Between the Pages_ A Novel - Amanda Richardson

Between the Pages: A Novel

Amanda Richardson

Between the Pages: A Novel Amanda Richardson Published by Amanda Richardson © Copyright 2016 Amanda Richardson. Amanda Richardson P.O. Box 1961 Burbank, CA 91507 Editing by Making Manuscripts Proofreading by Karen Lawson Cover Design by Amanda Richardson This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a

fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Epilogue Part One Epilogue Part Two Acknowledgements About the Author Also by Amanda Richardson

For Becky. “A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.” Love you, sissy!

CHAPTER ONE Finley

On my way home from work, I pass exactly three bookstores. Barnes & Noble comes first—five stories of anything you can ever want, situated conveniently on Union Square’s northeastern corner. It’s everybody’s favorite for a reason—the reliability is comforting. They all look the same, so you know exactly what you’re getting everywhere. Next up is Allabaster Bookshop, a used bookstore full of rare and generally

unread literary fiction. It’s sandwiched between an old dry cleaner and a trendy pie café. It’s the perfect place to peruse unknown works of fiction while still looking cool and hip. It’s also a place where one might go to buy an overpriced first edition—not exactly my cup of tea. Finally, St. Mark’s Bookshop on East 3rd Street, my personal favorite— but perhaps I’m biased because I live one block away. It’s the perfect mix of the two bookstores above. Plus, it’s never too crowded, and there aren’t tacky calendars on the aisles. It’s a winwin. I walk up to the window of St. Mark’s. A warm breeze blows my pale

hair across my face. I blink twice, trying to interpret what I’m seeing. In the window sits a hardback titled, In Hiding. That very same book sits in every window in all three bookstores. My eyes gloss over the dark blue background, the serif font, and the hand sliding against a steamy pane of glass . . . I clutch my purse tighter and walk inside. The bell on the door jingles delightfully, and a large, orange cat nuzzles up against my bare right leg. “Hey Teddy,” I say softly, petting his silky fur. He starts to purr instantly. I walk over to the main table in front. New Releases. I pick up a copy of In Hiding. Thumbing the pages, I land on page 320.

My eyes scan the writing, and a warm flush blooms on my cheeks as I read the whole page, and then the next. The words are familiar yet foreign. I smile and bend down, clutching the book and holding it open. Teddy watches me curiously. “I wrote this,” I whisper, and Teddy purrs louder. “And no one will ever know. Well, except you.” The cat just blinks slowly and nuzzles the hardback. I laugh and stand up, replacing the novel back on its special table. I wave to Emily behind the counter. Before leaving, I connect to Wi-Fi on my phone and look the book up on Amazon. Number three overall, number

one in contemporary fiction. A sense of pride fills me as I walk down the block to my apartment and unlock the gate to our walk-up. I skip up three floors of stairs. When I get to our door, I reach out to find it already open. “Hannah?” I slowly push the door open. Hannah is on the couch, painting her toenails. She looks up. “Oh, hi.” “Why is the door open?” I ask, closing it behind me and looking around. Immediately, something seems different. The couch has been rearranged to sit across from the fireplace, and the television has been mounted above it. “Is that . . . a new coffee table?” I ask,

sliding my purse onto the hook next to our front door. “Mmm-hmm. Geoff bought it for me.” I study the oak. “That was nice of him.” I look around for other clues of her boyfriend’s generosity, but don’t find anything. “There’s Chinese in the fridge. The wine is on the counter,” she mumbles, focusing on her toes. “It’s like you know me,” I retort sarcastically. I walk down the hallway to my room and take off my faux-leather pencil skirt, flats, and starchy blouse. I unpin my hair and throw on a pair of old sweats and comfy T-shirt—instant relief.

I hate the uniform my shitty retail job requires me to wear. After heading to the kitchen and warming up a plate of leftover Chinese, I don’t hesitate to pour myself a large, much-needed glass of red wine. It’s a welcome relief when I plop down alongside Hannah on the couch. Bliss. “How was your day?” I ask, watching as she applies a deep red to her left pinky toenail. “Applied for sixteen thousand waitressing jobs. I have no callbacks and zero auditions. My life sucks, basically,” she says quietly. I study her dark hair; it’s currently pulled back into a casual ponytail. She’s striking—her

features are exquisite, and I feel nothing but anger toward the theatre industry. She’s beautiful, and she can actually act! How DARE you not cast her? “I’m sorry,” I say, rubbing her shoulder. “It’ll happen soon.” I’ve repeated these same five words over and over for the last four years. I’m starting to sound like a robot. I just don’t know how else to help other than sit and project optimism onto her. She groans and finishes the last nail, studying her work by wiggling her toes. “It better happen really fucking soon. I have about seventy cents to my name.” I swallow. I wish I could help her, but the truth is, ghostwriting doesn’t pay

very well. It’s enough to live on while I’m writing, but between gigs, I have to work a shitty retail job. And now that I’ve decided to try and write for myself instead of ghostwrite, I know things will be even tighter around here. “Well, I’ll be getting my final check for my last writing gig soon. That should tide us over for a month or two.” She shrugs. “I hate taking money from you.” She glances up at me, and her brown eyes are watery and sad. I laugh. “You know you’ve helped me in the past, too. It’s what best friends do.” “You better get cracking on that novel. Maybe you’ll sell a million

copies.” I squirm uncomfortably. “It doesn’t really work like that.” I’m quiet for a few seconds. I know what we’re both thinking, so I decide to bring it up first. “I could always do another ghostwriting gig—” “No. You left your agency last month for a reason. It’s your turn now.” Hannah sticks a hand out as if to strengthen her argument. I bite the inside of my lip. “I know, but Madeleine could set me up if I needed her to. The option is on the table.” She shakes her head vehemently. “Geoff can help me out until I get my feet

on the ground.” “Okay.” We’ve had each other’s backs for so long now, but I truly hate feeling so useless. I want more for us both. “Let’s get a drink,” she suggests, eyeing me mischievously and changing the subject. She points to her phone. “You’re number one, Finn. That’s fantastic.” I giggle. “Number three overall.” “Don’t downplay your success. That may not be your name on the cover, but it’s your fucking book. We deserve an Old Fashioned.” I roll my neck and sigh. “We’re broke.”

“You don’t need money to drink in New York City.” She says it so flippantly. “We can’t always take advantage of poor, unassuming men.” I stand to get my food and wine. “Let me finish up some writing, and then we’ll go out,” I say, succumbing to her pleading, puppy-dog eyes. I grab a pair of reusable chopsticks and begin to eat the veggie chow mein as I walk down the hall. I wash it down with a big sip of wine. “Perfect,” Hannah says, smiling warmly from her seat on the couch. “Let me know when you’re ready.” I carry my food and wine to my room and close the door. With most things, I

can tolerate music and/or sounds, but for writing, I need absolute silence. I close my window and sit down at my desk, the plate of food in my lap. I grab a pair of headphones that don’t work—I just need the silence. Such a glamorous life I lead . . . I open the Word doc and watch as the cursor blinks. And blinks. And blinks. I eat more chow mein. I sip some more wine. I repeat this cycle until the food and wine are gone, and my head is a little bit clearer. I wish I had something to go on. This is chapter one of my debut novel—the same chapter

I’ve been working on for a month. It’s not an easy transition, going from writing for other people to writing for yourself. It requires more soul-searching. It requires actual work. I’m trained to write, so why is this so damn hard? The woman knew her time with him would come to an end. No . . . The woman felt certain her time with him would come to an end. That’s even worse. I sigh and stare at the stupid sentence for six minutes. What

is a sentence, anyway? Essentially: a random combination of verbs, nouns, prepositions, and adjectives. What makes one sentence better than the other? I study the letters within the words. I get distracted by the way they all start to blur together if you look at them too long. After I blink, my eyes wander to the Mason jar sitting next to my computer. I pull a slip of paper out. I murdered my lover. Great. I fling the slip of paper away. That was an idiotic Pinterest idea. How are random sentences on slips of paper supposed to combat writer’s block? Is

that sentence supposed to inspire me somehow? I try it. You know, just in case. The woman recognized her time with him would come to an end, because she had to kill him. Ugh. Delete. Why is conjuring up your own idea so much harder than writing for someone else? When I’m hired to ghostwrite a story, I can sit down and concentrate on the story, and the words needed to convey that story. Yet, when I sit down for myself, nothing comes. It’s like there’s a disconnection between my idea and the computer.

Maybe this whole writing for myself thing is irrational. Maybe I’m not meant to be a writer. Perhaps I’m not meant to write my own stories. I slam the laptop shut and decide that tonight is a night for whiskey—not writing. * Ace Bar is the place Hannah and I habitually go when we want free drinks. The dartboards, pool, and arcade games appeal to all kinds of men, and we just so happen to be excellent skee-ball players, thus attracting the attention of the patrons. I link arms with Hannah as

we stroll north two blocks. I’m grateful for the warm June air, and that I can finally leave our apartment without a jacket. Early summer in New York City —before the humidity appears and ruins everything—is my absolute favorite time of the year. I tug at my hair as we enter the bar. I’ve kept it down and flowing for tonight, though I’m itching to pull it up because I hate wearing my hair down. “Leave it,” Hannah murmurs. “Men love blondes.” I laugh. “This is sadistic. Flirting to get free drinks.” “We’re poor. It’s not like we’re high-class escorts.”

“How does Geoff feel about his girlfriend of two years soliciting herself for free drinks?” I implore, smirking. “I’m sure he’d be fully supportive of free booze. And you know I’d never compromise my relationship with Geoff. He buys me furniture.” I laugh. The fact is, I know Hannah loves Geoff. She pulls me behind her as we make our way to the skee-ball machines. I eye her casual outfit—a plain back T-shirt, skinny jeans, and flat, metallic gold sandals. She’s stunning. I smooth down my sleeveless denim dress and fidget with the hem. “Who’s going first?” I ask, sitting on one of the chairs near the machine.

Hannah shoots me a look of death. “I don’t even have enough money for a fucking game of skee-ball.” We fall into a fit of hysterics. “Let me get the game and our first round of drinks,” I say between giggles. “We can let the men flock to us after they see our skills,” I joke, looking around at the relatively empty bar. “Old Fashioned, right?” “Duh,” is all she says. I shake my head and walk over to the bar. “Two Old Fashioneds, please,” I say sweetly. I reach into my cross-body purse and produce a credit card. I would never tell Hannah this, but I’m twentytwo dollars away from hitting my credit

limit. The bartender mixes our drinks, and when he runs my card through the machine, I hear the sound I fear the most. Denied. He tries again, and the sound repeats. That sound should be the soundtrack to my sad, pitiful life. I can’t even buy two drinks. “Declined. Do you have another card I can try?” the bartender asks. My cheeks flush, and I reach into my wallet. “Umm, try this one.” I hand him my debit card—my only other card—and pray it goes through. I’ve done a lot of withdrawing and not a lot of depositing lately . . . The harsh sound echoes in my ears

again, and I sigh loudly. “Okay, umm, never mind about the drinks then.” I take both cards back and turn, but not before a man at the bar swivels around. “I’ll buy them,” he says. His distinguished voice piques my interest. I squint to get a better look at him. He’s wearing a black baseball cap over his unruly, dark brown hair, a grey T-shirt, and black jeans. He’s young, and when he tilts his head up, I can finally see his face. Intense, honey-colored eyes watch me shrewdly as he hands the bartender a crisp twenty-dollar bill. His face is a mix of smooth, pale skin and weeks-old stubble.

“Thank you,” I utter quietly. “My card must be broken.” I am flushing. So embarrassing. “It’s no problem at all,” he says simply. I think I see the hint of a smile on his face, but then he looks at his martini. “Well, thank you again.” I smile, even though he’s not looking in my direction. I turn and walk back to Hannah, careful not to spill our free drinks. “What was that about?” she demands, taking a sip of her Old Fashioned. “Nothing. I was just making small talk.” “Finley . . .” Her voice sounds

annoyed, but she’s watching me lovingly. “Fine. My cards were declined, so that man paid for our drinks. It was very nice of him.” “And?” she grills, sitting up straighter. “And I thanked him,” I reply. I sip my drink. She’s quiet for a minute. “We still don’t have money for skee-ball.” I burst out laughing. “When did our lives get to this point?” I ask, suddenly melancholy. She shrugs. “When we grew up, I guess.” We don’t stick around long enough to get any more free drinks. Instead, we

decide to go home early and watch reruns of Sex and the City. Curious about the quiet, generous man, I look for him as I pass the bar. Something about him draws me. But his stool is empty.

CHAPTER TWO Finley

Predictably, I wake at 6:55 and get ready for my day off. Pulling on a pair of old jeans, a white tank top, and a lavender zip-up hoodie, I then slip into some tan sandals and secure my hair at the top of my head with an old pencil. Once my teeth are brushed and my face washed, I grab my laptop and head out to Remedy Diner, two blocks away on Houston. I love this diner. It’s open 24/7, and I definitely take advantage of that as well

as the very large-portioned fries for four dollars. If I’m feeling crazy, sometimes I’ll order the $5.50 onion rings, but today I can only scrounge $4.95—just enough for the fries and a small tip. The retro décor appeals to me, and if I take my headphones, I can concentrate better here than at home. My usual spot is a sunny booth all the way in the back. As Randy comes over I smile brightly. “You’re up early,” he says, his bright smile welcome. He checks his watch and whistles to emphasize his point. “7:23. That’s a record for you, Finley.” I laugh and shrug. “I’m determined to write a thousand words today. I’ve

rewritten the first sentence a billion times.” He shakes his head. “Good luck with that. I’ll bring the usual. Coffee’s on me.” He struts away. I pull out my headphones and get to work immediately. I don’t like staying for more than two hours. Randy is a friend, and I don’t want him to sacrifice a well-paying table for me. I’m writing the first line for the fifth time when Randy brings my fries and coffee. I smile at him gratefully. “No worries, girl.” He walks away, leaving me to my own thoughts. Absolutely zero inspiration comes though, and after a while, my eyes begin

to sting. I’ve been staring at my computer for over an hour when I see a man slide into the booth across from me. My head whips up—is this guy actually going to sit at my table? I open my mouth to speak, but my tongue sticks to the top of my mouth. It’s the man from last night—the one who paid for my drinks. He’s sans hat today too, which allows me to admire his dark, messy hair. He’s watching me with an amused expression. “Stalking me?” I quip, smiling. He returns my smile with a heartstopping smile of his own. Oh, shit. I’m in trouble. “Let me guess,” he starts, his low voice captivating. “Writer.”

I suck my lips in and look away. “Caught me.” I feel myself blush. He nods once. “What do you write?” When I look up at him, he’s leaning in with his face propped up on one hand. His bright, copper eyes are intoxicatingly beautiful. He’s scruffy, but not too much—and he’s wearing a black button-up. Something about him is familiar, but I can’t quite figure out why. He looks thoroughly interested in talking to me. Why? “Umm, nothing yet. I’m kind of stuck at the moment.” His piercing eyes study me. I wipe my hands on my jeans and have to look away. I glance at Randy, who is

watching me with an entertained expression behind the counter. I roll my eyes at him and turn back to the man in my booth. “Am I boring you?” he asks, his voice sharp like a needle but his expression lighthearted. I feel my blush deepen. “No. I’m sorry, but do you need something?” I challenge, hoping to make it very clear that I have work to do. I pull my laptop closer to drive the point home. He sits up straight and crosses his arms. “Have you eaten?” I eye the empty plate of fries and the coffee I slurped in three sips. “Yes.” “Besides the side order of fries.

Have you had a proper breakfast?” God, his voice is so deep. I want to write the way it sounds. Intense. Rich. Stony. What is this guy’s deal? How did he know I ordered fries? My eyes wander over him—he’s very good-looking in a reclusive, mysterious way. His skin is pale, and the small, dark circles under his eyes worry me. Is he crazy? In New York City you can never really tell. “No. As you’ve probably guessed from last night, I’m not made of money at the moment.” I hate myself for having to admit that to a handsome stranger, but there it is. “Thank you again,” I say quieter. I look down and tug at my sweatshirt zipper.

“What’s your name?” he inquires, his eyes twinkling. For all I know, this guy is piss-drunk. He probably doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Like I said, crazy. “Finley.” I reach my hand out. “You?” “Emerson.” His warm hand grips mine firmly. I feel a small tug in the pit of my stomach as everything suddenly becomes clearer. Emerson. “Emerson? As in . . . Emerson Whittaker?” As in one of my very favorite authors, Emerson Whittaker? He grins. When he smiles, the lines around his mouth get super-defined. It makes him look younger than I’m sure he

is. His face makes me want to do stupid things. “So you’ve heard of me.” My mouth is open in a large O. “I am such a huge fan,” I gush. “The epilogue in your last book . . .” I trail off. “Come to think of it, every epilogue you’ve ever written has reduced me to tears.” I bite my tongue to keep the word vomit at bay. I could compliment him for hours. He nods indifferently. “Thanks.” I shake my head. I’ve seen pictures of Emerson Whittaker before on the sleeves of his books. But those must be old pictures, because the Emerson before me is slightly older and more rugged. The scruff drastically changes his looks.

Why is Emerson Whittaker talking to me? He’s a brilliant genius. He should be home writing his next genius novel— not here, talking to me. “Why are you talking to me?” And then it dawns on me —the man from last night was Emerson Whittaker. I want to smack myself on the forehead. Did it have to be Emerson who witnessed my failed adulting? How embarrassing. “Well, I saw you from across the diner. I came over to see if you wanted to have breakfast with me.” My mouth hangs open. “Because you know I’m poor?” I say a little too loudly. That has to be it—he pities me. I want to crawl underneath the table

and disappear forever. He laughs. “No. Because I find you interesting.” His words stump me. Interesting? Me? I mean . . . I guess you could call my quirks interesting. “I swear, I’m just your run-of-the-mill struggling writer living in the city. There are thousands like me.” He furrows his brow and frowns. “No, I don’t think there are.” My stomach flops. And then it flops again when the corners of his mouth tick up into that heartbreaking smile again. “Breakfast would be lovely. I like fried eggs, sunny side up. And bacon. Actually, since you’re paying, make that

extra bacon.” I mean it as a joke, but the second I say it, I clamp my hand over my mouth. “Oh God. I was kidding. I don’t want to assume you’ll pay, because—” “Finley,” he says gruffly, “it’s fine.” His eyes leave mine, and he catches Randy’s eye. I groan. Now Randy is getting involved too. “Hello, Finley’s guest,” Randy says, smirking at me. “Would you like to order?” His eyes wander over Emerson’s body not-so-subtly. “Yes,” Emerson starts. I admire the way his jaw moves when he talks. “We’ll both have two fried eggs, sunny side up, with bacon.” He closes the menu. “Actually, make that extra bacon.

For both of us.” He looks at me as he hands Randy the menus. “More coffee?” I nod. “And two coffees.” Randy scribbles something into his pad. When he looks up, he winks at me. “You got it.” He turns quickly and walks away. Emerson leans in and clasps his hands together. I have to remind myself to inhale. And exhale. “Friend of yours?” he pries. I nod. “Yep. I kind of come here a lot.” He smiles. “So, struggling writer?” His smile is so endearing. It’s lopsided, and I have a feeling he uses its charm to his advantage.

“I’m not struggling, per se. I have a retail job at Diptyque.” “Those are the overpriced candles, right?” How can Emerson Whittaker be thoroughly absorbed in the fact that I sell candles? I feel like I am living in an alternate universe. “Y-yeah,” I stutter, watching him as his eyes flick over my face quickly. “I’m writing a new book, and I need some help,” he says slowly. “Would you be interested?” I begin to speak and stop. Is he being serious? One minute, I’m sitting in here with headphones that don’t even work because I’m too poor to get them fixed— and how I dearly hope he hadn’t noticed

that they weren’t connected to anything —and the next minute Emerson Whittaker is offering me a job? Is this real life? “Are you serious?” I whisper. He nods. Then he bites his lower lip, a look of guilt overcoming his face. “If I’m being honest, you have a reputation in the industry.” I begin to speak, but he interjects. “The bestseller maker. You do ghostwriting, right?” “How . . .” I trail off. He shrugs. “Madeleine Martel gave me your information. Next time, don’t check yourself into places on Facebook. Especially since your profile is public. There are real psychos out there,

Finley.” His inflection is authoritative, and it startles me. “Wait, so you are stalking me?” I have to admit, the notion doesn’t scare me as much as it should. His reference to my old agent throws me off though. I left Madeleine’s agency a month ago—is she still referring clients to me? He laughs. “Lightweight stalking. I wanted to see if you’d be interested in ghostwriting my next novel.” I look down, taking in his words. “I don’t work for Madeleine anymore. I decided to leave the world of ghostwriting and write my own stuff.” “I think that’s great.” He watches me and I can tell he’s wondering how he

should say what he’s about to say. “Please? This can be the last gig you do. I can even pay you a bonus.” My ears perk up, as does my body. I really need some extra income right now. “A bonus?” He shrugs. “Yeah. And you could write your own stuff on the side. At the end of it all, I could refer you to my literary agency.” I stare at him. “You’re bribing me.” I barely whisper the words due to my utter embarrassment and anger. Everything comes into focus. He knew I was a writer, because Madeleine told him.

