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“Taking a tip from you,” he told her. “Walking it down. Too much sitting, I guess, and not enough time in the gym.”
“Same for me if I fall off routine. What kind of work do you do?”
She already knew the basics of the identity he’d built, he could tell.
“I’m a writer, working on a novel. He’s said for three years and counting.” Sheepish smile for that one. “Ghostwriting pays the bills while I do.”
“Ghostwriting? Like, you write a book and somebody else puts their name on it?”
“It’s not as simple as that. It’s more somebody needs something they’ve written fixed up, or has an idea, but it needs fleshing out.”
“Books and baseball are my things.”
And he knew that, hence the cap and the cover.
“Who have you written for?”
He gave her a smile and lifted shoulders. “The thing about ghosts is we’re invisible. Can’t say. It’s a contractual deal. I decided to come down here, finish up a project for a client, and give my own some serious time.”
He looked out over the water. “It’s working. I think I can finish the contract book by the end of the week. Then, no excuses, it’s my time, my story.”
He looked back at her. Easy and casual, but let interest show through. “What do you like to read?”
“A good story. Thriller, mystery, romance, horror, fantasy. Just take me away for a while and we’re good.”
“That’s the goal. What do you do when you’re not reading or watching baseball?”
“I run a cleaning company. Beachy Clean takes care of your cottage.”
“Seriously?” He tipped his cap back. “You clean my rental?”
“Not me personally. I run the operation that does.”
Not own it, he noted. Being careful.
“I’m going to start picking up a lot more before the weekly cleaning so I don’t get reported back to you as a slob.”
Her smile came wide and bright.
“The crew’s like ghostwriters. Very discreet. And I’ve got to get to it. Good luck with the writing.”
“Thanks.”
By day four he planned to run together, but she didn’t show. He settled for day five. On day seven, she asked him out for a drink, beating his scheduled ask by two days.
He followed up with an invite to dinner—all casual, friendly, and a friendly good-night kiss before he deliberately missed a day.
“Pulled an all-nighter,” he told her, and put on shining excitement. “It just started to roll, and I couldn’t stop.”
“Your book, right?”
“Yeah, all mine.”
“What’s it about?”
“Can’t say—that’s straight superstition. It’s like if I talk about it, it’ll stop rolling.” He looked up as gulls winged and called overhead. “This was the right time, the right place. If I ever get it finished—and I will—and published—and I will—I’ll send you a copy. I honestly think these morning runs with you got the engine going.”
“That’s great, Trevor.”
