you don’t even know if I’m any good.”
Jamie offers me his hand, seeming completely serious. He has an intense look in his eyes, notquiteas intense as when he stared with glazed-over eyes last night, but pretty close. It’s as if he’s working himself up to a murder or a scam. I need to get these thoughts out of my head. Or maybe, someday, I’ll wish I had listened to them all along.
“I trust you.”
I take his hand and shake it, not sure if this is for real.
“What if they become bestsellers? You’ll sacrifice half your income.”
“If that happens, you’ll have earned your fee.”
“I better get started soon, then.”
He grins. “Does that mean more face stuffing?”
It’s surreal but heartwarming as we stuff panini into our mouths, maintaining eye contact almost the whole time. It’s as if we’re both teenagers, acting like fools, silliness prevailing. We’re having a great time without worrying about the rest of the world, the rest of our lives, and the things he did I should hate him for. It all fades away as we eat together.
* * *