He knows how much I would love a meeting with any literary agency, let alone his agency. I can feel my face redden as anger permeates my body. It doesn’t feel great to be bribed with money, especially since he knows I could use it. He’s taking advantage of me. I shake my head and stand, grabbing my laptop. “And here I just thought you were being nice and buying me breakfast.” I don’t look at him as I turn to leave. I get about three feet away when I feel his hand on my arm. “I didn’t mean to insult you,” he says sincerely. I look up at him, standing right next to me. He’s tall—almost a foot

taller than me. “I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your help either.” I tug my arm free but he steps in front of me. Damn. “Please,” he begs. “Think of it this way. I’m sure you’d rather be helping me than slinging seventy-dollar candles for minimum wage.” He has a good point. I slowly retreat back to the table and sit down with a huff. “What are the terms?” I request, my voice annoyed. I don’t want to come across as easy, but this is Emerson Whittaker, an author I have respected for years. And he is asking me to ghostwrite for him. You have a reputation in the industry . . . The bestseller maker. How

can he know that? Isn’t that meant to be a well-kept secret? Did Madeleine tell him? I’m done with gigs, but maybe I should make an exception for him. Think of all I could learn working alongside him. And damn those golden eyes. Why does he have to be so seriously goodlooking? He smiles as he sits. “I can pay you really well. If you do decide to help me, just know that I have connections. I can get you an in with my agency. Six month commitment.” “Talk to me in numbers,” I say, impatiently. After all, he’s the one hiring me. “Twenty-five thousand down, and

twenty percent of anything I make.” I sit up straighter. “Are you kidding?” The going rate is about half that. “There has to be a catch.” I cross my arms. He clears his throat. “It’s a live-in position.” I gulp. “I’ve never lived with any of the authors I helped.” He nods. “I know. But I write at my house in the Hamptons, and it really does make it easier to communicate.” The Hamptons? Well, twist my arm . .. I pretend to contemplate his terms. The money is great—more than great, even. It would help everything. The

location is awesome. It’s not like he’s a crazy stalker. He’s a famous author. He has a Wikipedia page, for God’s sake. His eyes scan me, and I feel my body heat under his unyielding gaze. Why do his eyes feel like round X-ray machines? His focus on me is making me uncomfortable, and I try to focus on my chipped nail polish, pretending to be in deep thought. “Have you ever used a ghostwriter before?” “Yes,” he utters simply. It doesn’t surprise me. Most authors have at one point or another. That’s why Madeleine’s agency, which represents solely ghostwriters, does so well.

He reaches into the messenger bag I didn’t see before. He pulls out a few pages. “Here’s a contract my lawyer helped me with. In case you need some legitimacy.” His tone is serious. I glance down at the papers. “You came prepared.” “I knew you’d say yes.” He smiles. I frown. “I haven’t said yes yet.” I read through the nondisclosure agreement first, trying to ignore Emerson’s distracting fidgeting across from me. The agreement is pretty standard. I obviously have to commit to full secrecy. I’m not allowed to tell anyone about my arrangement with him. Except, of course, Hannah—I tell her

everything. I’d trust her with my life. But he doesn’t have to know that. I nod and continue on to the contract. I get to the part about payment. There it is, those magical numbers. My eyes pop when I see the line about lifetime royalties. “Most authors give me a cap on royalties. One month, six months . . . why lifetime royalties?” I ask quietly. He adjusts himself in his seat and clears his throat. “I just want you to be compensated fairly.” I nod. That’s a first. I continue to read. “I also pay your rent and utilities back in the city, so you don’t have to worry about it while you’re gone,” he adds.

I snap my head up. “This all sounds way too good to be true.” I slide the papers back to him. “Tell me seriously. What’s the catch? Do you have a weird fetish? Are you going to work me twenty hours a day?” His lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “No catches. Well,” he starts, leaning forward, “I turn off the Internet and television while I write. So if technology is your thing, you might be bored.” That’s the catch? I can deal with that. “Are you planning on murdering me, Mr. Whittaker?” I tease. “It sounds like you want to kidnap me and make it impossible for me to communicate with

the outside world.” “No.” He chortles. “But I do know your generation cares more about those kind of things than I do. Hence the extra money.” “My generation?” I look at him. “You’re not much older than me.” This time he really laughs. His head lolls back and a deep, booming sound comes out of his beautiful mouth. “You can’t be older than twenty-five.” I harrumph and cross my arms. “Twenty-six, to be exact. And you’re, what, thirty?” “Thirty-five.” He’s watching me for my reaction. I study his bright eyes, laugh lines, and overall demeanor. He’s

thirty-five? “But I know my youthful good looks throw some people off.” He is not wrong about his youthful good looks. Sigh. Am I really considering this? How could I not? I only need to give two weeks’ notice for my retail job, so I would need to know when he wants me to start. Hannah. She is going to think this is crazy. How could she not? I do! Will she cope living on her own? Will we still see each other? We’ve lived inside each other’s pockets for the last eight years. Twenty-five thousand and royalties. But not just the money. Connections. Connections so hard to come by. I can’t say no. I smile and look down. “Do you

have a pen?” He beams at me. His teeth are bright and mostly straight, except for his right incisor, which overlaps slightly with the tooth next to it. Somehow, it makes him more charming. As I sign, I sigh loudly. What the hell am I agreeing to? I hand the papers to him, and he tucks them away into his bag. “Are you able to start on Monday?” he asks, reaching into his pocket for his phone. I nod. My manager at Diptyque is going to hate me for agreeing to this. “Sure.” He grins and hands the phone to me.

“Program your number. I’ll call you later.” I take his phone gently, finding his contacts and entering my name as Finley, and company as Super Secret Helper. He laughs when I hand it back. “Nice.” Just then, the food comes. We chat for a bit about his books. I don’t talk about anything deep or personal for fear I’ll scare him away. I don’t want to ruin my chance at making good money and getting a legitimate meeting with an agent down the road. This could open a lot of doors for me. Soon after we finish, he excuses himself. He leaves an undisclosed amount of cash hidden in the check

holder. “I will call you later, Finley.” He reaches out to shake my hand. “I’m looking forward to doing business with you.” His eyes search mine, and I feel that same pang in my stomach as before. “Did I really have a choice?” I joke. He chuckles and walks off, saluting me. I automatically salute him back. I watch him as he leaves, and then I look over at Randy. He rushes over and opens the check holder. A one-hundred-dollar bill sits atop the twenty-three-dollar check. He waves it around and raises his perfectly arched eyebrows. “Ohhhh, girl . . . you in trouble.” He clucks his tongue and saunters away,

humming a song. I am indeed in trouble.

CHAPTER THREE Finley

“Hello?” I close the front door behind me. Silence greets me. Hannah must still be asleep. I hang my purse up and slip my sandals off. “Finley?” Hannah calls from her room. “Be right there.” I pour some coffee into a mug with creamer and walk into her bedroom. My hands are still shaking from breakfast. I have to keep checking my phone to make sure it’s real. Emerson texted me shortly after I left the

diner. Finley—now you have my number. From, Your Super Secret Boss I read the text at least thirty times on my walk home. When I get to her bedroom, the blinds are still shut and she’s lying on her side, staring at her phone. “I have good and bad news,” I say, sitting on the end of her bed and handing her the mug. She takes it gratefully. “Spill.” “I got offered a new gig, and it pays

extremely well.” She sits up and opens her mouth to talk, but I continue speaking. “I know I said I wasn’t going to take anymore gigs, but you’ll never guess who swindled me into working for them . . .” She stares at me. “J.K. Rowling?” With her lopsided ponytail and pillowcase-lined cheek, she is the epitome of cute. What are these scouts not seeing in her to deny her roles? I laugh. “If only. Emerson Whittaker.” Even his name gives me goosebumps. “Wow! That’s great! But . . .?” She watches me apprehensively. “I have to move out for six months,”

I say slowly, waiting for her reaction. I’m not sure how she’ll take it. I’m pretty independent, but she’s the kind of person who needs someone around. We’ve known each other since we were eleven, and she’s the extrovert of our duo. She doesn’t say anything at first. I think it’s because she’s about to cry, but then she gives me a small, guilty smile. “Geoff wants to move in together.” Now I’m the one who’s stunned into silence. “What? Really?” Hannah never keeps secrets from me. I know her intentions weren’t conniving, but I am genuinely surprised. I know she loves Geoff. However, I had no idea they were serious enough to consider cohabitation.

We’ve lived together for almost eight years—since our freshman year of college. In the ever-changing atmosphere that is the East Village, we’ve always remained constant—even our rent has stayed the same thanks to rent control. And now it seems like everything is being flipped upside down. “When he brought the new coffee table over yesterday, he asked me. He wants to move in.” She looks at me with wide eyes. “I wanted to ask you last night, but I chickened out.” I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m really happy for you guys. I’m glad you won’t be alone.” Thinking about it, this might actually

be a blessing in disguise. Geoff can take care of Hannah, and I can keep my room here if need be, rent paid. “You’re not moving out permanently,” Hannah says, and at first I think it’s a question. She glares at me, and that’s when I realize it was a statement. “You’ll come back, right?” I laugh. “As long as you guys will have me. Emerson is paying my rent, so if Geoff is moving in, you guys can pay less.” “That’s a relief. I didn’t get the Annie job, by the way.” She studies me apprehensively. “So, why exactly do you have to move out?” She finishes her coffee and curls up under the covers

again. I envy her ability to sleep late. I’ve never been able to. “He wants me to move into his house in the Hamptons.” “Shut the front door,” she gasps, sitting up again and taking my hands. “Can I come visit? Please?” “I think that might violate the nondisclosure agreement I signed an hour ago,” I reply, laughing. “But it’s not entirely off the table.” For some reason, I don’t think Emerson would mind if I told my best friend. Speaking of . . . “Oh, remember that guy who paid for our drinks last night? The one who humiliatingly watched both of my cards get declined?”

“Yeah. Why?” “That was Emerson Whittaker.” “Shut. The. Front. Door,” she repeats, grinning from ear to ear. “I know.” The smile drips off her face as realization sets in. “Wait, so you happened to run into him at Remedy less than twelve hours later?” Her eyes are narrowed in concern. I shrug. “He found me because I checked myself in on Facebook. He lives somewhere in the East Village,” I add defensively. But, she has a point. “That’s creepy,” she mumbles. “Remind me to stop checking myself into places.” I laugh. “So, when are you

leaving?” She phrases it in such a way that I figure she doesn’t really want to know the answer. “I don’t know.” She gives me a small, sad smile. “But now you have Geoff.” “He’s not the same.” She throws her covers off and stands. “He doesn’t know to bring me coffee in bed.” “I’ll leave him some notes before I go.” I walk over and hug Hannah tightly. “I’ll miss you,” she whispers. “But I’m so happy for you.” “I’ll miss you too.” I pull away and take her hands. “This is a good thing. At least I think it is.”

* After a ninety-minute writing session, where I got no writing done, I decide it’s time to quit my day job. My hands shake as I dial the number to Diptyque in the West Village. I know it’s shitty to quit without giving two weeks’ notice, but to be honest, I’m not sure they’ll want me to return once I tell them I’m leaving. Samantha, my manager, has a tendency to burn bridges when she’s scorned. It’s like she’s personally offended when people don’t love the suffocating smell of burning soy like she does. “Welcome to Diptyque, this is

Miranda. How can I help you?” I let out a sigh of relief. “Hey Miranda, it’s Finley. Can I please speak to Samantha?” “Sure.” Her voice is overly perky, and I begin to feel guilty about leaving my awesome co-workers. “Hold on one second.” The background music begins to play, and it’s The Black Keys. I sing along to Fever for a few seconds before Sam comes on the line. “Finley? Please tell me you’re not calling in sick. We’ve been swamped, and we really need you this week.” I gulp. Talk about a guilt trip to the max. “Umm, I’m actually calling to be

taken off the schedule. I booked a writing job, and it starts next week.” Silence meets me on the other end. “I’m sorry,” I add hopefully. “I’m just finding this a bit unprofessional,” she says slowly. My heart drops. I hate disappointing people. “I know. But it all happened this morning, and I wanted to tell you as soon as possible.” “You can’t come back,” she barks. “When this whole writing thing doesn’t work out.” I don’t know what to say, so I mutter, “O-okay. I understand.” “You’re screwing us over, Finley.” She sighs. “But I guess I have no

choice.” I feel like crying. “I’m sorry.” I mean it. I didn’t mean to screw things up for everyone. She hangs up without another word, and I blow a breath of air out of my mouth and fall back onto my bed. Shit. Am I crazy for agreeing to this? The money is good, but the terms? I’ll miss Hannah. I’ll miss the city. I’m giving up a steady job to write for someone else. Again. This was always supposed to be temporary. I was lucky enough to get a meeting with Madeleine right out of college at NYU. One of my writing professors referred me, and when I

began to write for other people, I loved it. The pay was good and the work was easy. That was four years ago. It was my ticket out of the strong, controlling grip of Mary and Gabriel Matthews: my parents. I gratefully accepted their financial help to get through college, but the second I had my diploma in my hand, I cut off all contact with them. I wanted to make it on my own. Without them. Without their influence. Without their money. Money was all they knew. I wanted more. I still want more. I wanted to make a name for myself. So is writing for someone else again really the best way to do that? Maybe in this case, it is. It could lead to good

things if all goes well. And why wouldn’t it go well? I groan and turn onto my stomach. Just then, my phone rings. I glance at the screen, still in my hand. It’s Emerson, and he’s FaceTiming. Shit. I answer hesitantly, holding my finger over the camera. It takes a few seconds to connect. And then Emerson’s face pops up. “Finley? Hello?” I’m not ready for him to see me. I sit up. “Yes, one second,” I say quickly. I throw the phone facedown on the floor and stand, studying my reflection in my mirror above my bed. I tame my long hair, tucking it behind my ears. I smack

my lips together and pinch my cheeks. I grab the phone and quickly hold it up, standing against the pale blue wall in my bedroom to ensure neutrality. I don’t want him to see my filthy room. He already knows too much about my depressing life. “Hey,” he says, smiling. Aaand he’s not wearing a shirt. “Don’t mind me. I just got back from the gym.” A tribal tattoo creeps along his left collarbone. I want to know the story behind it. Also, hello biceps. They’re nice and meaty for someone who spends most of his life sitting at a desk. “Oh. No worries.” I give him a tight smile. Not interested in your chest, I

think, hoping to convey my indifference. Or the way I find tattoos extremely attractive. “I hate phone calls. Luckily, there’s this thing called FaceTime.” He smiles even wider. “Yeah,” I say, agreeing nervously. “Technology is cool.” Technology is cool? Could I be any more awkward? “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about everything.” He’s walking somewhere—it’s too bright to see what it is. The beach maybe? “First of all, can you come out here tomorrow?” My mouth hangs open. Tomorrow? “Uh, yeah. What’s the address?” He scrunches his brows together and

scowls. “I’ll send my assistant to get you,” he adds flippantly. “I don’t want you to have to worry about transportation. Just text me your address.” “Sure. Sounds good.” “Also, I don’t think I mentioned this earlier. You have weekends off. I’ll let you borrow my other car. That way you can drive to and from the city, and you can continue to hit up Ace Bar and Remedy Diner.” He winks. I laugh. “You caught me,” I joke, throwing one hand up in surrender. I want to ask him if he followed me to Ace Bar, too, but that’ll have to wait until another time.

“I’m going to hook you up with Brady, my assistant. He’ll need your bank account and routing number. I’ll transfer the twenty-five thousand tonight, and if everything works out, once the book releases, we can work with the publisher to distribute your share of the royalties.” God, this is really happening. In less than two hours, everything changed. I nod, and when he looks at the camera expectantly, I realize I’ve been staring at his sweaty neck. “Yes. Fantastic.” “Umm,” he says, looking away in thought. “What else . . .?” His eyes widen. “Oh, right. So tomorrow, come

prepared to do some writing exercises. I want us to get a feel for each other’s writing. It might get a little intense.” He chuckles, waiting for my response. I try to act nonchalant, but a nervous smile appears on my lips. I study my reflection in the small square. Is that what I look like? Afraid and worried? I relax my face and smile like a real person. “I’m not afraid of a challenge.” “Good.” He laughs. “Do you have any questions for me?” I look up and touch my finger to my chin. Only about a thousand . . . “I don’t think so.” I want to plead, Why do you have to be so good-looking? “Okay, righteous. I’ll have Brady

pick you up at nine, if that works.” “Yep,” I say cheerfully. “Oh, and Finley?” He’s walking into a house now. “Bring a bathing suit.” The smile drops from my face. I hate swimming in the ocean. “Why?” I blurt. Before I can correct my rudeness, he just laughs harder. “We’re right on the beach.” Just then, he rotates the camera and I get a glimpse of a wooden patio looking out onto the ocean. White sand, blue water, sea grass . . . what more could I need? “That looks incredible . . .” I say quietly. The truth is, I love the beach— just not the water. My parents had a house in Montauk growing up, and my

summers there as a child are some of my favorite memories. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He winks again and salutes. “Have a good day, Finley.” And then he disconnects the call. I’m still smiling when I set the phone down on my nightstand. “Oh, hell no.” Hannah’s voice reverberates from the doorframe. I jump. “Shit, Hannah. I didn’t see you there.” I clutch my chest. She saunters over to me slowly. “That’s Emerson Whittaker?” She says it interrogatingly. I assume she means because he’s so handsome. I nod. “One, that man’s a sexy beast, and two,

you’re already smitten.” She places her hands on her hips and raises her eyebrows, waiting for me to challenge her. My cheeks redden. “No. It’s not like that.” “You’re such a chicken-shit liar. You were grinning like a crazy person.” “He’s funny,” I exclaim, grabbing a pillow from my bed and throwing it at her. “I smile when you’re funny, too.” She giggles and throws her hands up in the air. “Not like that. You’re acting mighty defensive. But I digress.” She watches me for a second, as if she just learned something new about me. Her scrutiny makes me uncomfortable, and I

shift my stance. “You hungry? Geoff wants to get Pho, and I’m inviting you.” I wrinkle my nose. “I won’t miss being the third wheel on your dates. And I’m sure Geoff won’t either.” “You’re not a third wheel,” Hannah says, turning to leave. “We’re attached at the hip, so technically we’re conjoined fraternal twins. One person. Be ready in five.” She closes the door behind her, and I look around my room. I like my room—I’m proud of the simplicity and efficiency, and the neutral colors. My walls are a light blue and the furniture is white. Hannah and I scored our matching vintage, white desks at a thrift store when we first moved in, and

the white iron bed frame is a hand-medown from Hannah’s cousin’s best friend. Over the years, the room has accumulated things I’ve come to love. Floral-scented candles adorn many of the shelves, and quotes from my favorite books are taped onto the walls. One of Emerson’s quotes is up there. You are a driving downpour of all my forbidden desires. It’s from his first book—my favorite. I take it down from the wall and tuck it into a pocket in my wallet. I glance around at my surroundings. My eyes go to the one picture on my white dresser. Chloe’s shining face smiles back at me, her blonde hair wavy

from being in the ocean water. I took the picture one summer at our beach house. Her light eyes are fading—it’s an old picture, printed on a piece of computer paper a long time ago. I don’t even remember when. I wish I could tell her about Emerson. I wish I could tell her a lot of things. Big sisters are supposed to be your sounding board. You’re supposed to ask them about men, makeup, weird things you can throw together to eat when you’re poor. I know Chloe would’ve had great advice for all of those things. Nostalgia washing through me, I pick up my phone and draft a text to my mom.

I edit and re-edit the same two sentences over and over. Finally, I decide on something. I don’t know why I’m texting you. But sometimes I need my mom. I decide to delete it. There’s no point. Besides, it’s not her who decided to forego communication. It was me. I have no right to start up a conversation, not when I’ve gone over four years without a word. I close my message app and throw my phone onto my bed.

CHAPTER FOUR Emerson

After I hang up with Finley, I walk into my house, leaving the back porch door open. It’s rare that sunshine inspires me, but it’s June, the sun is shining, and why the fuck not? I hop in the shower and rinse off quickly. After I’m done, I make another cup of coffee. I carry my laptop to the table on the deck overlooking the ocean. I open the outline document I’ve been working on for months. Now that Finley has agreed to write for me, I’m

feeling hesitant to share everything— especially chapters 23–25. I highlight the large chunk of text, debating whether or not to delete it. I decide to keep it. Besides, if I didn’t include those chapters, I wouldn’t be telling an honest story. And I would be leaving out a very important part of my life—perhaps the most important part of my life. I do make some final tweaks here and there. It’s a lot of information, and I’m not sure how she’ll react. A lot of people can say they’ve had a crazy life, and I’m definitely one of them. Embarrassment creeps up my neck as I realize Finley will know so much about

me—a pretty, young girl will carry my many secrets. Is that what I want? Especially from Finley Matthews? I’m not so sure anymore. I was so sure I wanted to do this. And then I met her. Formally, at least. Bright, attractive, effervescent. Three words to describe her. Maybe it’ll be a good thing. Maybe she’ll fuel her talent into me. Maybe she could even be my muse—Lord knows I’ve done it before. I think of her long, blonde hair; her petite, athletic-looking body; and her peach-colored lips. Anything is possible. I certainly never expected to hire

ghostwriters for all of my novels. After my first book, nothing else came. I had the idea, but sitting in front of the computer for hours, trying to string sentences together stopped appealing to me. It was a difficult time, and I lacked the motivation to write. My publisher wanted another book, so I went out and found a kid to help me write. And then it became really easy to keep doing that. I know that makes me sound like a jackass. It’s like a mental block. I do the best I can with what I have: I create very detailed outlines, leaving little to the imagination. Then, I hire someone who’s writing style is similar to mine. I like to

use someone different every time. It keeps things interesting. Usually, I ask Madeleine for a recommendation. It’s all very secretive. Nobody likes to admit they use a ghostwriter, but in this industry, it’s prominent. In this case, Finley fit the bill. Not only is she extremely talented (according to my writer friends), but she seems like she needs a little help right now, and I’m more than happy to help her. I’m a big softie when it comes down to it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of her before today. Of course she would be the perfect person to write my autobiography. Once I’ve groomed her to fit my

writing style, she writes while I provide outlines. And afterward, I’ll go through and edit extensively. I guess you could say they do all of the hard work, and I get to do all the fun stuff. And I guess that does make me sound like a jackass. I compensate by paying my writers well and treating them like family. I’m still good friends with my first two writers. Allen and Harriet are going places, and I’m happy to have helped them get there. As for Penny, my last writer, well . . . she was a little crazy. I hope Finley isn’t crazy. My phone rings. I reach for it and look at the screen. Fuck. I hit decline and wait for the

next call. It comes twenty seconds later. Decline. Ring. Decline. And on and on. I finally power my phone off and forcibly push away from my desk. The house phone rings. How the fuck did she get this number? The paging tenor infiltrates my eardrums and makes me clench my jaw. I let it die, but soon the ringing starts again. Jesus fucking Christ. I sprint to the master landline in the kitchen and yank the jack out of the base. I’m breathing heavily as I slide down against the cabinet. I put my face in my

hands. I guess it’s true when they say you can’t outrun your past. No matter how many times I change my number, she still finds me. I think a part of me likes it— perhaps because it’s possible that she cares. I doubt it. I’m done. I’ve been done for a long time.

CHAPTER FIVE Finley

I’ve said my goodbyes to Hannah a thousand times when I get the call from Brady. His voice startles me—he sounds so young. I hug Hannah one last time. “Okay, he’s here. I’ll be back Friday night.” “I’ve cleared my schedule for you.” She smiles and smacks my butt, pushing me out the door. I drag my small suitcase behind me, clunking against each step of the forty-five stairs down to the street. I take a deep breath. This is actually

happening. And it’s real—the twentyfive thousand was securely in my bank account as of seven p.m. last night. A silver Subaru SUV is waiting at the curb. I wave, and a small, nerdy guy hops out and runs up to me. “Finley? I’m Brady.” He shakes my hand and takes my suitcase. “Nice to meet you, Brady.” I study him as he loads my luggage into the trunk. He’s wearing an NYU shirt, and his curly hair is matted to one side. He’s sporting thick glasses, and he’s at least two inches shorter than me—and that’s saying a lot since I’m only five-foot-four on a good day. “Hey, you went to NYU too?”

“I go to NYU. I’ll be a junior in the fall. I’m just helping Emerson out with the house and various chores for the summer.” “Oh,” I say, disappointment lodging in my throat. Why did I think we’d be the only two in the house? And more importantly, why do I care that we won’t be? “That’s nice of him to hire you.” “We go way back. My older brother, Isaac, is his best friend. I’m fifteen years younger than Isaac, so Emerson’s been around pretty much my whole life. We grew up on the same street on Long Island. Are you from the area?” His nasally voice is endearing, and as I hop into the passenger seat, I make a mental

note that Emerson is from Long Island. “Yeah. I grew up north of here.” I don’t specify, but Brady continues to probe. “Oh, uptown?” I nod. “Mmm-hmm.” That seals it— Long Islanders know the kind of people who live uptown. I know those people. I ran away from those people as soon as I could. “But don’t worry. I’ve long since grown to love downtown more.” “Cool,” is all he says. He pulls away from the curb, and I buckle myself in. I don’t say anything as we inch along the western border of Manhattan, uptown and toward Harlem. When we finally get to the I-95 ramp, I lean back and smile.

“So, what’s it like to work for Emerson Whittaker?” Brady just shrugs. “He’s a good guy. But I’m biased because he’s practically family.” “Are your families close then?” I imagine Emerson and Isaac biking around the idyllic suburbia as kids, eating too much cotton candy at the local theatre, and promising to always stay friends. Just the fact Brady works for Emerson must mean he values where he came from. “Um, not really. From what Isaac told me, Emerson’s parents weren’t really around.” The rigid tone of voice doesn’t

register in my mind, so I probe further. “Oh, but I thought you said you grew up on the same street?” I needle, confused. Brady’s jaw clenches, and he grips the steering wheel tighter. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it.” I tense next to him, multiple scenarios playing through my mind. His parents weren’t around much? Like . . . they worked too much? Or something far more sinister? It must be the latter, because Brady looks pissed for saying anything. “So, what are you studying at NYU?” I buzz cheerfully. I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Brady. “Film. I want to be a director one

day.” I smile. “That’s so cool.” “Isaac is a film editor. It’d be nice to work in the same industry as him.” “You two are close?” I ask, fidgeting with the raw hem of my white, sleeveless blouse. Thank goodness I remembered my sunglasses, as the closer we get to the shore, the brighter it gets. Or maybe it’s because there are wider, open spaces around here—no buildings to block the sunlight. “Yeah.” He hasn’t looked over at me once, and I get the distinct impression Brady is done talking. I don’t say anything else as he notso-subtly turns the radio on. NPR drones

through the speakers, and I listen quietly as Ira Glass discusses Iran and Syria. I’m mildly invested when my phone buzzes with an incoming text. It’s Hannah, checking up on me. I give her the lowdown, everything from Emerson and his mysterious past to the fact that Brady dislikes me. She tells me Geoff is already at the apartment, moving around the furniture. She says it endearingly, but it makes me sad that change comes so quickly after I leave. “We’re almost there,” Brady announces about an hour later as he pulls off I-495 to NY-27, towards Montauk. I’m reminded of times my father and I used to take day trips to our beach house

in the winter. He loved Montauk. It’s less crowded than the Hamptons. We’d visit for fun because the beach is beautiful when it snows. A small, tugging feeling begins in my chest when I think of our house in Montauk, not too far from the Hamptons. In fact, I can still remember exactly how to get there. I don’t even know if my parents still own it. Ten years—that’s how long it’s been since I’ve been back. For once, I’m glad to be back in this part of New York. I wonder if the air feels the same as it did when I was a kid. The Hamptons are such a juxtaposition from the city—and yet every New Yorker comes here at least

once in their lives. The wide roads and serene setting are the exact opposite of Manhattan. Brady turns right off NY-27, edging past mansions built right on the beach. I spot the ocean between them, and my smile widens. Matching pastel colors assault my eyes, and I dream of one day owning something this spectacular. “Here we are,” Brady mumbles, pulling through an open gate and into the driveway of a large but modest home. It’s a classic beach house—light-blue paint, navy shutters, and a navy front door. There are lots of windows that probably don’t have drapes. Because why would you hide the sunlight? New

Yorkers come here for the sunlight. Not to block it out. No drapes needed here. “It’s beautiful.” As Brady pulls up to the door, I scan the front yard for Emerson. “Emerson is out right now,” he says quickly, answering my silent question. “He’ll be back soon. I’ll show you around.” He opens his door and jumps out. As he opens the trunk, I get out of the SUV and study my home for the next six months—Monday through Friday, at least. Tall hedges divide us from either neighbor, and the gravel driveway is surprisingly elegant and formal as it curves around a small fountain, leading

back toward the gate and the main road. The two-story house is smaller than I imagined. I wonder if he lives alone. I never thought to ask. For all I know, he has a wife or girlfriend, or possibly even a family. I didn’t think this through. God, what if he’s married? I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask him. “This is lovely,” I say, taking my suitcase from Brady. “Yeah. It’s pretty great. His first two books were optioned by Paramount, so he took that money and invested it in this house.” “Is he married?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound too clueless. “Nah.” He chuckles, and I’m left

wondering why he thought my question was so funny. He locks the car and I follow him to the blue front door. He punches in a code, and the door clicks open. “The code is Emerson’s first publication date: December eleventh, 2008. 121108,” he adds, as if I didn’t comprehend the numbers the first time around. He pushes the door open for me and I walk into a small foyer. A stack of mail lies on a small, vintage wooden table right next to a coat rack. The wood floors give the place a rustic, charming feel. I follow Brady down the hallway, passing a casual living room with a fireplace, a formal dining room, and a large kitchen with

stainless steel appliances. “Feel free to use anything in the kitchen. Emerson and I both like to cook, and some nights my brother will join us.” I nod. “Okay.” My eyes graze the wine rack and the cookie jar. I think I will be just fine here, especially if there are cookies and wine. Brady continues the tour, pointing to the large floor-to-ceiling window opposite the kitchen. “The deck is out here. Behind it is a private beach. Again, make yourself at home.” He continues up the stairs to the bedrooms. The first door is open. “This is your room.” He gestures to a quaint

bedroom. I smile and walk in, setting my suitcase down. A massive, white plush rug covers the floor, and a substantial four-poster queen-sized bed with luxurious white linen sheets looks too good to be true. The room is painted a light grey, and most of the furniture is either white or raw wood. I love it. “You have an en-suite bathroom, too,” Brady says, pointing quickly to the white-tiled bathroom and claw foot bathtub. Yes! “Awesome,” I reply, giddy. Brady just laughs and walks out, pointing to three other rooms down the hallway. “Next to your room is Emerson’s

office. He’s very secretive about it. Don’t go in without permission.” “God,” I laugh, “does he keep dead hookers in there or something?” This makes Brady laugh. “You know, I’m not sure. I’ve always wondered, though.” He looks at me with amusement. “But now I’m not going to stop thinking about dead hookers.” It seems I’ve found a friend with a quirky sense of humor like mine. This could be fun. “Next to the study is my room. I don’t stay over most nights, but Emerson likes to keep my room furnished. Isaac has a house close by, so I usually just stay with him. And the one at the end of the hallway is Emerson’s bedroom.” The

door is closed, but I want to see what it looks like. I’ve always been extremely nosy, and with Emerson’s mysterious past, I’m particularly intrigued. “I’m going to go downstairs and make lunch. You can get settled. Do you have any allergies or aversions?” I smile. “I dislike green peas and chunky peanut butter. No allergies. Thank you, that’s so thoughtful of you,” I say, grinning. “No problem,” Brady says abruptly, turning quickly and walking down the stairs. As weird and as stiff as he is, I think I’m starting to like Brady. I close my bedroom door. The first

thing I do is take my shoes off and climb up onto the bed, jumping and squealing like a giddy schoolgirl. I reach into my pocket and attempt a SnapChat to Hannah, but I can’t connect to WiFi. Shit. I forgot. No Internet. No TV. I never could afford a data plan, so I rely solely on WiFi. This might be more difficult than I thought. I call Hannah instead. She doesn’t answer, so I leave an excited voice message. When I’m done bragging, I hang up and jump off the bed. I begin to unpack, laying my clothes neatly in the drawers of the birch dresser topped with white marble. I walk to the bathroom and put my toiletries away. I set my laptop on

top of the small white desk. When all is said and done, I place the picture of Chloe on my bedside table along with the five books I thought to bring along— two of which are Emerson’s. I quickly change out of my khakis and blouse, throwing on a pair of jean shorts and a tank top. It is the beach, after all. I pull my hair back into a high ponytail and open his very first book, which is my personal favorite. Underground Love is the kind of book that really makes you think about life. The premise is appealing—two people are trapped underground for weeks, relying on the kindness of their kidnapper for meals and showers. They

start out as complete strangers. And yet, the man and woman begin to fall in love. The whole thing comes to a head when they’re finally rescued. They don’t want to leave their captivity, because those five weeks were the happiest of their lives. I flip through it, rereading his beautiful words. Now that I know this is the only book he’s written himself, it makes it that much more special. A few minutes later, I’m studying Emerson on the sleeve of the hardcover. He’s much younger in the picture—and his hair used to be longer. Emerson Whittaker grew up on Long Island but now resides in the East Village. He is currently a

professor at New York University and teaches multiple creative writing classes. I snap the book shut. He taught at NYU? I went to NYU, and I majored in Creative Writing. I don’t remember his name on the course list, so he must’ve left before I had a chance to take one of his classes. This book was published in 2008, and I started in 2008. I make a mental note to ask him about it later. No wonder all of my other professors pushed his books so often—they worked with him. This guy is getting more and more mysterious as the day goes on. I want to know more. Without thinking, I walk to

my door and slowly open it. I can hear Brady clanking around downstairs in the kitchen, but other than that, the coast seems clear. I tiptoe to the room next door. Using my super-sleuth skills, I turn the handle and feel relieved it’s not locked. Yesss. It’s a regular office. There are no dead hookers. I leave the door cracked so I can listen for any noises from Brady and walk slowly to the desk. Papers are scattered all over. A laptop sits haphazardly on top of some of them, and below that, a birch desk. A camelcolored leather desk chair sits tucked in neatly. A large bookcase houses multiple

copies of his four books. I finger the spines of all of them. I’ve read them all —and they’re all mind-blowing. I saunter back over to the desk. There are no pictures—something I was hoping for. Something personal. But this room is just about as impersonal as you can get. I eye the papers on the desk. They’re all handwritten notes, scattered thoughts, phrases, random sentences . . . my eyes catch one of the sentences. Her eyes were always evil, like a snake: predatory and narrowed. They had the power to cause the most pain of all. That was the day I learned what it meant to hate, and I learned it from

my mother. I’ve barely comprehended the words when I hear a loud creak. I look up, shocked. Emerson is standing in the door, watching me with a look of abhorrence. His fists are balled at his side, and his face is flushed. I feel my stomach drop as low as it can go, and the nauseating feeling of the blood draining from my face makes my knees weak. WHY do I have to be such a snoop? “Emerson, I—” “You shouldn’t be in here.” He doesn’t move. I want to run out of this room, out of this house, and never come

back. If I could crawl underneath this house, I would. I might be terrified of bugs, but I’d do it just to get out of this situation. I’d even swim out to sea—my ultimate fear. Right now, I’d do just about anything to get away from his angry face. That’s right, Emerson is downright enraged. To see him furious is chilling, especially since he’s been nothing but agreeable since we’ve met. “I know,” I say weakly. My voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.” “Get out,” he whispers, stepping aside, waiting for me to leave. He’s terrifyingly calm. I sprint for the door and brush past him. I don’t stop to look at his face. I

know what he’s thinking. I know because I have heard it before. Keep your nose out of other people’s business, Finley. Things are private for a reason. If we had wanted you to know, we would have told you. Why? Why did I have to go and ruin something so potentially good? Because that is what I do. There is a reason why curiosity killed the cat . . . Learn, Finley. Shit. SHIT. I’m totally going to get fired for this.

CHAPTER SIX Emerson

I don’t give my writers very many rules. In fact, I’d like to think I’m pretty easygoing. They write from the outlines I provide them. They spend their free time doing whatever the fuck they want. I make sure they’re comfortable. I want this to be an enjoyable experience for them, too. I get something out of it, and they get something out of it. My two rules are pretty easy to remember. First, don’t tell anyone about our arrangement. The terms I set with my

lawyer are strict as hell about confidentiality. I don’t allow any compromises. Ever. Second, don’t go into my office. It’s not even about privacy. I mean, I guess with her, some of it is about privacy—but I still haven’t figured out how to broach that whole subject. But for fuck’s sake, Finley will learn everything there is to know about me in the coming weeks. She has no need to snoop. I have boundaries. My office is my sanctuary. It’s weird, I know, but it’s my space. It’s messy, unorganized, and I need to know it’s for my eyes only. I never had a space of my own growing

up. Everything was everyone’s. My toys were theirs. My sheets weren’t mine, not really—they got passed around like a football during a game. Even the bathrooms didn’t have stalls. I had to shit in front of every other kid there. I never had a sanctuary. Maybe that’s why I ask people to leave it alone. If it becomes another place that belongs to someone else too . . . I’ll get pulled back into all that shit. And I really don’t want to do that because I worked so hard to crawl out of it. She never should’ve been there. She never should’ve opened that door. In doing so, she invaded a part of me I

didn’t give her permission to invade. She’s not ready to learn everything. I’m not ready to divulge everything. As I hear her run out of the back door and onto the deck, guilt wracks my body. Maybe I was too harsh. It’s her first day. Maybe Brady forgot to give her the house rules. She’s naturally curious. I appreciate that. It makes for a good writer. I sigh and run my hand through my hair. As I cool down, I recognize I definitely overreacted. In my defense, it was simply a gut reaction. I slowly close the door behind me, glancing at the desk as I do. I wonder what she saw—and then I feel sick with the possibilities of

what she could’ve seen. I make my way down the stairs, and Brady looks at me and then to the back door, concerned. “She seems upset,” he says, flipping a grilled cheese sandwich. “Yeah. I caught her in my office.” Brady doesn’t say anything. A smile curves onto the edge of his lips. “Doesn’t surprise me.” “I think I overreacted,” I add. “You probably did.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose and looks at me expectantly. “Go apologize. Make it quick though. Lunch is almost ready.” I eye him before letting myself out onto the deck. I spot her sitting on the sand near the water. I look back at

Brady, and he’s full-on grinning as he flips the sandwiches again. A small smile begins to creep onto my face. I regret my reaction, because to be quite honest, I’m intrigued by her audacity. Even the other day at the diner, I wanted to know more about Finley Matthews. I still want to know more.

CHAPTER SEVEN Finley

Mortification. Humiliation. Shame. Guilt. Remorse. Do you know what all of those words have in common? They’re all attacking my mind like little buzzards, making it impossible to feel anything but self-loathing. Emerson had one rule, and within an hour of starting my new job, I broke that rule. I’ve always considered

myself to be clever; smart even. However, right now I feel like scum. “Finley.” I tense. Emerson is behind me, and he’s probably about to berate me for intruding. God, can I just die right now? Like, right this very second? Instead, he sits down next to me and stares out at the ocean. I can’t help but scrutinize him—is he mad? Disappointed? The latter would be worse, especially coming from a man I greatly admire. But he doesn’t say anything. He just wraps his arms around his knees casually and ignores me, watching a pair of seagulls chase each other along the shore. Is this his way of silently torturing

me? His thumbs begin to work against each other. I’ve noticed he fiddles with his hands a lot. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. He grimaces and turns his head to me. “I didn’t mean to react that way.” Is he serious right now? “Why are you apologizing? I’m the one who broke the rule,” I say loudly. There’s a tint of anger to my words—not directed at him, but at myself. I think I’d almost rather he be mad. At least that way I could wallow in my self-loathing and hate myself even more. “I know. And I’ll tell you one more time. Please don’t go into my office.” He frowns and watches me, his honey-

brown eyes inquiring, studying. Writer’s eyes. Always observing. “I won’t. I promise.” I tuck my chin into the space between my knees. He nods once and turns his head toward the sea again. I follow his gaze, saying nothing. In fact, we’re both quiet for a few minutes. The squawks of seagulls are our only soundtrack. Emerson is the first to speak. “Why did you feel the need to spy?” His words aren’t accusatory. Instead, he’s merely curious. Normally, a sentence like that would mortify me, but with Emerson, I just smile. He has a way of phrasing things to make me feel completely at ease.

“I don’t know. I guess I just realized I know almost nothing about you. Aside from the information your book jacket provides. I was curious. And I happen to be extremely nosy.” He chuckles, and the sound erases all my tension. I realize he’s not going to fire me. Not today, anyway. “Well, what do you want to know?” he asks, placing the side of his face in one hand and turning his head to look at me. I study his scruff for a second, and the way his eyes are so distinguished and weathered. Not weathered as in aged—just wise. For a second, my stomach flips, and his smile widens. God, his smile makes me delirious.

“Lunch,” Brady yells from behind us. It startles me—I’d forgotten about Brady and about lunch for that matter. My stomach grumbles in response. “We’ll have to continue this discussion later,” Emerson says, his demeanor relaxed and blithe. He hops up first and holds a hand out for me. I try not to notice the way his fitted jeans hug his thighs or the way his white button-up is loose around his hips. This guy was a professor, yet he dresses like a college student. I place my hand in his, and the warmth shocks me. He pulls me up in one fell swoop and grins, and my heart definitely skips a beat. His eyes are

blazing, hot. Why does he have this effect on me? “Yes,” I say, barely a whisper. He releases my hand the instant I’m up, and we walk toward the house together. “I think you’ll like it here,” he says, watching me inquisitively. I nod, and look back at the beach. The white sand mixed with the dark blue ocean really does have an inspiring effect. No wonder so many authors write by the beach. The blue goes on and on . . . the possibilities are endless, just like the salt water. “Yep, I think I’ll like it just fine.” Emerson, Brady, and I sit down at the rustic, wooden table in the formal

dining room. Brady carries in a steaming pile of grilled cheese sandwiches and three bowls of tomato soup with fresh basil. My mouth begins to water. As far as cooking goes, Hannah is the chef in our apartment. She’s like a food ninja. I’ve attempted different recipes, but cooking does not come easily to me. I’m always burning the garlic in the oil. “Mmm,” I say, reaching out for a sandwich. “Thank you, Brady. This looks delicious.” Brady gives Emerson a smug smile, and they share a weird moment. I don’t dwell on it though, because this is the best meal I’ve had in a long time. I can tell the cheese is expensive, and the soup

is homemade. Hannah and I usually use Velveeta and canned Campbell’s tomato soup. This is gourmet shit. “Ina taught me,” Brady says. I almost choke on the crusty bread. “Ina . . . Garten?” My eyes are wide as I stare at Brady expectantly. “She’s a friend of mine,” Emerson begins. I turn my face toward him. “I organized a cooking internship for Brady with her last summer. She lives down the street.” I’m stunned. Hannah and I steal cable from our neighbors (something Geoff helped set up—I’m still not one hundred percent sure how it works. I am, however, one hundred percent sure it’s

not legal). For three months we watched nothing but the cooking channel. Which for us was ninety-nine percent Barefoot Contessa, i.e. Ina Garten and her amazing, fresh, not-so-healthy cooking. I adore her. “I’m so jealous that you know her,” I mumble, sipping my soup. “She’s like the Julia Child of my generation.” “She’s pretty great,” Brady agrees, smiling. “Did you know she spends one hundred dollars a week on cheese alone?” “I believe that,” I counter, grinning. “Gotta love cheese.” I sigh. Emerson laughs. “I’ll have to introduce you. I had no idea you were

such a huge fan.” I drop my spoon on the table, and tomato soup flies everywhere. “Seriously?” I exclaim, giddy. “I would love that.” I wipe the soup off my tank top. “Can you cook?” Emerson asks, chewing his sandwich. “Oh, no. I’m a terrible cook. But Ina gives me the confidence to try.” They both laugh. The three of us finish our meal, enjoying a casual conversation. Brady excuses himself first, clearing the table with impressive speed and efficiency. “I’ll say my goodbyes now,” he says, balancing the plates and bowls in one

hand and shaking my hand with the other. I wonder if Ina taught him that too? “Nice meeting you, Finley. I look forward to working with you.” “Thanks, Brady.” He gives Emerson a thumbs up and leaves. “Is he leaving for the day?” I ask Emerson. “Yeah. His work for me is on call. He has a lot of schoolwork to do. Crazy kid is taking online summer courses. In my day, summer was for play. I guess that’s not the case anymore. Your generation is too ambitious if you ask me.” He leans back and puts his hands behind his head, and a sliver of skin appears below the bottom hem of his shirt. I have to look away, because the

pale skin with a small trail of dark hair is distracting. “My generation?” I smile and place my chin in the palm of my hand, resting it on the table. “Why do you keep saying my generation? I’m really not that much younger than you.” He chuckles. “Nine years is a long time. I was thinking of ways to feel up Mindy Hawthorne when you were three.” I wrinkle my nose. “Please tell me you at least succeeded?” He winks. “You bet I succeeded. I’ve never had any issues with succeeding.” He stares at me with amusement. “I don’t know why I just told

you that.” He straightens up, the smile disappearing. “I don’t remember what my point was.” I smirk. “You attempted and failed to prove that we are from different generations.” He pushes back from the table suddenly. “We should get to work. Did you come prepared to write?” I hear Brady load the dishwasher. I want him to stay. He’s the buffer. Without him, how am I supposed to function properly around Emerson? I guess the third wheel is a good thing sometimes. “Yep. Let’s do this. I’m just going to go change.” I stand and gesture to my

tomato-soup-splattered shirt. “Sure. Why don’t you meet me on the deck in ten minutes.” “Okay,” I agree, and I quickly jog up the stairs. I can feel Emerson’s eyes on me as I go up, but I don’t allow myself to look back at him. I get to my room and close the door behind me. I can do this. Six months isn’t that long in the grand scheme of things. So what if the man I’ll be working with is beautiful, enigmatic, and intense? Geoff is good-looking too, and he’s off limits. I’ve never felt this way about him, but from now on, that’s my new tactic. Emerson is Geoff—off-limits. Unavailable. I laugh at myself. Hannah

would get a kick out of all of this. I quickly take my tank top off and throw on a baggy white T-shirt before slipping into some leather sandals. I check my phone before leaving. Five missed calls from Hannah. I plug it into the charger and leave it on my nightstand. I’ll call her later. I check myself in the standing mirror next to the dresser. It’ll do. I can’t look like I’m dressing up for Emerson. Because I’m not, nor do I want to. I resolve to get rid of these funky feelings today. It’ll make the next six months bearable. I walk down the stairs slowly. The house is quiet now that Brady is gone. I

walk to the living room and glance out the window leading to the driveway. The Subaru has vacated the driveway. I briefly wonder what car Emerson will be lending me for the weekends. I turn around and inspect the rest of the living room. A large bookcase covers one whole wall, and I glide over quickly, perusing the titles. Some I’ve heard of; most I haven’t. I’ll have to borrow a few in the coming weeks. A brown leather sectional, a Moroccan rug, and dark wood make up the rest of this room. I notice a few candles, a lighter, and some magazines—my kind of room. Down the hall, I peek my head into the kitchen to soak up more of the house.

Brady must’ve cleaned because the marble counters are sparkling. Copper pots and pans hang above the small island, and four stools are arranged across one side. I smile when I see six Ina Garten cookbooks stacked next to his coffee maker. Coffee. I check the clock. I still have a couple minutes. Luckily, it seems as if Brady left the coffee maker on, because I’m able to pour myself a small mug of steaming, black liquid. I hunt in the fridge for creamer, but I only see milk. Blegh. “Looking for something in particular?” Emerson inquires, startling me. He’s leaning against the counter with

crossed arms. How did he walk in so quietly? “Uh, yeah. Do you have coffee creamer?” He raises his eyebrows. “As in Coffee Mate creamer?” I nod, relieved. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but we don’t have any creamer. You shouldn’t be drinking that stuff anyway.” I open my mouth, appalled. I shut the fridge and put my hands on my hips. “Oh, so you’re a food snob? Is that your thing?” He laughs. “I’m not a food snob.” I let out a loud, frustrated breath of air. “I’m sure you and Ina get together and laugh at us plebeians. Right?” I cry,

outraged but smiling. Emerson smiles smugly. “Yes. That is exactly what we do in our free time.” He reaches out for my mug. “Can I show you something?” I shrug. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person to wait for permission. I step aside as he gathers a few ingredients. Whole milk. Sugar. Vanilla extract. I watch him as he mixes the milk, sugar, and vanilla into a small pouring bowl. He adds a dash of cinnamon and pours the concoction into my coffee, handing the finished product to me. “Try that and compare.” I reluctantly take the coffee and take

a sip. My eyes widen. “Holy shit. It’s delicious.” Better yet, it doesn’t leave the same film of oil on the roof of my mouth as creamer does, which is undoubtedly a good thing. Emerson beams, satisfied. “I personally like my coffee black, but in lieu of creamer, I’ll make a batch of this for you in the mornings.” “You would do that?” I look up at him in surprise. I don’t know him very well, but the kindness he continues to display astounds me. He shrugs casually. “Sure. Happy writer, happy life.” I guffaw. “I’m pretty sure it’s happy wife, happy life.”

“Well, you’re not my wife. You’re my writer.” His smile drops. For the second time today, I want to crawl under the house. An awkward moment passes, and I look down as I sip my coffee. Shit, shit, shit. “Right. Shall we?” I point to the back door, the bright deck summoning us. “Yep. Let’s go.” His voice is stiff. I let Emerson walk ahead of me as I berate myself for saying and doing so many stupid things on my first day. Then again, speaking before thinking is commonplace for me. I tend to spew imbecilic things when I’m nervous. He casually sits down on one of the

lounge chairs, and I take the seat next to him. “You ready for an icebreaker?” he asks, his charming smile squeezing my heart with every beat. Man, this guy is hot and cold. “I’m not sure,” I whisper, because it’s the truth. An uneasy smile pervades my face once again.

CHAPTER EIGHT Emerson

“Okay, first question,” I start, twiddling my fingers together conspiratorially. She takes a deep breath and nods. I like that she’s nervous—it means she cares about this job. I need that security, especially for this book. “If there was any country in the world that you would travel to, where would it be?” I always ask my writers this question, and I’m extremely curious to hear her answer. “That’s easy. I’m more than

infatuated with the royal family, so it would be England,” she answers with absolute delight in her eyes. “I’ll get over there one day.” She’s honest. I like that. Most writers give me an exotic location: Peru, Oaxaca, Japan. I smile as I think of the next question. “Where’d you grow up?” “New York City,” she says without a beat. I don’t say anything for a few seconds, and her inquiring gaze penetrates mine, waiting for me to answer her. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” “Upper East Side?” I query innocently. Her cheeks redden, and I

stare at the beauty mark under her right eye. “I have a knack for accents,” I explain, answering her question. She doesn’t need to know that it’s a lie. “Upper East Siders have an accent?” She looks impressed, and it makes me strangely happy to have impressed her. “No, not necessarily. But people who grew up in Manhattan do.” I smile and lean back in my chair. Nailed it. “Okay . . . but how did you know I’m from the Upper East Side specifically?” She says it accusingly, but her full lips are turned up at the corners. She’s amused. “Well for one, you seem hard up for cash.” She narrows her eyes. “No

offense,” I add. She crosses her arms. “Okay. And?” Again, her voice may seem annoyed, but now she’s curious. She leans forward to look at me. Her cleavage is showing. I have to look away before I stare for too long. “Two, you live in the East Village.” She waits for me to continue, but I just raise my eyebrows. “I’m not understanding,” she says slowly. “The East Village is a mecca for kids who grew up on the Upper East Side but want to make it on their own. Thus, a lot of them are broke because they refuse Mommy and Daddy’s

money.” She stares at me. For a second, I think I must’ve overstepped a boundary because she scowls and narrows her eyes at me. “You know, we’re not all like that. You’re pigeonholing.” I laugh out loud. “But I’m right.” “So?” she asks, flinging her arms out to the side. Her voice is high-pitched and frustrated. I have to bite my lip from laughing again, because she looks so goddamn cute. Cute? Jesus, Emerson. Get a grip. I sigh and look down. Am I flirting? “Anyway,” I say casually, “that was a good icebreaker, no?”

She repositions herself so that her hands are on her knees. A look of mild detestation passes across her face. “Sure. Now why don’t you tell me about Emerson Whittaker? I read you were a professor at NYU. I went to NYU. When did you leave?” “Right before spring semester in 2009,” I say hesitantly. “That’s crazy. I started in the fall of 2008. What class did you teach?” “Advanced Creative Writing,” I say carefully. “Oh,” she says, disappointed. “I mean, I would’ve remembered you, but I thought maybe we crossed paths or something. I didn’t take any advanced

classes until my sophomore year.” Cross paths. I can barely contain the irony I feel toward those words. I perk up. “So, you would’ve remembered me?” Now she’s flame red, and I fucking love it. “Well, yeah. I mean, you’re one of my favorite writers. Not that you were a famous writer then,” she babbles on. “I think the fact that you’re a fan might become a conflict of interest for us. You have to stop brown-nosing me.” She frowns. “I’m not brown-nosing you.” I laugh. “Whatever you say. What’s your favorite book of mine?” “Underground Love,” she says

without thinking. She’s looking at me like I’m foolish for even asking. I look at her almond-shaped dark blue eyes to gauge her sincerity. I find it twisted that that’s her favorite book. She’s unwavering. That’s the thing I’ve come to find about Finley. One second she’s scared and uncertain, like after I caught her in my office. And other times, she’s genuine and unyielding. There’s something fierce and brave about Finley Matthews, yet at the same time, something timid and vulnerable. How is it possible that one person can contain such a myriad of personality traits at once? “That was my first book. That was

the only book I wrote entirely myself.” She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she just closes her mouth and pushes her lips together, nodding in understanding. “I just couldn’t focus after that book. I think because it was such a huge success, it paralyzed me. The pressure was insurmountable.” “Have you tried?” she asks, her voice soft. “A few times. But the ideas are so much easier than the words.” “You should try again, Emerson. You have to commit to it though. You have to sit down and write whatever the fuck you want to write. Because your writing is wonderful, and I think it could be even

better than a damn ghostwriter.” I smile. Her words feel like a satin hug to my ego. “Hey, that’s your job you’re criticizing,” I tease. But she doesn’t laugh. She just watches me with tight, worried eyes. “I know,” she utters quietly. “But it would be worth it to me to read your words.” She reaches out to my chest and places a hand above my heart. “Words from here.”

CHAPTER NINE Finley

Oh my God. Oh my God. What am I doing? I slowly remove my hand from Emerson’s chest. His chest. I can’t look up. I won’t look up. It was a reflex—I had no intention of touching him so intimately, but I got swept up in our conversation. After a couple seconds, I have to look up at him, and when I do, I wish I hadn’t. He’s watching me with dark eyes. His normally copper eyes are brown;

almost black. His breathing is ragged, and the electric surge coursing through my body surprises me. I swallow and wait for him to say something. Say something! I urge. He begins to speak, opening his lips and then closing them again. Confusion passes across his face, and then concern. Speak! I beg him silently. “Well,” his low voice starts. I love the way his voice sounds like a deep purr. Did I really just think that? “Thanks. Maybe you’re the inspiration I need.” He looks into my eyes, and I suddenly have tunnel vision. Emerson and his beautiful face. Emerson and his genius words.

Emerson, Emerson, Emerson. A whooshing sound begins in my ears. “Was that the writing activity?” I ask timidly. I don’t want our day to be over, but now Emerson seems uneasy. He stands. “No. I was just trying to get to know you. Maybe we should resume tomorrow. I need to finish up my outline for the first chapter anyway.” My heart sinks. “Okay. We’ll regroup tomorrow. What time?” He shrugs, and he looks as though he can’t wait to get the fuck out of here. “Whenever you wake up. There are some leftovers in the fridge for supper, so please help yourself.” He rocks back

on his heels and slips his hands in his pockets. “Goodnight,” I say quietly, even though it can’t be later than two in the afternoon. “Night, Finley,” he says, almost a whisper. Then he turns, and he’s gone, walking quickly into the house. I bring my knees up to my chest and continue to stare out at the ocean for a few minutes before going in. I have nothing to do, so I peruse the bookcase in the living room for a book. I pick out an old copy of Moby Dick. It’s not necessarily the captivating read I’m hoping for, but I need some sort of distraction. When I get to my room, I flip

through the pages for an hour, soaking up the words. When that’s done, I decide to call Hannah back. She picks up on the first ring. “Finn! How is it?” she squeals, her voice high. An aching feeling forms in the pit of my stomach. God, I miss her. Already. “It’s great,” I start. I tell her all about the house, how Emerson and Brady know Ina Garten, and how inspired I feel here, which is true. I don’t mention the weird moments I’ve shared with Emerson, but I do tell her about getting caught in his office. “You’re such a snoop,” she says, exasperated. “Will you ever learn?”

I giggle. “Apparently not.” “He should’ve spanked you,” Hannah jokes. I cringe, but the truth is, the thought incites me. “You’re disgusting.” I laugh. “Oh, please. I looked this guy up earlier. He’s a fox.” “Hannah,” I warn. I already agree with her, but I don’t need the motivation to continue thinking it. “Seriously, don’t say stuff like that.” I already have to picture him as Geoff just to keep myself in control. Although that hasn’t been going so well. “Did you know he taught at NYU?” she asks between bites of something. “Mmm-hmm,” I say, lying down on

the bed with my feet straight up against the wall. “He left before classes started in the spring of 2009.” “Yeah, I know,” she says urgently. “Do you know why? Did you ask him? You’ll never believe it.” She halfwhispers the last part, and it sends shivers down my spine. I realize I never asked. I’m not sure I want to know now. “Erm, no. He never said,” I say slowly. “Well, apparently he was involved in some sort of affair with a student.” I suck in a breath of air. “Really?” I hiss. “And?” She’s quiet for a minute. “Rumor has it, he was somehow involved in her

death.” The blood drains from my face. “She died?” I ask, glancing at the bedroom door. Did I accept a job offer from a MURDERER? “Yeah. The circumstances were very . . . strange. Geoff doesn’t know very much, only that a female student died, and he was called in for questioning.” “Tell me more,” I beg, my heart racing. “That’s all he knows, Finn. Geoff only said that he was called in for questioning by the university and let go because of his involvement with her. It was a couple weeks after his first book came out.” We’re both quiet. I don’t

know what to say to that. Truth be told, I’m surprised. “If anything seems strange or suspicious, just leave, okay? Don’t even question it. Hightail it outta there.” And how would I do that? Brady collected me. “Oh, Hannah.” I laugh. “You’re overreacting. He probably had nothing to do with her death. He’s a really nice guy.” “Ted Bundy was a nice guy too,” Hannah says under her breath. She sighs loudly and I have to chuckle at her hardheadedness. “Okay, I believe you. I just want you to have all the facts about the guy you’ll be working with closely for the next six months.”

“Is that why you called me five times today?” I implore, smiling. “Yes. Finley. This guy could be a sociopath.” “Okay, calm down, Detective Burrows. I have this under control.” I twirl the ends of my hair in my fingers. “But, thank you for worrying about me.” “It’s my job,” she says nonchalantly. “We might not be related by blood, but I’m your soul sister. And I play the role of your mother, and father for that matter, because those guys suck.” Yes. Yes, they do. I laugh. “You’re the best. Thank you for standing by my side.” “Always.”

We hang up shortly after, and I sit with the phone on my chest for what feels like hours. At one point I must fall asleep, because when I wake up suddenly a few hours later, my room is pitch black. At first I’m not sure where I am, but then it all comes back to me. I check my phone —8:45 p.m. How did I sleep for almost four hours? I slowly uncurl and shake my legs out before going to the window and shutting it. Goosebumps rise on my arm when I realize I don’t remember opening it. I sit down at the desk and open my laptop. I wish I had the Internet to research Emerson. I text Hannah and ask

her if she can do some sleuthing for me. She responds immediately. Already on it. Xx While I wait for her to text me back, I meander out of my room and down the stairs. The house is dark and quiet, and for a second I consider leaving. Is Emerson dangerous? What were the circumstances? He doesn’t seem like the type to have an affair with a student, but I barely know him. I literally met him yesterday morning. Was I a complete idiot for agreeing to do this job without doing some research? Who’s to say he’s not some serial killer on the side?

Just as I flip the light on, Hannah texts me back. Okay, so . . . apparently the girl who died was a senior at NYU. She was in his advanced creative writing class. It doesn’t give details: no name, no cause of death. Just that he was let go. Sorry, babe. I’ll keep asking around. Love you. I lean against the counter. The mystery surrounding Emerson just keeps building and building. I shake my head and open the refrigerator. I pull out some chicken and vegetables, heating them on a plate in the microwave. I find myself

checking over my shoulder, expecting Emerson to be standing there with a knife or something. The thought makes me laugh. He’s completely harmless. He’s a famous writer. I’m sure his fans are just as curious about this as I am, so if he murdered someone, they would know. I would know. Wouldn’t I? “What’s so funny?” Emerson’s voice makes me jump and yelp out loud. He saunters over and smiles, his mouth lopsided. “Sorry, did I scare you?” Yes, I want to say. Because you might be a psychopath. “Uh, yeah. It’s just the windows in this house. It’s so . . . dark out there.”

He glances out. “Yeah. It’s pretty isolated.” He walks to the fridge to make himself a plate. “Yeah,” I say nervously. “Um, so tell me more about NYU. Why’d you leave?” Filter, Finley. Filter. He visibly stiffens. I want to kick myself for inciting a possible murderer. But I need to know. How am I supposed to work with him after knowing he may have been involved with the death of a former student? “I was let go. It was a misunderstanding, but it ended up working out because they fired me around the same time my first book released. And, as you know, it turned out

to be huge success.” He hasn’t turned around. His knuckles are white against the steel of the fridge, and I swallow before responding. “Oh,” I say quietly. “If you don’t mind me asking, why were you let go?” Did you kill her? He slowly turns, and he furrows his brow before looking up at me in anguish. “There was an accident with one of my students. It was the absolute worst day of my life. I was trying to help her, and . . .” He trails off and puts his face in his hands. “Anyway, there was a lot of publicity surrounding it,” he continues, talking through his fingers, “and the university thought it best for me to take a

permanent leave of absence.” He looks up at me and grimaces. Oh. OH. An accident? “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, moving closer to him. He looks up at me and his eyes are rimmed with red. “I don’t like talking about it.” “You don’t have to,” I whisper, and I resist the urge to take his hands, even though I really, really want to touch him. He just nods. “Anyway, under some awful circumstances, my first book made bestseller lists. So, the darkness birthed greatness.” He gently shrugs his shoulders, but he doesn’t look away. His face is mesmerizing. “Sometimes you need to wade

through the shit to get to the gold,” I add. “And look at you now.” He looks at me sadly. “Yeah. Something like that.” The microwave beeps and I walk over, taking my food out. I ask the question I want an answer to. Hannah said he’d had an affair with the student. I’m not about to ask that, but I compromise with a question in between. “She must’ve meant a lot to you. To inspire a book.” I grab a fork and look up at him before retreating to the dining room. I know I’m fishing—it’s possible the girl who died had nothing to do with his book. But something tells me she did. He’s watching me funny, his head

sideways, a small smile on his face—a small, sad smile. “She did mean a lot to me.” We continue to stare at each other for a few seconds. I say the only thing that enters my mind. “I’ve never felt that kind of love before.” I sigh. “To inspire a whole book? Pshaw. My exes don’t even deserve a paragraph.” He smiles, but it’s a tight smile. “That bad, huh?” I nod. “God, I’ve always had bad luck with men.” He watches me for a beat before he comes out of his stupor. “Well, anyway . . . do you want to eat supper together?” “Supper? I thought you grew up on

Long Island? Last time I checked, they say dinner,” I tease. I walk into the dining room and he follows me. I glance at his plate. “Also, don’t you want to heat that up?” He shakes his head. “No, I like my food cold. And yes, I did grow up on Long Island. But the woman who took care of me was from Texas. Old habits die hard.” He sits down across from me, and I watch as he cuts up his cold chicken. For whatever reason, I like his many odd his quirks. It makes him unique. “Huh,” I say, acknowledging the information. “See, and I hate cold food. I hate cold anything.”

“You’ll get to know about all of my weird little habits as the days go on,” he says between bites. I smile into my food. “Yeah. I guess so.” * I text Hannah later that night when I get back to my room. Me: I seriously don’t think he murdered her. I asked him about it, and he got really sad and emotional. He mentioned an accident. I’m still curious about the affair though. I have a lot of time to get him to confess all

of his dirty little secrets. Hannah: Okay. Just be safe. :) If you learn anything new, let me know. Hannah: ASAP. Me: Love you xx Me: The guy says supper, for God’s sake. Hannah: LOL I stay up and read until about midnight, and when I finally fall asleep, I dream of Emerson. Except it’s not Emerson—it’s Geoff with Emerson’s body. When I wake a little after eight the next morning, which is the first time I’ve slept past 7:30 in a long time, I shake my head and laugh into my pillow.

Welp, that’ll do it.

CHAPTER TEN Finley

Except it doesn’t. I thought dreaming about Emerson with Geoff’s head would help—Geoff is Hannah’s boyfriend. He’s unequivocally off limits. But Geoff is not Emerson. Emerson is Emerson. My lewd and depraved thoughts about him constantly assault my mind, and there’s nothing left to do but accept them as reality. My first week on the job is intense. Emerson and I spend most of the days together, reading a sentence and writing

a short scene to go with it. He’s trying to groom me—to tweak my writing so it suites his needs. Also, if we’re on the same page about verb tense and narration style, there will be way less work down the road. For example, I naturally write in first person. Emerson’s book will be in first person, so that’s been easy enough. However, I like writing in present tense. Emerson prefers past tense. It’s not so easy to switch tenses like that when you’re used to writing a certain way. I will say though, working side by side highlights the things I like about Emerson—his messy hair, his sloppy clothing, and the way he interrupts me on

almost every occasion he gets. He doesn’t mean to. He’s just really excited about this project, which is extremely endearing. He still won’t give me too much information on the book. It’s about a man named Ethan who has lead this crazy, wild life. I asked him if it’s an autobiography, and he replied simply, “Of sorts.” I want to know everything about him. I have to push my blooming feelings to the side though, because not only are they inappropriate, they’re inconvenient. Sometimes it’s hard to ignore—like when he leans in a little too close, and I get a whiff of his cologne, which smells like coriander and basil. Or when I make

him laugh, and the self-satisfied little monster inside me applauds gleefully. The worst is when his eyes get sad, like they do a lot of the time, as if he’s bearing the weight of a million people, or like he’s had the life of an eightyyear-old man. I want to touch him; I want to take his hands. How weird is that? I hate PDA. I always avoided it with past boyfriends. I never wanted to let my guard down like that—until now. I liked my own space and presumed others did too. Until now. I want my hands all over Emerson. On Friday afternoon, after I spend a few hours working on the prologue for Emerson’s book, he comes into to my

room with a set of keys. Without saying anything at first, he tosses them to me. I’m taken by surprise so I don’t catch them, and they drop to the floor. He comes over and retrieves them, setting them next to my computer. “Go. Get out of this room,” he starts, smiling widely. “You’ve worked hard all week, and you deserve a nice, relaxing weekend.” I look at the clock. “But it’s only one —” “I know. This way you’ll beat traffic.” I save my work and close my computer. I stand and stretch my back. “Okay, if you insist.” I pick up the keys

and grab my purse and the small overnight bag I have packed. It’s weird to think that I live here most of the time now, so an overnight bag is all I’ll need to go home. I jingle the keys excitedly as he takes my overnight bag. I walk behind him as he heads downstairs and to the garage. “Am I taking the Soob?” I joke. “Not exactly,” he says, opening the door. “I was thinking the red one.” My eyes adjust to the vintage convertible Mini Cooper. The red one. “What?” I exclaim, jumping up and down. “Are you serious?” I look at him with big, hopeful eyes. “Please say yes, please say yes.” He just laughs. “You can drive stick,

right?” “Of course. Oh my God! This is so cool.” I run over to the car and giggle hysterically. I place my purse and overnight bag in the trunk, pocketing my cell phone and sunglasses. I take a second to stare at the beautiful car in front of me. The Mini is cherry red and fully restored to its former glory. Four seats clad in white leather. An overly large steering wheel and manual settings. The dashboard is mahogany and gleaming. I can picture myself with a scarf and oversized sunglasses, cruising down 5th Avenue. “I can’t believe you’re entrusting me

with this beautiful specimen of a car,” I say, crossing my arms and walking over to Emerson. “I have really, really good insurance,” he replies smugly. “What time do you need me back Sunday?” I ask, the smile still wide on my face. His eyes flick over my face as if he’s studying me, and I start to feel an achy feeling in the pit of my stomach. What is that? “Anytime Sunday night is fine.” He moves his lips to form a thin line, and the forehead wrinkles return. “Drive safe, okay?” he adds, his voice tender and concerned.

“I’m an excellent driver.” I flash him a cheesy grin. He just continues to watch me with apprehension. “I’ll be fine,” I add for his benefit. “Thank you for all of your help this week, Finley,” he says sincerely. The achy feeling is back, and my smile lessens. I dig my hands into the pockets of my jean shorts, suddenly feeling awkward with our goodbye. Do I hug him? Wave? Turn and leave? “No problem,” I respond, biting my lower lip. I don’t make eye contact, so instead I glance around at the other car in the garage. “Looks like you’re stuck with the Civic,” I joke, and he relaxes

and laughs. God, this guy is tense. “Why do you need three cars again?” I begin to walk backward toward the Mini. My knees feel kind of weak, and the achy feeling is becoming unbearable. I should probably leave. He thumbs his nose and squints at the Civic. “Well, the Civic is my travel car. Good gas mileage,” he adds, and I nod in return. “The Soob is for everyday. I like it. I used to have a dog, so it was great for taking him around town. And the Mini,” he grins and winks, “is just for fun.” Just. For. Fun. Emerson Whittaker is lending me his just for fun car. This whole week has been surreal. I also like how he’s adopted my

nickname for the Subaru. Soob is so much cuter than Subaru. “I see.” I give him a tight smile and then get into the driver’s seat. Emerson opens the garage door, and sunlight floods the place. I quickly adjust the seat to accommodate my shrimpy legs, as well as the mirrors. I glance down and see a box on the passenger seat floor. When I pick it up, Emerson walks over and takes it from me. “What do you want to listen to?” He leans against the car and opens the box. It’s filled with cassette tapes. “Wow, you really kept this thing true to its time, eh? How about you put in one of your favorites.”

He nods and sets the box back down on the floor, leaning over the ledge and placing the cassette into its slot. I turn the car on so he can push it all the way in—I see the words Fleetwood Mac on top of the tape, and hide my cheesy smile with my hand. “So you might be too young to remember, but when this side of the tape is over, you press eject—” “Let me stop you right there.” My voice is a little annoyed. “I know how to use a tape player. Also, excellent music choice by the way.” He just smiles and pushes away from the car, saluting me. I salute him back, and we both laugh.

“Bye,” I yell as I shift to reverse. I was mostly telling the truth when I said I drive stick. I drive stick as in I’ve driven a stick once or twice. It’s like riding a bike, right? “See you Sunday,” he calls, and the car jerks backward. I wave again as I shift into first. This is easy-peasy lemon squeezy. I don’t look back at him as I slowly crawl down the street. The achy feeling intensifies as I turn the blinker on to merge onto the main road. I stay stopped at the stop sign for longer then necessary. Despite a rather rocky, tumultuous start on Sunday, we fell into a fairly smooth routine. We would start early, have

breaks for lunch, sometimes together, sometimes apart. Afternoons we worked again. He was intense, mercurial, driven, but also deliberately reticent at times. He fascinates me. The dreams haven’t stopped, which made mornings a little difficult at times. The whole experience thus far has been surreal. Stimulating. Invigorating . . . I want to turn around. I don’t want to leave. Shit. After one week, I don’t want to leave. Am I going to turn around? No. I want to, but I already know I won’t. But what is that feeling? The achy feeling? Am I going to miss Emerson? The thought is so silly that I laugh into the

fresh air. I shift and the car jerks forward. * Two hours later, I’m blasting Everywhere by Fleetwood Mac as I pull up in front of my building in the East Village. I text Hannah and tell her to come outside ASAP. When the front door opens, she screams and runs over, flailing her arms. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Shut. Up.” She throws the passenger door open and we sing along to Christine McVie’s voice. “I don’t know what’s more beautiful—you or this

gorgeous car,” she says, laughing. “I missed you,” I say before pulling forward. “Missed you too, Finn.” I can see her carefully observing me as I shift and pull into oncoming traffic. “You seem different,” she adds, resolved. I look at her for a second, before continuing to stare ahead at the street. “What do you mean, different? I’m fatter. Emerson feeds me cheese everyday,” I reply, smiling. “That’s good.” She looks away, unsatisfied with my answer. “How are things at the apartment? With Geoff?” This perks her up. “Good. He’s an

excellent cook, and he utilizes the notes you left him every day.” “I’m glad I won’t have to kill him, then,” I say, laughing. “Emerson is a good cook too. Last night, he made this rigatoni with goat cheese and greens . . . oh my God, Hannah. You would’ve died.” “Wow, it sounds delicious.” I look over at her, and she’s looking out of the window morosely. “So things are going well with Geoff?” “Yeah,” she answers, letting out a surprised breath of air. “Really well. Sometimes I think it’s too good to be true.” We pull onto 7th Avenue and I make

a right on Barrow, and then a right on Hudson. When I turn onto Grove, Hannah reaches out for my hand and squeezes it once. “You know me so well,” she says, throwing her head back and grinning. She flings her arms up into the air and lets the wind blow through her hair as I try to navigate New York City parking. It takes us over twenty minutes to find a spot, and Hannah has to direct me in to ensure I don’t tap the cars on either side of Irma. Oh yeah, and we named the car. It’s only four thirty so The Little Owl isn’t very crowded. We’re able to get a tiny table next to the front window. I

order us martinis and their famous gravy meatball sliders. “Emerson told me about these sliders. Says they’re the best sliders he’s ever had. I can’t believe we’ve never had them before.” I look at Hannah but she doesn’t say anything. “Well, we’ve never exactly been rich enough to eat here,” she mumbles. “Except when Geoff is kind enough to pay.” “I know, but I got paid last week. I wanted to take us somewhere nice,” I explain. “Plus, we’re basically in Central Perk.” Hannah laughs. “You and your Friends obsession.”

I giggle. “I know. I wish Emerson’s house had Internet. I’m having Netflix withdrawals.” The waiter brings our drinks over, and we each take a sip. Hannah leans back and continues to analyze my every move. “What?” I say, exasperatedly. “Nothing, it’s just that you’re different.” She gives me a small smile. “Happier.” “I think the beach has that effect on me,” I reply, sipping the cocktail slowly. I already know I won’t be able to finish it because someone has to drive us home safely. “It could be the beach. But I think it’s

the person you’re spending all that time with—the same person you’ve brought up three times since you picked me up.” Her perfectly shaped eyebrows arch as she takes a long gulp of her drink, watching me for my reaction. I shake my head. “It’s not like that,” I say defensively. She purses her lips and reaches out for my hand. “Look, Finley, I . . .” she sighs and looks over my shoulder before looking me dead in the eye, “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. I care about you way too much.” I pull my hands away. “I won’t get hurt, Han, because nothing is going to happen.”

The sliders are delivered to our table, and we forget about everything after the first bite. We gobble them down. We even order more before Hannah brings Emerson up again. “All I ask is that you’re careful.” “I will be,” I say quietly. “I promise.” I know Hannah’s concerns are natural. She’s still investigating Emerson’s past, and she updates me daily even though we haven’t made any more progress. His past remains a secret. Perhaps one day he’ll find the courage to tell me, but I don’t feel like I’m in any danger. I don’t mention Emerson again all

night, even after we finish the meal and I receive a text from him. I hope you got into the city safe and sound. You never texted, so I can only assume you’re lying dead on the side of the road. If you are alive, I wanted to let you know that I have a reserved spot in the garage off Avenue A and Houston. Also it might be nice if you could shoot me a line so I don’t stay up all night worrying. :) I smile and reply. Irma and I are safe and sound. :) Thank you for the info. See you

Sunday! He responds almost immediately. Oh jeez, you’ve named the car . . . And then: Finley, have a good weekend. You have a round of drinks on me at Ace Bar if you want to go in later. You know, since I can’t be there to buy them for you. Have fun! I’m grinning like an idiot when Hannah grabs my phone out of my hand. Her eyes scan the text conversation, and

then she pushes the phone back into hand. “Does he have a place in the East Village?” she asks, watching as I put my phone back in my purse. “Yeah. It’s actually really close to our place.” “Hmm.” When we get to the car, I stop and watch her before getting in. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting weird all night.” She shrugs and fiddles with the door handle. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just trying to protect you. I didn’t realize he lived so close. How come we’ve never seen him around?”

I laugh. “New York City is huge, Hannah.” I unlock the doors, and we slide in. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.” I start the engine, and Fleetwood Mac begins to play. I turn it down and face Hannah. “I will be fine. I promise. I can take care of myself.” For the first time all night, she seems to come out of her funk. She smiles and leans back into the seat. “Well, at least I know where we’re going for drinks later tonight.” I sigh. I’m glad she seems to be back to normal now. Fortunately, the rest of the night passes easily. We drop Emerson’s car off and head home to

change and get ready for Ace Bar. Although it’s not the same now that it reminds me of Emerson, Hannah and I still manage to have an enjoyable night. And I totally whipped butt at the skeeball table.

CHAPTER ELEVEN Finley

On Sunday afternoon, I say goodbye to Hannah once again and head down the street toward the parking lot, carrying my purse and overnight bag. I can’t deny the sadness I feel leaving Hannah again, but I now know Geoff is taking extremely good care of her. I made sure to badger him with questions this morning, and although I find him a bit aloof, it’s obvious he loves Hannah. The man brings her coffee in bed every morning and does the laundry. It seems

I’ve left her in good hands. Before I start the engine and head in the direction of the beach, I text Emerson quickly. I have my tapes picked out, so I slide in a David Bowie and rock my head back and forth along the highway. The first hour passes quickly. I switch tapes, sliding in a Blondie tape, and before I know it, I’m on Highway 27. It baffles me how it can go from city, to suburbs, to rural within such a short period of time. A few cars pass me by, but for the most part, I’m alone on a twolane road. That’s when Irma decides to die. It starts as a sputter as if I’m out of gas, but I still have almost a quarter tank

left according to the gas gauge. The car begins to slow all the while jerking forward at uneven intervals. I steer the car toward the side of the road and it dies completely. I swear under my breath and hit the steering wheel angrily. Really, Irma? I try to restart the engine, but it doesn’t turn over. One of my ex-boyfriends was a mechanic and my parents hated him. Thankfully, he taught me a lot about cars. I pop the hood and the radiator isn’t steaming, so that’s not the problem. The fan belt is still in place. I check the fuel filter and don’t see any fuel. Maybe there is a blockage or a busted hose because the tank wasn’t empty. Nothing

looks broken, though a more thorough inspection will be needed. There is nothing I can do. Shit. I close the hood. I walk to the driver’s side and try the engine one more time, but it doesn’t start. The temperature has dropped, and as I look to the grey sky, it looks as though it might rain. Great. Of course, when I go to the trunk and dig through my overnight bag for my sweater, I can’t find it, which means I left it in my bedroom in the city. Double great. Cursing, I grab my phone from my back pocket and begin to call Emerson. Three beeps. Let’s make that triple great. I don’t have service. Zero bars.

And then it starts to rain. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mumble, scrambling into the car and fishing through the glove box for instructions on how to close the roof. I leaf through the pages, finally landing on one page of potentially helpful information. “Flip the switch on the driver’s door,” I read out loud. I use my phone as a flashlight, looking for the mysterious switch. The rain begins to pelt down, and I start to panic. I see a small switch below the latch to pop the hood. I press it, and nothing happens. I leaf through the rest of the manual, but that page is the only valuable page, aside from the page on how to care for your roof.

I jab at the switch over and over, whimpering and shivering. “Damn you, Irma. You bitch,” I hiss, grabbing the box of cassettes and emptying them into the trunk so they don’t get ruined. I find an old newspaper and lay a few pages across the seats, trying to protect the beautiful leather. I put the empty cassette box over the gearshift. I try my phone again, but the three pitiful beeps sound in my ear once more. Right, into the trunk you go. Stupid phone. Then, I wait. A few cars pass me by but they don’t stop, even as I wave my arms exuberantly. By the time a large pickup

truck stops, and a young man gets out, I’m soaked from head to toe. My sneakers literally squish as I walk over to him, gratefully. “Hello,” I say meekly, pointing to my car. “I broke down, and I don’t have cell phone service. Would you mind if I borrowed yours?” He frowns. “I’m sorry. I never get service on these roads.” My heart sinks. “Thanks anyways.” “Do you need a ride?” I study his disposition. Even though I’m sure he’s harmless, with blond hair and a nice, appealing face, I decline. “No thanks. I’ll try the phone down the road.”

He reaches a hand out. “I’m Joe. Nice to meet you.” We shake hands, and a cold shiver runs down my spine. Was that the rain, or was it Joe? “Finley. Thanks for the offer,” I add, hoping he’ll leave soon. “No problem.” His eyes linger on me for a second too long before he gets in his car and leaves. Shaking the eerie feeling off, I begin the walk to the highway phone, keeping my eyes on the blue sign the whole time as the rain pelts down onto me. A quarter of a mile later, I open the yellow box all the while looking over my shoulder and glaring at the car. My teeth are chattering and my hand

is shaking so much I can barely open the latch. I stare at the buttons on the phone —emergency buttons only. I can’t call Emerson. Is this an emergency? I’m not sure if it qualifies. Now I’m pissed. First, Irma dies, and then my phone doesn’t get service, and then it rains! And I’m basically stuck until someone can help me. I trudge back to the car with my arms around my sides. I stare at my reflection in Irma’s window. My mascara is streaked down my cheeks, and my hair is matted against my head. Also, this was a bad day to wear a light pink T-shirt with an unpadded bra . . .

I lean against my car and continue to wave my arms at the passing vehicles. No one stops. What is wrong with humanity? Do I not look pitiful enough? I begin to whimper from the cold. Maybe I should just walk until I find service? I try my phone one last time, but there’s still no service. I tuck it into the back of my soaking wet pocket, grab my purse, and resolve to walk until I find a spot. 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 sixteen, 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, halfreverent—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 really 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.

I duck behind the island until I’m on all fours. I pray they don’t turn the kitchen light on—if they go upstairs, I might go unnoticed if the lights stay off. “. . . and like I was saying, I’m really enjoying this salon. The workers are the best.” “That’s great,” Emerson answers. His voice is flat, uninterested. Hmm. They close the back door and I hear Emerson lock it. There’s definitely more kissing. I cringe, but I also wonder what it would feel like to kiss Emerson. Then there’s movement—his bare feet, her flat sandals—they clack on the wood as both of them quickly walk into the dining room. I freeze, but then I

realize they’re still kissing. They’re moving and kissing. Since I’m in full view of the dining room, I jump up as quietly as possible and enter the large pantry, closing the door on myself. I wait a few minutes, praying they’ve migrated upstairs. I peek out and to my horror, they’re undressing on the couch in the living room—the only other room I need to pass in order to get back upstairs. I’m stuck in the pantry, and I’m going to witness Emerson having sex. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that. The smacking sounds of their kissing is so gross— well, on her part at least. I would like it

any way Emerson kissed me—smacks and all. I peek out farther and study her. She’s wearing a small, pink dress and flat white sandals. She has brown hair, and she’s tall. I can see from the way she’s lying that she has an hourglass figure. She pulls the straps down her shoulders and looks at Emerson seductively. Then he stops her. “Wait,” he whispers, his voice tense. “Em, don’t,” she begs, and I gag at the nickname. Em? Emerson is such a great name. Why would anyone shorten it? Someone who’s never read Emerson, I think. “Sylvanna, I can’t. Not tonight. I’m

sorry.” She sits up, and I get a clear view of her face. She’s pretty—older, but pretty. Her skin is the color of caramel, and her long brown hair is gorgeous. Her breasts are ginormous. I look down at my Bcup-on-a-good-day boobs. Is this the kind of woman Emerson is attracted to? Tall, dark, curvy? The exact opposite of me? “Why the hell did you invite me here tonight then?” She stands and adjusts her dress, clearly offended. He shakes his head. “I . . . don’t know. I’m sorry for leading you on. I thought I wanted . . .” He looks in my direction, and I duck back into the pantry

because I don’t want him to see me. I’m afraid to come out, so I count to one hundred. When I peek out again they’re both gone. Headlights shine through the window, and I duck again to avoid being illuminated. I slowly creep out, wondering if Emerson is still down here. I don’t see him, so I take the opportunity to hightail it back up the stairs to my room. After I close my door, I slide down and let out a loud sigh. I listen for noise, and I can hear music playing loudly from next door. Tonight was obviously a sign. Whatever the hell I thought I felt for Emerson is way out of line, and I need to

cool it before I ruin the best job I’ve ever had. I need the money, and I can’t ruin my chance at a genuine writing career because of my stupid feelings. Whatever I felt for Emerson ends tonight. It has to.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Finley

For the next month, I manage to avoid Emerson whenever possible. We work pretty seamlessly, and whatever vibe I’m giving off seems to be helping to keep us both in check. He doesn’t cross the boundary I’ve encircled myself in, and I don’t even fathom asking about the woman from my second week—I’ve seen her car in the mornings a few times since, and it usually puts me in a foul mood for the rest of the day. Those are the days I spend locked in my room.

To be quite honest, I’m trying to learn not to care. Emerson is entitled to do whatever he pleases—we’re both adults, and we should conduct ourselves like adults. We may have had a moment or two, but it’s over now. On my fourth drive back to the Hamptons, I see a new car in the driveway as I pull up to Emerson’s house in the Civic. It’s a silver sports car—a Tesla. Excitedly, I hop out of the Civic and go inside, toting my purse and overnight bag. I’m curious—we haven’t had any company, and to be honest, someone new will make things so much easier for me. New faces always breathe fresh air into difficult situations.

I hear voices in the kitchen, and I set my bags down by the front door as I close it behind me. To my disappointment, I hear Brady. And then an unfamiliar, booming voice replies to something he said. Do I finally get to meet the infamous Isaac? I walk into the kitchen slowly, and the three men are seated at the bar with beers. Emerson looks the same as he always does—attractive, unkempt, a little unhinged in the best possible way. Brady too—I see him most days of the week, but he’s so damn quiet that his presence doesn’t make a huge difference in diffusing the tension. The man next to Brady is just that . . . a man. A huge,

muscular, hulking version of Brady, only without glasses, and with a betterdefined jawline. In a word? Gorgeous. They all stare at me as I utter something unintelligible. I clear my throat and try again. “Uh, hi,” I utter, astonishing myself with my natural efficiency to make any and all situations awkward. “Hi,” Isaac says, his eyes scanning my body as if he’s marking his territory. “I’m Isaac. You must be Finley.” His turquoise-grey eyes switch back to Emerson. “Dude, you never mentioned how young she was,” he says quietly, and I’m not sure if I was meant to hear his comment. Something tells me I was.

Emerson’s mouth opens and closes, and he turns to glare at me, as if to say, did you have to wear those cut-off shorts? It’s so grossly paternal. “Yep, hi,” I say, ever graceful. I give him a small wave of my arm. I nod my head at Brady. “Hey, Brady.” I look at Emerson. “Emerson,” I add, narrowing my eyes. He’s still watching me uncomfortably. “How was your drive?” Emerson asks, sitting up straighter and eyeing Isaac with a constricted look on his face. Isaac is still watching me fixedly with crossed arms. “Good,” I say, perkily. “No rain, so I’d call it a success.” No one laughs.

“Well, I’m going to go upstairs for a bit.” Before I can turn, Isaac jumps up. “You should join us. We’re just having a beer.” He bites his lower lip, and I horrifyingly realize he’s flirting with me—blatantly. I wrap my arms around my chest and look at Emerson, unsure of how to answer. Do I need to ask permission to flirt back with my boss’s best friend? This is a strange situation . . . “Yeah sure, why not?” I say, throwing my hands up and giving in. “I’ll get you a beer,” Isaac says, walking to the fridge. I sit down on the stool next to him—farthest away from Emerson, whose face has turned a light

shade of red. Is he angry? “IPA? Pilsner? What’s your preference?” “I don’t care,” I answer, and I glance at Brady who looks two seconds away from skedaddling home. Poor Brady. He’s had to endure a lot of tension in this household over the last month. I feel like Emerson should give him a raise for having to eat dinner with us most nights. “I chose one for you,” Isaac says, sauntering back over to his stool and setting a Pilsner in front of me. He’s very graceful on his feet for being so tall. His striking eyes are sparkling as he turns to me and grins. “So, Finley,” he says playfully. I relax instantly. He has that way about him. “Emerson tells me

you’re fifteen thousand words into his book. That’s exciting.” “She doesn’t have to talk about work on her day off,” Emerson interjects, glaring at Isaac. “It’s okay,” I reply, smiling at Isaac. “Yeah, it’s great. We’re ahead of schedule, so that’s exciting for all parties involved.” That means less time with Emerson, only I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “Cool. So, how does ghostwriting work, then? Does he dictate and you write?” I shake my head, and I see Emerson chug the rest of his beer out of the corner of my eye. “No, he gives me the outline

of each chapter. Has he told you much about the book?” I ask, inquiring because I’m not sure how much I should say. Isaac looks at Emerson, who shrugs and smiles. “This book was Isaac’s idea,” Emerson says. “You can tell him. He knows everything.” I nod. “Okay, well, it’s exciting for me, because I never know what the next chapter is going to entail. As a writer, it keeps me guessing, which I think translates well into my writing.” Brady stands. “I’m headed home. Night, all.” He turns and leaves quickly. I hear the front door open and close. “Night,” I yell after him.

Emerson begins to speak, completely unaware of how clearly uncomfortable Brady was. In fact, I’m not even sure he realized he left. “Finley is extremely talented. She’s taking my story and making it much better than I ever could have.” I blush. He’s never expressed this to me in person. Once, in an email a couple weeks ago, he said, “Good use of irony,” and that compliment stayed with me for days. “So, what chapter are you on?” Isaac pries, sipping his beer. Emerson hops over to the stool on the other side of me —I’m now literally stuck between the two of them.

“Well, Ethan is eleven, and he just had his first kiss with Marlowe Hawking.” Isaac whoops. “Mindy Hawthorne. God, I forgot about her. She had the rack of a—” He stops himself and looks at me, embarrassed. “Sorry, I forgot a lady was present.” I look between them. “Who is Mindy Hawthorne?” The name sounds familiar. “Oh, that’s who Marlowe Hawking is based off.” “And Ethan?” I look at Emerson. He’s look down at his lap. Isaac claps his hand on Emerson’s back. “The man of the hour,” he says, and I slump in my seat. So it’s true—it is an

autobiography. “So, the first few chapters, with Ethan’s mom?” I look at Emerson. He raises his head and looks at me with a fraught expression. “Yep.” My God. All of the awful things he had to deal with before the age of ten. I can’t even imagine . . . “So, what’s the next chapter?” Isaac asks. “Chapter five,” I say quietly. “What’s chapter five?” Isaac implores of Emerson, leaning over the island to look at him. I pull back so they can talk. “My emancipation,” Emerson says slowly. “The whole ordeal.”

“Oh, right. Like how your lawyer tried to make a move on you?” “WHAT?” I screech. “Weren’t you only sixteen?” I can feel my face heating, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m outraged or if it’s the beer. “Dude, this story is insane,” Isaac says, laughing, but I haven’t stopped looking at Emerson. For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks truly vulnerable. “This witch of a woman was some hoity-toity lawyer. She liked them young. Emerson had to file a restraining order.” “Are you serious?” I demand, my voice almost a whisper. “Yeah,” he says, running his hands

through his hair and leaning back. “She was a crazy bitch.” Isaac chuckles, nodding enthusiastically. But I can tell it still bothers Emerson, because he winces and takes a large sip of beer. God, to have gone through all of that with his addict mom and the foster home, to finally be on the path to independence, and the one person you’re supposed to be able to rely on betrays him too? It’s not fair. “Did you file a complaint?” I ask, my voice quiet. He shakes his head. “Nah, just the restraining order. No one ever knew why I did, besides Isaac. I don’t think anyone would’ve believed me. She was pretty

high up. Took on pro bono cases like mine.” What else is there to learn about Emerson? When he said he had a crazy life, I thought he was exaggerating. Now I’m realizing crazy might’ve been an understatement. If this book is any indication, I’ve only written the tip of the iceberg. “I’m sure she did,” I mutter under my breath. “Looks like you got yourself a little pit bull fighter,” Isaac says, chuckling. “Taking care of my bro and making sure no one fucks with him. I like you already.” He clinks his glass with mine. “Yeah,” is all Emerson says.

I sit back and take three large sips of my beer. The awkward, uncomfortable feeling is dissipating, and I stand to grab another beer. Maybe I just need to drink more—maybe that’s the solution to making life easier with Emerson. I’m not going to lie. It’s been awkward for the better part of the last month. Not the crippling kind of awkward, either. It’s the kind of tension that leaves me wanting more every night. We spend all day together, and day by day I’ve slowly been getting to know him. He’s brilliant, kind, and don’t get me started on the day he decided we should work at the beach. Needless to say, I didn’t get any work done while I

was in close proximity to his bare chest. Emerson continues to cook dinners, usually with Brady if he’s around. The three of us eat together every night, and having Brady around has become my lifesaver. His presence alone makes it easier for me to retreat to my room every night and read, because he usually stays with Isaac. The first night I saw Sylvanna’s car in the driveway, I stood in the hallway and listened for any incriminating noise. Nothing. Either Emerson has soundproofed his bedroom, or they were outside on the deck. Again. I cringe whenever I think about that night and the other nights that followed.

Leaving most weekends has helped. Being away from him helps—until it doesn’t. I’ve come to find that I miss his presence, which is no surprise to me but it’s definitely inconvenient. I worry about Hannah. Geoff’s not always there on the weekends, which is weird, because I don’t expect him to move out while I’m there. Every time I bring him up, she changes the subject. It’s hard to pry via a phone call, so I know I need to sit her down and get her to spill what’s going on. Luckily for her, the acting gigs have picked up, and she seems too busy to dwell on Geoff. She’s even too busy to continue digging into Emerson’s past.

I look at Emerson and study him. Really, he just needs to stop looking so damn good all the time. I’ve toned my appearance down quite a bit. It would only be common courtesy for him to do the same. The three of us chat for another hour, and around eight, Isaac excuses himself. It’s a good thing. I’m four beers in, and the room is beginning to spin. “Unfortunately, I have a late night flight to catch. I should head to the airport.” He stands and turns to me. “Finley, it was truly a pleasure to meet you.” He slips his hand into his back pocket and produces a business card. “I live just down the road. Call me anytime

you need to get away from this fucker.” “Hey, fuck you,” Emerson says, slurring and laughing. He’s matched every one of my beers, and I get the impression he doesn’t drink much. I realize with a panicked feeling that Isaac, our buffer, is about to leave us alone. And inebriated. Shit. They hug quickly, patting each other’s backs, and then Isaac doubles back to me. He reaches out for my hand and kisses it lightly. I don’t feel a thing, but maybe it’s the alcohol. “Seriously,” he purrs, “call me.” Then the door closes and he’s gone. From the window in the living room, I

watch him drive away. I sense Emerson move toward the stairs. “Well, goodnight,” he says. I turn and salute. That’s our thing now—ever since Remedy Diner—we salute each other. I can never tell if it’s lame or cute. He salutes me back. “Night,” I say, turning back to the window. I hear him walk up the stairs and down the hallway toward his bedroom. Every night is torture knowing he’s so close by. Sometimes I can hear the shower turn on, and on those occasions, I have to take a walk on the beach to cool off. I follow him up the stairs and close my bedroom door, sighing loudly. What

did I expect these six months to be, anyway? Isn’t it a good thing that nothing is going on between us? It would only complicate every aspect of our lives. I take off my clothes and lazily walk to my shower. My numb limbs carry me clumsily to the tub and I step over, careful not to fall. I turn on the water, and I have about fifteen seconds of warm-water-bliss before the bathroom goes dark. I blink twice, wondering if I’m hallucinating. “What the . . .?” I whisper, feeling for the water lever to turn it off. Once I find it, I open the shower curtain and let my eyes adjust to the debilitating darkness. I feel along the wall for the

towel rack, and the second I pull the towel off the rack, I hear Emerson bang on my bedroom door. “Finley?” he asks, knocking again. “You okay?” “Yeah,” I reply, crouching and managing to exit the tub without falling. I try to give myself a drunk high-five, but I end up smacking my hand against the sink instead. “Ow, fuck!” I cry out. I shuffle to the door and throw it open. Emerson is standing there with a flashlight, and he takes in my wet, towelclad body. When I’m drunk my body does all of the talking, so I get a thrill from the way his eyes languorously check me out. No brain needed here.

“Oh, sorry. Were you in the shower?” he asks, a hint of a smile tugging on his lips. “Mmm-hmm, yep,” I say, unsteady. I reach out for the doorframe. “Dark showers kind of freak me out. Which is weird, because that’s totally not something I thought I’d ever say. Like, who would know if they like dark showers unless they got caught in a power outage?” I giggle maniacally. “You are drunk,” Emerson accuses, and my body warms. His small smile grows larger, the left corner of his lips tugging up farther than the right. God, that lopsided smile will be the end of me.

“Aren’t you?” I whisper, studying his face—his sharp, distinguished nose, his messy hair that’s falling over his left eye. He looks almost dangerous—a devilish gleam appears in his eyes. “Yes. And I blame you, Finley Matthews.” I cry out. “It’s not my fault you drank five beers,” I say, smirking. “You know what this means, don’t you?” he asks, leaning close to me. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me because he’s so close. His breath smells potently like beer and spearmint. It’s an intoxicating mix. I look at his lips, and I feel myself uncontrollably falling forward. Luckily, he’s quick and catches

me before I fall forward. “Whoa there.” “S-sorry,” I stutter, blushing. “Too many drinks. I’m losing my footing. What were you saying?” But I have no idea what he says because his hands are on my shoulders. Hands. On. My. Shoulders. He stares at me for a beat, making my knees weak and my heart pound wildly in my chest. “We should light some candles and play a board game,” he says confidently. I scoff. “I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.” “Okay,” he says, grinning. “But without the power, it means you won’t be able to plug in your Winnie-the-Pooh

nightlight. You sure you can fall asleep in the pitch dark?” My head begins to spin. “Wait, how did you know about Pooh?” He chuckles. “I have my ways.” I gasp. “Do you have cameras in here?” I look around, and my cheeks burn. God, that would be such a violation—the things he would’ve seen me do . . . “No cameras.” He walks over to Pooh and flicks the switch. Nothing happens. “You have it on the automatic setting. It came on one night last weekend.” “Oh,” I say, shaking my head. “So? Are you ready for a game of

Scrabble?” he asks, spreading his arms and placing both of them against the parallel doorframes. I like the way he looks in my door, like maybe he’ll stay and come to bed with me. Ugh. I know this is a bad idea. Intrinsically, my brain is screaming, No, no, no! But I have no reasoning skills right now. They’re numb. I’m numb. “Okay, fine,” I acquiesce. “Meet me downstairs in five,” he says playfully. “Here, take this.” He hands the flashlight to me, and I close the door when he leaves. I quickly change into lace shorts and a cropped sweatshirt. It shows my stomach, but I figure it’s dark, so it

won’t really matter. I shake my wet hair out but leave it down. Lastly, I smear some ChapStick on my lips and lotion on my face, then walk downstairs. It’s a little tricky with the stairs wobbling. Or is that me? Emerson has several candles lit around the living room and a Scrabble board rests on the old steamer trunk he uses as a coffee table. A bottle of whiskey sits off to the side, and I raise my eyebrows. “Whiskey? Really? Are you trying to send me to the hospital?” Emerson laughs and gestures for me to sit on the floor. His eyes land on my bare stomach and stay there for a little

too long. “I just thought it would heighten the fun,” he growls. His words drive themselves somewhere deep in my abdomen, making my stomach tighten. “Fine. Pour me a shot,” I say, plopping down and watching him through narrowed eyes. I give him a quick smile, and he pours the amber liquid into a shot glass. I pick it up, and he pours one for himself. “Cheers,” I say, clinking glasses with him. “To losing our minds.” “To losing our minds,” he echoes, watching me intently. I throw the shot back. It burns, but it’s nice whiskey so it goes down easily. Instantly, I begin to feel more

intoxicated. “Scrabble is the kind of game you play with your grandmother,” I whine, staring at the board. “When you’re drinking whiskey, you have to play poker.” Emerson smiles slyly. “Oh, really? I’ve only ever played strip poker,” he adds, challenging me. His words make me feel dizzy, and suddenly I feel very hot. And then it hits me. Are we flirting? “Hold on,” I say loudly, holding my hand up for emphasis. “I don’t think . . .” I trail off and look at him. I don’t think what? That this is a good idea? It’s definitely not a good idea, but maybe

there’s an opportunity here that would otherwise not present itself. I know that’s the alcohol talking, but we’re both consenting adults. “You don’t think what, Finley?” Emerson asks, his voice strong and defiant. His heated glance makes me squirm, and I study him for a second before responding. “I don’t know how to play poker,” I say quietly, succumbing fully. If there was a time to stop this from progressing, now would be it. But, fuck it. Emerson grins. “Well, let’s start with Texas Hold ’Em.” He jumps up and jogs upstairs. I nervously bite my thumbnail

and curse myself. I can’t tell if I’m taking advantage of him, or if he’s taking advantage of me. I don’t know which one is worse. He comes down the stairs, looking forlorn. “I can’t find my deck of cards. But,” he says, excitedly, “I found some temporary tattoos.” He holds up some paper. “Because when you’re drunk, you get tattoos that you’ll regret. This way, they’ll wash off in the morning.” I laugh. “Where did you get those?” He shrugs and stares at them, confused. “I don’t remember. They’re pretty awful.” He passes one to me, and I stare at the Chinese symbol before responding.

“What does this one even mean?” I ask, waving it around. “I don’t want to be temporarily stamping myself with the Chinese version of cunt or something.” “No idea.” He laughs. He hands the rest of the tattoo papers to me, and quickly walks to the kitchen. When he returns, he’s carrying a glass of water and two washcloths. “You ready to get inked?” he asks, his timbre frisky. “Yes,” I whisper. “Right now, I’d probably let you give me a real tattoo if you knew how—give you a needle and have at it.” Emerson freezes and looks at me. His eyes are piercing and dark, and they’re focused on my lips. “Really?” he

demands, the smile vanishing from his face. “I trust you,” I say without thinking. I bite my lower lip and look away. “I trust you, too,” he says, his voice hoarse. I can feel the heat radiating off his body. “You choose the first one,” I say, bringing my knees up into my chest. He leafs through the selections, finally choosing something I can’t see from here. “Okay,” he says, taking my hand and placing the thick paper on my left inner wrist. The feeling of his hand on mine is exquisite. I swallow hard and look at him as he dips one of the washcloths in water and begins to gently

pat my sensitive skin where the paper is. I swear I see a small smirk on his face as I gasp quietly. After a few intense seconds, he starts to slowly peel the paper off. “Done,” he whispers. Underneath, a small eagle appears. “I love it.” I smile. “Thank you.” I reach over for the papers and pick something out for him. “Your turn.” I position myself cross-legged in front of him. I gently place the paper tattoo side down on one of his wrists, and dip one of the washcloths in water, patting him lightly. I can’t believe how much it pleases me to be touching him this intimately. I’m not sure if I’ve ever wanted anything more. I study the soft,

smooth, white skin around the tattoo— his pale skin really is beautiful. He looks as if he’s from a different time. “Finished,” I whisper. I peel the paper off and Emerson laughs when the tattoo reveals itself. “A snake?” he asks incredulously. “You’re Slytherin,” I say, giggling. “Obviously I’m Ravenclaw.” I hold up the eagle as proof. He watches me and cocks his head to one side, giving me a lopsided grin. His alluring gaze dips to my exposed collarbone, and he licks his lips. “The fact that you just quoted Harry Potter is a total turn-on.” I smile victoriously and hold my

other wrist out. “There’s more where that came from,” I reply, my throaty voice surprising me. “I could talk Harry Potter all night. Next.” I’m giving you permission to touch me more, Emerson, I think. I want you to touch me. He doesn’t say anything as he picks out another tattoo from the pile. I look away as he begins, trying to concentrate on something other than the electricity pulsating through our hands. The feeling goes directly to the pit of my stomach, and after a few seconds, I realize I’m breathing heavily. I look up at him as he removes the paper exceedingly slowly, and then he blows on the tender skin. I watch with heavy eyes as the wolf tattoo

dries, and our eyes meet. “A wolf,” I say, my voice quiet and unsure. He doesn’t answer. He just dips his eyes back down to my wrist, which is still in his hand, and begins to trace the outline of the grey animal. A whimper escapes my throat, and for a second I don’t think he hears me. But then he tugs on my arm ever so softly, pulling me forward. He looks at me uncertainly, as if waiting for permission. Permission for what? The possibilities thrill me. His eyes dart from my eyes to my lips to my nose to my chest, and finally, to the hand he’s holding. He’s drinking me up. His eyes dart back up to mine—oh, those

penetrating eyes. He’s going to kiss me. Except he doesn’t. Instead, he picks up another tattoo and scoots closer to me with a damp washcloth. My eyes flutter closed as he brushes the hair off my shoulder, exposing the side of my neck. The touch of his fingers brushing my skin in such a sensitive area as well as the sensation of his breath against me is enough to make me utter some sort of guttural sound from the back of my throat. I don’t even care what the hell he’s tattooing on my neck—a place I’d never get tatted. My God, I’d let Emerson do just about anything to me at this point.

I’m not thinking of Emerson, my boss. Right now, I’m having a moment with Emerson the man. The man who is starting to drive me crazy with desire. The man I’m slowly getting to know— like layers of an onion, week by week, revealing more of his crazy life to me via his outlines. This is a man I want to get to know more. The handsome, perplexing writer who complements me in the best way possible. Who becomes possessive when his best friend flirts with me. Emerson slowly peels the paper off, and with one final nail in the coffin, begins to gently blow on the tattoo. This time I groan—loudly.

“Finley,” he warns, and I don’t need to hear the rest of his sentence. My eyes fly open, and we stare at each other. With only two syllables, he has somehow conveyed what he wants. His voice is a mix of gravel and velvet— wanting and apprehensive at the same time. It says exactly what I’m feeling. I want this, but we shouldn’t. “What’s this one?” I ask quietly, clearing my throat and exposing more of my neck by brushing all my hair to the other side. “A book,” he says, his voice husky. “Because it’s a book that brought us together, and it’s a book that will tear us apart.”

Wait, what? I don’t have time to decipher his cryptic message, because the way he’s looking at me right now sends frissons of electricity down every limb. My resistance is waning—or maybe, it was never there. The barriers are down. The walls have fallen. That’s what his furtive look conveys. There’s no need for a verbal confirmation. We both know what he wants. Don’t do it, I think, as he grabs onto my sweatshirt and pulls me forward. I won’t be able to stop you. “Finley,” he rasps, desperation apparent on his face. “Stop me.” I shake my head twice. “I can’t,

sorry,” I whisper. I’m being pulled closer to him. I can smell his punchy whiskey breath, and it’s so fucking intoxicating. I’m weak, and my heart is pounding. He reaches out and places both hands on my face. Just before his lips connect with mine, the lights come on and the house phone rings.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Emerson

So I guess that means the power is back on. I reluctantly pull away, and Finley watches me with hooded eyes. God, those lustful eyes are going to be the death of me. The shrill ring does seem to wake me from my stupor though, because I’m able to stand and not immediately fall over. I’m sobering up. Please God don’t let her see my hard-on . . . Being in such close proximity to her was like being an astronaut in orbit—I

felt pulled in, like she was compelling my gravity or something. Not to mention that her skin is the softest skin I’ve ever felt. And that says a lot, since I’m not exactly a saint, and I’ve felt a lot of skin. Finley is destroying me, one second at a time. I am unraveling my rules because of her, even though my mind is screaming not to. This is bad. This could end poorly. In fact, it probably will end poorly. But right now I don’t care. Seeing Isaac pursue her decimated me, and it detonated something inside me to mark her as mine. Mine. I’ve been avoiding that first meeting because I knew Isaac would want his paws all over her. How could he not? She is

beautiful, sweet, smart, and so incredibly sexy. I’m right, and I’m not proud of the possessiveness I felt toward her when it happened. Seeing her clad in only a towel earlier tonight didn’t help. How was I supposed to resist her? I walk to the kitchen to retrieve the phone, double checking the number. It’s not my mom, but it is an unfamiliar name and number. “Hey, the name says Hannah Burrows.” I glance at Finley from across the house. She jumps up and runs to the phone, answering it immediately. “Hannah?” she says, panicked. Her eyes shoot to mine, and the moment we were about to share completely

dissipates with the next words. “Oh my God.” She moves her hand to her mouth and nods. “Yeah, and?” I can hear Hannah talking animatedly on the other line—I can’t tell if she’s happy or upset. It just sounds like chipmunk talk. I gauge Finley’s face for a reaction. Is this a gossip call, or something worse? “I’m so sorry. My phone is dead, and the power was out until just now.” She looks up at me. “I, um . . . I’ve been drinking so I can’t drive over,” she says, her voice terse. “I’ll call a cab,” I say automatically, reaching into my jeans pocket for my cell phone.

“Hold on one sec,” she says to Hannah, and then she glares at me. “A cab? Are you crazy? Do you know how expensive it would be for me to go to New York City in a taxi?” I smile. “Finley, I’m paying. I’m also coming with you.” “What? Why?” I shrug. I’m beginning to feel warm again, and my eyeballs feel dry. So maybe I’m not sobering up. She starts speaking to Hannah again. “Sweetie, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She nods. “Yeah. Oh, and Emerson is coming too,” she adds, looking at me with big eyes. I give her a thumbs up. “Yep. Two hours.” She sighs and hangs

up the phone. I watch her expectantly. She paces toward the sliding doors and then back to me, all the while mumbling, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” “She caught Geoff in bed with another woman,” she explains, puffing her cheeks out and releasing a loud breath of air. “In their bed. It’s bad.” “That rat bastard,” I mutter under my breath. I’ve heard all about Hannah and Geoff. In fact, even though I’ve never met Hannah, I feel like I know everything about her, and I automatically know I’ll like her. Also, Geoff is a dead man. “Well, grab your things and let’s go. Uber will be here in three minutes,” I say, pointing to the app open on my

phone. She begins to say something, emotion flooding her already-flushed face. Instead, she nods and quickly walks to the stairs. I follow her and head to my bedroom, slipping on a pair of Vans and grabbing a light zip-up hoodie. I put my keys, cell phone charger, and wallet into my back pocket, and meet Finley downstairs. To my delight, she’s still wearing the light pink sweatshirt that shows off her sexy-as-sin stomach, and those damn white lace shorts. Shit. I shake my head. I’m a fucking pervert. “Ready?” I ask, turning the lights off and opening the front door.

“Yeah,” she says reluctantly, walking ahead of me toward the black Prius waiting at the curb. She turns and faces me for a second. “Hey, thank you for doing this,” she says quietly, wrapping her arms around her chest. I jump forward and wrap the hoodie around her shoulders. “It’s not a problem. Are you going to be warm enough?” I ask, eyeing her ittybitty outfit and flip-flops. “I’ll be fine. I just want to get there.” She smiles weakly. I reach out and open one of the back doors for her. “Then let’s go,” I say, smiling back and directing her in. It might be past midnight by the time we

get there, but I like being spontaneous with Finley. Life hasn’t felt this exhilarating in a long time. The car jerks forward. The driver— a young guy with dreads—looks at the destination and back at us. Twice. “Yo, we really going to the city?” he asks, his eyebrows raised. I nod. “Yep. But if you want to make a fuck-load of money tonight, you won’t complain, because we also need a ride back.” He stares at me. “For real?” His eyes flick between Finley and me. “Okay, let’s get going then.” He puts on some ambient music and offers us water and gum. I take both for Finley, but she’s

just staring out of the window. “I can’t believe Geoff cheated,” she says quietly, facing away. “Hannah is so in love with him. This is going to devastate her.” She sighs and puts her face in her hands. “Hannah seems like a strong person. I think she’ll get through it. And if she doesn’t, well, then she has you.” “Emerson, I don’t think I should come back here tonight. I should stay with Hannah. She needs me.” She turns to face me, and her eyes are puffy and bloodshot from holding back tears. In that moment, I can see just how selfless Finley really is. She would sacrifice anything for Hannah. She would

sacrifice anything for anyone. She’s a nurturer. All those times she’s brought me coffee to my study—the times she makes her awful but edible dinners. Or even the times she folds my laundry when Brady forgets to. I’ve never asked her to do it—she just does it, all with a smile on her face. The advice she doles out on a daily basis. The kind looks, the affirming words . . . it’s all because she’s a giver. And that makes me want to envelop her in a tight hug, because someone needs to take care of her. “I was thinking,” I say slowly as we merge onto the highway, “that she could come stay with us for a couple weeks.” I

look at Finley and her mouth drops open. I hold up a finger. “She can’t know what kind of work you’re doing for me— that’s confidential—but I will pay her rent through the month so she doesn’t have to worry about money on top of everything else.” “Emerson,” she says with thin lips and wild eyes, “umm . . .” She looks like she’s seconds away from bursting out laughing. I sigh because her face gives everything away. “She already knows, doesn’t she?” I should be furious because it’s a huge violation of the contract, but I can’t help but laugh. “Note to self: Finley Matthews can’t

keep secrets.” She cackles and throws her head back. “I’m sorry. My best friend is immune to liability, I guess.” I love it when she laughs like that. It’s so uninhibited and free. I wish she laughed like that more often. She looks at me and shrugs. I casually put my arm around the back of her seat, and she surprises me by nuzzling her head into the crook of my shoulder. “I drank too much,” she whines, closing her eyes and sighing. “You gonna hurl?” the driver asks, eyeing us in the rearview mirror with a panicked look. “No,” Finley says. “Everything’s just a little . . . dizzy.”

“’Kay,” the driver answers suspiciously. “Why don’t you take a nap?” I suggest, and she nods slowly. “Yeah . . .” she trails off. “Isaac is nice, by the way.” I tense. She must notice because she sits up and stares at me curiously. “Yeah. He’s a nice guy,” I answer as impassively as possible. “Is he single?” she asks. I grit my teeth together. “Yep.” It’s the truth, but I hate that it’s the truth. “Hmm.” She leans back into my arm. I turn my head slightly and smell her hair. Coconut. “If you don’t want me to date him, just say so,” she says quietly.

I formulate an answer before responding. “He’s just kind of a slut. I don’t want you to get hurt. It might . . . complicate things.” At first I think she’s fallen asleep, because she’s quiet for what seems like several minutes. Then she sits up once more and smirks. “Emerson, he won’t complicate things. We might, though.” I study her face, hoping it will reveal how she feels about her statement, but she seems impressively neutral. She’s right—we almost did something stupid tonight. There’s no point in denying it anymore, but we can work together to prevent it from happening again. The

first thing that has to go are those lacy shorts. “Yeah.” My voice is hoarse. I look away. “I think we should stay sober around each other from now on,” I suggest, and I feel her nod against my arm. I take a deep breath, relishing in the feeling of her against me. It may be the last time. “I agree,” she whispers sleepily. Soon, she’s fast asleep. I watch the other cars drive past us. I study the shore until it disappears, replaced with industrial buildings, and as we get closer to the city, lights and traffic. I haven’t been back to the city since the day I had breakfast with Finley

at the diner. I tend to find the vibrant go go go of New York far too distracting to write. I need silence—I need the ocean. Though I do miss my one-bedroom in the East Village, I prefer the house at the beach most of the time. When we get to Finley’s apartment, I wake her gently by nudging her. She sits up and looks around, confused. “That was fast,” she slurs. “Oh my God, I’m still drunk.” I laugh. “You were asleep most of the drive. And yeah, you are still drunk.” I look at the driver. “We’ll be back in a bit. Please keep the meter running.” “Right on,” is all he says, turning his emergency lights on and pulling a book

out of the glove compartment. I glance at the cover and I can’t help but laugh. “Do you like the book so far?” I ask him, and Finley glances over my shoulder. Her eyes go wide. “Eh. It started out slow, and now I don’t really know what’s happening.” I frown. “Well, Kate is depressed. That’s pretty clear from the get go. You see, you have to understand how it—” “Let’s go,” Finley interrupts. She pulls me out behind her as we trek up the steps of her apartment building. “You can’t get defensive about your work. He bought your book. Just be glad he’s reading it.” I pull my head back in surprise.

“I’ve never thought about it like that.” “Please tell me you’re not one of those authors who read all of their bad reviews,” she groans, and we walk to the elevator. I stay ashamedly quiet, and she giggles. “Focus on the positive, Emerson. Don’t worry if someone doesn’t like your book. Everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion. The world remains beautiful and diverse because of that.” “Yeah, you’re right.” We step into the elevator, and without thinking, I push the number three. Finley stiffens next to me, and her eyes slowly travel up to mine. “Emerson, how do you know what floor

I’m on?” Shit. “Uh . . . you mentioned it once. Number 304, right? I assumed it was the third floor,” I say quickly, shrugging nonchalantly. “Yeah,” she answers skeptically. She crosses her arms and when we get to the third floor, we step out. I see her reach into her purse and pull out her keys. Before she turns the lock, she pulls back. “Shh.” She places her ear against the door. She listens for a few seconds. “Geoff is in there!” she hisses. I take initiative and throw open the door, startling Finley and the two people on the other side of the door. We step in

and Hannah is sitting on the couch with her legs pulled into her chest. She’s crying, and a young guy with a poorly executed man bun is threateningly standing over her. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Finley asks, directing her anger at Geoff. I’m not going to lie, seeing her like an angry momma bear is a huge turn-on. Hannah jumps up and walks over to Finley, who envelops her into a tight hug. “You have weird tattoos on your body,” she blubbers. “Please tell me the one on your neck is fake.” Finley laughs and squeezes her tighter. I look over at Geoff and glare at

him. “Hannah, this is Emerson,” Finley says, introducing us. Hannah pulls away and shakes my hand. “Hi. God, I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she says, tears streaming down her face. She’s beautiful despite the crying. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you,” I add, shaking her hand. “What’s going on with Geoff?” Finley whispers, and I turn my head in his direction with what I hope is my best menacing stare. He looks away nervously and puts his hands in his pockets. “I-I dunno,” Hannah stutters. “He

showed up like twenty minutes ago and started yelling at me, begging me to take him back . . .” Her voice breaks on the last word. Finley pulls her into another hug and glares at Geoff. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” She narrows her eyes at him, and Hannah goes to stand by the door, trying to clean herself up. While Finley reprimands Geoff, I walk over to Hannah. “Hey,” I say gently, smiling. “I was wondering if you wanted to come back to the Hamptons with Finley and me? The cab is outside.” Her brown eyes widen. “What? Are you serious?” I nod. “But I . . .” She

looks around at the apartment and shrugs. “Fuck it. Okay,” she says, sounding a tiny bit excited. “Why don’t you go pack? We’ll get rid of Geoff.” She nods and bites her lip. “Thanks, Emerson.” After she retreats to her room, I turn to find Finley standing in front of Geoff with balled fists at her side. “Just leave, okay?” she says, exasperated. “This is ridiculous. It’s between Hannah and me. You’re always getting involved in our issues. Just stay the fuck out of it, Finley.” His tone of voice raises my hackles. I don’t like the way

he’s talking to her. I slowly walk over to them and put my arm around Finley. Geoff looks from me to her, and back to me again. “What, are you two a couple now?” Finley tenses. She shakes my arm off. “He’s my boss, and he gratefully offered to come rescue Hannah from your cheating ass.” She looks at me with fierce eyes, and then turns back to Geoff. “Oh, and by the way, I’m totally changing the locks tomorrow. So you better grab all of your shit and leave. Or I’ll call the cops.” “Dude,” Geoff hisses, shaking his head, “you’re such a bitch.” Now I’m the one balling my fists.

“Geoff,” I say sternly, “I think it’s best if you leave.” Geoff once again shakes his head as he paces the living room. “Fine. But none of this was my fault,” he explains. What the ever-living fuck? “No? So your coworker’s vagina just fell onto your cock?” Finley retorts. I cover my mouth to keep from laughing. Remind me never to get on Finley’s bad side. Fuck, she is fiercely loyal. “Whatever. You don’t know the specifics.” He watches me before saying the next thing, as if he knows he’s crossing a boundary. “Honestly, are you even surprised? Hannah is so fucking

obsessed with making it big. We never have sex anymore. I bet she didn’t tell you that part.” Finley blinks twice, and I take a step away. “Are you saying Hannah deserved to be cheated on?” Finley growls, and this time, she’s flexing her hands as if she’s ready to punch Geoff. She would never do that. Would she? “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying,” Geoff replies boldly. “Maybe if she weren’t so concerned about her career, she would’ve seen the signs.” I don’t even see Finley’s fist moving forward. My eyes don’t register the quick movement. But I do hear the

sickening sound of Finley’s fist making contact with Geoff’s nose. It’s the most satisfying sound I’ve heard in a long time. I leap forward to grab Finley before he retaliates. Geoff bends in half and moans. “Leave,” I bark, holding a squirming Finley in my arms so he can’t hurt her. He doesn’t seem the type to hit a girl, but you never know. “What the fuck?” Geoff yells, using his sleeve to stop the bleeding. “You’re such a cunt.” He grabs a duffel bag before walking to the door. “I may be a cunt, but at least I don’t have a small dick.” She’s breathing heavily as she puts her hands on her

hips. “Yeah, I’ve heard all about that.” She points to his crotch and swirls her hand around. Geoff just shakes his head and leaves, swearing under his breath. When the door closes, I hold my hand out. “High five, you badass.” She giggles. We slap hands quickly, but she yelps in pain. “Ow! My fist hurts,” she wails before running to the kitchen and grabbing some ice out of the freezer. Hannah comes out of her bedroom with a large, bright-pink tote bag. “What was all of that commotion?” she asks, eyeing me first and then Finley. “What happened to your hand?”

“Finley punched Geoff,” I say proudly. “You what?” Hannah shrieks, and then jumps up and down. “And she told him he has a small penis,” I add, and Hannah grins widely at Finley. I see it then—the love they share. I remember how Finley described her—how she’s always felt the need to take care of Hannah. And now I can see that Hannah gives love just as freely as Finley. It’s an equal friendship, but in a way, it’s deeper than friendship. They’re like sisters. I can understand this. I feel the same way about Isaac and even Brady. I walk over to Finley and examine

her fist. “Does it hurt to move your fingers?” I ask, taking an ice cube and running it gently over the broken skin. She hisses in pain. “No. I think it’s just a cut.” She looks up at me and I take her hand, studying it closer. I lace my fingers with hers, moving them around. She doesn’t make a sound, but her eyes darken at the contact. Hannah clears her throat. I release her hand. “Yeah, I don’t think anything’s broken. Where are your plastic bags?” I ask. Finley points to a drawer next to the sink. I rummage around, finally finding a large, gallon-sized one. I walk to the freezer and fill it with about ten ice

cubes. I grab a dish towel and cover the bag, handing it to Finley. “Let’s ice it on the way. When we get back to the house, I’ll put a bandage on, okay?” She nods, and Hannah smirks. I catch Hannah’s eye, and she immediately looks down. As we all pile into the cab with Finley in the middle, the driver turns around quickly and eyes me up and down. “Dude,” he says, holding his hand out as a peace offering. “I had no idea you were the author. I’m such a dick. I didn’t figure it out until just now. Loving the book. Can you please sign it for me?” “Hey, man,” I say, chuckling. I take

the book and sign with a pen that he hands me. “It’s fine. Everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion.” I hand the book back to him. As we begin our two-hour drive back to the house, I look over at Finley. She just smiles and rests her head on my shoulder. Things may have changed between us, but I’d like to think it’s for the better. On some level, I think Finley and I belong together. Though she may not see it that way yet, I do. Everything happens for a reason. I’m not sure if meeting Finley was fate, or just a funny coincidence considering my past, but somehow, she makes me want to believe

in something. And for once in my life, I feel hope.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Finley

Hannah stayed for two glorious weeks. I scheduled the locks to be changed, and despite the years she gave to Geoff, his cruel actions and words did their job in breaking through the hurt. She spent time at the beach thinking through his betrayal and lack of respect and realizes she is worth more. Thank God. She deserves so much better than that scumbag. It’s been amazing to watch her transformation, and I’ve loved my friend all the more for it.

The best part of her visit was how she diffused the tension between Emerson and me, effectively ensuring a repeat of the tattoo night didn’t happen. The worst part? She’s totally seen through our façade, and has called me out on it multiple times. Today she leaves to go back to the city and pulls me aside as we wait for the taxi. “Finn,” she starts, placing her hands on my shoulders and staring at me intently, “I know you won’t admit it, because you deny it every time, but something is a-brewin’ between you two.” I open my mouth to argue, but she holds a hand up to silence me. “I’ve

watched you guys for fourteen days now —even when you didn’t know I was watching. The long glances, the quick smiles, the way your face lights up when you’re around him . . . I’ve never seen you like this. Not with any of the guys you’ve ever dated.” A few seconds later, Emerson jogs up to us, and she smirks knowingly. “Hey,” she says casually. “Hey,” he says, patting her awkwardly on the arm. “It was nice having you. Come back anytime.” She nods and blushes. No one can escape the charm of Emerson Whittaker. “I’ll definitely take you up on that.” She turns to me. “Be good.” I lean forward to hug her. She takes the opportunity of

close proximity to whisper in my ear. “I don’t care what you decide to do. I just want you to be happy.” She pulls away and smiles before turning to Emerson. “Take care of her,” she instructs. “I will,” he answers, gazing at me. It’s been two weeks since we almost kissed, but I’ve been just as aware of him throughout that time. The pride I saw in his face when he told Brady about how I punched Geoff did a lot for my wounded heart—both my pain for Hannah and also the way Geoff blamed me for the relationship issues. It still stung a little. Emerson eased that pain for Hannah and me with his charismatic jokes and delicious buttermilk pancakes

every morning. Emerson and I worked separately throughout the days, but dinners had been fun. Easy. I was learning more about him during the days, but also seeing more of him in his relaxed banter at night. He was less of an enigma, but more attractive as a result. Having girly time with Hannah over a glass or two of wine each night has been crucial, and made me realize just how much I’ve missed her since I’ve been gone. In Emerson’s gaze I feel . . . safe. Wanted. Yet it’s still too intense, so I have to look away. The taxi pulls up. “You’re crazy for

calling Uber,” she calls over her shoulder to Emerson. “I probably owe you like a thousand dollars.” She waves and the driver piles her suitcase into the trunk. “I’ll bill you,” Emerson jokes, and she flips him off playfully. She gets in and waves again, smiling widely. The taxi pulls away, and the farther away it gets, the more panicked I feel. Emerson and I are alone for the first time since the night of the power outage. In fact, those “temporary” tattoos hadn’t proven to be very temporary. I tried washing them off, but they don’t want to budge. It’s like they want to continue presenting themselves as evidence of

that night. Even today, the neck tattoo is still a fading, decomposed blob of a memory. When I look back at Emerson, he’s watching me intently. Is it just me, or was he looking at the tattoo on my neck? “So,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. “Better get writing,” I say, brushing past him and going into the house. I hear him follow me inside. “Finley.” Why is it that whenever he says my name like that, all gravely and hoarse, it makes me want to forego all rational thinking and strip my clothes off?

I turn around reluctantly, unsure of how I’ll react when I see his face. When my eyes meet his, I grip the bannister for support. He’s watching me hesitantly, as if he’s just as unsure about all of this as I am. He licks his lips and furrows his brow, taking a step forward. A smile dangles from the corner of his mouth, and the muscles holding me up begin to weaken. “Yeah?” I ask, my voice high and quiet. I swallow once. I reflexively take a step backward, away from him and his powerful pheromones. “I’m going to send you chapter eight,” he says steadily. “Oh,” I say, nodding. “Sure. I’ll start

working on it right away.” He smiles and walks past me, pinning me against the wall on the stairwell. He doesn’t say or do anything, even though the close proximity sends me reeling. God, what is wrong with me? I trek up the stairs to my bedroom and close the door behind me. I hear Emerson’s music from next door, so I grab my headphones and get to work. Catastrophe avoided.

Untitled By Emerson Whittaker CHAPTER 8 I took four years off between high school and college. Truth be told, I wasn’t ready for more responsibility. I’d been emancipated for two years already, and I wanted to have some fun. So I withdrew the small lump sum of money from my savings account, bought a one-way ticket to Greece, and left. I left everything behind for four

years. The plane ride to Greece was exhilarating. I’d never been abroad— I’d never even flown in a plane before. I sweat through my T-shirt just taking off, and landing? You don’t even want to know. I managed to find the bus to my accommodation in Athens. This was before the age of smart phones— I had no idea if the hostel had any rooms available. They did not. So for my first two weeks in Greece, I slept on the sidewalk near the hostel. The front desk workers were nice enough to bring me leftover food, and I was reasonably

comfortable. It was October, so the hot summer had ended and the cold winter had not yet begun. Finally, fifteen days after my arrival, they gave me a room and offered me a job working the front desk. It was as though I’d won the lottery. Six months later, after too many drunken nights, close calls with a scooter, and after I’d had my fill of souvlaki with pita (the cheapest thing I could find to eat) I made my way to Zagreb, Croatia with the money I’d accrued. The train journey took over two days. I ate out of the trashcan because I was afraid of spending too much money. Anything to avoid

sleeping on the sidewalk again. Once in Croatia I was starving, so I wandered the streets of Zagreb, searching for the cheapest deal. I found a sausage stand and promptly ordered four Polish sausages for nine cents each (the current exchange rate was definitely in my favor). Twenty minutes later, I vomited them all up in the street. My empty stomach couldn’t handle it. I stayed and worked in Zagreb for six weeks. I had a steady morning gig at the docks, helping the fishermen with their fish. It was a disgusting job if I’m being honest, but I got free fish, which meant I had free food. I

managed to get another hostel gig, working the overnight shifts. There were days when I’d have to sprint from my hostel to the docks, just to make it on time. I didn’t sleep very much those six weeks. But I’d saved a lump sum and I decided to splurge and book plane tickets to London. Once at Heathrow, I accidentally bumped into a young woman around my age at baggage claim. She was frantically looking for her driver. I eyed her expensivelooking clothes, and then I looked down at myself. We were opposites. But she seemed to like me. Either that or she simply took pity on me. She

invited me to stay with her at her family’s house in London. And that’s how I ended up dating a member of the royal family and living like a king in London for a year.

* Three hours later the sun begins to set, so I head downstairs to grab some dinner. My mind is still racing with the notes from his outline on chapter eight. The only thing I really want to know is who he dated for a year. I want to look this bitch up and analyze her. But I can’t, because I don’t have Internet. Emerson is gone—when I look out the window, the Civic is nowhere to be seen. I grind my teeth together when I realize he’s probably with Sylvanna. I told Hannah all about her, and Hannah is

convinced it’s just sex—nothing more. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse. I think it’s worse. I was hoping that whole relationship would taper off, but then again, why would it? Because we got too drunk one night and shared a moment? I have no claim over him. I shouldn’t expect him to give up anything for me. I sigh and pull out leftover roast chicken. As I’m plating it, I hear a weird sound from somewhere on the deck. I ignore it at first, heating my food and pouring a generous glass of wine, but just as I turn to go sit down in the dining room, I realize what it is. A meow. A very high-pitched, feeble

meow. Maybe more than one. I quickly set my dinner down and rush to the back door. It’s not quite dark out yet, but I turn the deck light on anyway. The sound gets louder the closer I get to the edge of the deck. When I step down onto the sand, I gasp. Sitting in an old, decrepit towel are two very young, very fluffy black kittens. “Oh my goodness,” I coo, bending down and examining them. I reach out, and neither of them turn away. Instead, the fluffier of the two reaches its tiny head out and starts to suck on my finger. “Hey little guys.” They’re young. I’ve never had a cat, so I’m not familiar with age, but they

look way too young to be out here alone. Maybe ten weeks? Their matted hair and hoarse meows give me reason to believe they’ve been out here for a while. “Where’s your momma?” I pick the first one up and examine it. A girl. Most kittens can’t be sexed until eight weeks, so I know they must be at least eight weeks old. How do I even know that? She meows loudly, and when I set her down in my lap, she begins to purr. The second one looks a little more skeptical, and when I reach down to pick it up, it hisses. “It’s okay,” I say soothingly. “I won’t hurt you.” I know it doesn’t understand me, but eventually it does let me pick it up. A boy. They both

begin to purr. I love that. It makes me feel as if I am just what they needed. An alternate momma. I stay with them for a few minutes. “Are you all alone?” I ask, petting them. I stand and carry them inside. They don’t stop squirming, so I decide to keep them in the downstairs bathroom for now. I remove the white rug from the floor —that could be a disaster—and run to the kitchen to get a bowl of water for them. “I’ll be back,” I tell them, closing the door. I chuckle at myself. Why am I talking to them like humans? I go back to the porch and search all around it for the mother cat or more kittens. I even go to the next house and

knock on their door, inquiring about the kittens. An older woman with brown hair just shakes her head. No, she hasn’t seen any cats around. I do one more sweep of the area. Nothing. I walk inside and close the sliding glass door. When I turn around, Emerson is standing against the kitchen island, glowering at me. The kittens are running around at his feet. “Care to explain?” he asks, his tone cool. I hold back a laugh. “I found them outside. I’ve been looking around for their mother, but I think she may have abandoned them.” I pause and look

down at them. “I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t just leave them out there.” Just at that moment, the girl kitten meows loudly and proceeds to poop on Emerson’s boot. His eyes flick down slowly, and then back up to me. I can’t help but chuckle. I cover my mouth and shake my head. “Oh my God,” I say, cackling. “That’s unfortunate. Here, let me clean it up.” Emerson smiles. “It’s fine. I’ll do it.” He reaches behind him and grabs a wad of paper towels. “But we have to figure out where they’re going,” he adds sternly. “They can’t stay here.” I nod vigorously. “I know. I just

didn’t want them out there by themselves.” Once Emerson is done cleaning up, he checks his watch. “Okay, well we better go.” I stare at him. “To the pet store,” he says, shrugging. “They need food, and Petco closes in thirty minutes.” “Okay. Let me grab some shoes.” I jog over to the stairs and once I get to my room, I slip on my beloved pair of flip-flops. I check my reflection quickly, smoothing my hair and rubbing my lips together. When I get back downstairs, I see Emerson closing the bathroom door slowly, murmuring to the kittens. “We’ll be back.” My heart liquefies. His fussing is adorable. I clear my throat

and raise my eyebrows. He turns around. “I don’t want them to be lonely,” he explains exasperatedly. I smirk knowingly as we walk to the car. Once inside Irma, who recently made a remarkable recovery, Emerson grimaces and turns to me. “We can’t keep them.” I realize he’s not trying to convince me. He’s trying to convince himself. “Whatever you say,” I say smiling. “But if you were to keep them, what would you name them?” He starts the car and looks at me dubiously as he reverses onto the street. “Ralph and Waldo.” I laugh. “How very original. Is the girl Ralph or Waldo?”

He smiles. “I kind of like Waldo as the name for the girl.” He pulls onto the main road. “My mom named me after Ralph Waldo Emerson.” I make a small noise of assent. I’ve officially delved deep into his life, and the things I’ve learned about his mother make her enemy number one right now. “Transcendentalism fascinated her. She quoted Emerson all the time. It’s too bad she’s wasted her life away. She was a very smart woman at one point.” “Drugs don’t discriminate,” I add, thinking of Chloe. Emerson just looks at me sideways. I clear my throat and continue. “Chloe did a lot of drugs. She was kind of a party girl. When I . . .” I

trail off and look out the window. “When I heard about her death, I automatically assumed it was an overdose. Turns out, she wanted to die.” I look down at my hands. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “What was she like?” He seems anxious. I ignore it—suicide makes a lot of people uncomfortable. I smile when I think of her. “She was crazy, but in the best way possible. She loved vintage clothing, which drove my mother wild.” I look at Emerson. “Mary Matthews is a fashionista, you see. Couture is her main language. So when Chloe starting dressing like an Olsen twin, my mother wasn’t happy. Anyway,

Chloe did everything to defy my parents. When she was a junior in college, she told them she wanted to drop out of her business program. They lost it, threatened to kick her out of the house and cut her off, and basically forced her to continue.” I frown. “They didn’t love the fact I was a writer, but since they had Chloe, they didn’t really push it. She was their chance at success—she was their golden child. Instead, she killed herself, and I estranged myself from them the day the last tuition check needed to be paid. So now they have no one.” Emerson pulls up to a stop sign in town and turns to face me. “Have they

ever tried to contact you?” I shake my head. “No. Not that I know of.” I look over at him. His jaw is clenched and he’s gripping the steering wheel tightly. “I’m sorry.” He creases his brow as if he’s in pain. “Someone should’ve been there for you.” I nod curtly. “Hannah was. She was always there. She will always be there. And now . . . you,” I say carefully. Emerson looks as if he’s been gutted. “Before this job, I was really struggling. And now . . .” I pause. When I look up at him, his eyes are swimming with elation. “The financial incentive doesn’t hurt, but I think our friendship is what really

helped me.” A car honks twice behind us, and I jump. The moment is gone, and as Emerson continues to drive on, a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Friends, eh? BFFs? Compadres?” I shrug. “Yeah. I’d like to think so. I mean, I know all of your dirty, little secrets.” He laughs. “Not all of them, Ms. Matthews. Definitely not all of them.” “Well, I guess everything will be revealed eventually, right?” I’m picking at my nail polish as I say this, and when Emerson doesn’t answer, I tilt my head up to look at him. He’s scowling at the road with narrowed eyes. At first, I think

it’s because something is in his line of vision, but there’s a wide, expansive, uninhibited chunk of road ahead of us. It’s not that. Is there something he doesn’t want me to know about him? “Yeah,” he says, his voice short. “All will be revealed.” He looks at me with a pained expression. “Don’t run too far when it is. Okay?” His voice breaks, and he looks away. He must be joking— that was a joke, right? I watch him for a beat. He doesn’t continue to speak, and he doesn’t clarify. A cold shiver runs down my spine. “Well, that’s ominous,” I say under my breath. Emerson doesn’t reply.

When we get to Petco, we only have about ten minutes before they close, so we rush in and grab a cart. “Okay, we’ll probably need food, a litter box, litter, and some toys,” I say, walking towards the CATS sign in the back. Emerson follows wordlessly behind me. I peruse the kitten food, quickly deciding on some of the organic kind. Emerson is an organic guy, so this makes sense. Then I grab a mediumsized litter box and some natural pine litter. “Want to pick out some toys?” I elbow Emerson in the arm. The contact seems to wake him up out of his moody stupor. “Yeah, sure.” He eyes the contents of

the cart skeptically. “That’s a lot of stuff for kittens we don’t plan on keeping,” he says slowly. His eyes burn into mine. Even under the harsh, fluorescent lighting, I’m in awe of how alluring and handsome he is. No one looks good in this lighting, yet he somehow manages it. His casual The Clash T-shirt, ripped jeans, and loafers do something funny to my insides. Now that I’m getting to know his brain, his good looks only add to his magnetism. “Just in case.” I shrug. Emerson chuckles as we walk to the checkout line. Of course he insists on paying, and he won’t let me carry the bulky bags to the car. I study him as he

loads the trunk, thinking about the conversation we had in the car ride over. “Okay,” I say skeptically. “I have to know. Did you murder your student? The one who died? Is that your secret? The one you think is going to scare me away?” It comes out jokingly, but the way his back stiffens, and the way he pauses, tells me I crossed a line by asking. He slowly backs out and faces me with crossed arms and a cloudy expression on his face. “Who told you I murdered someone?” He begins to bite the inside of his lip, and he watches me with an expression of anger. I take a step back. One, because he’s acting very menacing

right now, and I’m actually not sure he didn’t murder someone. Also, we’re in a dark, almost empty parking lot. This probably isn’t the time and place to dig around his past homicidal tendencies. “There are rumors online. I was just wondering if that was your big, bad secret. You know, since we’re BFFs now.” I hope my joke will ease the tension. It doesn’t. “I didn’t murder her,” Emerson says slowly. He takes a step closer to me, and I back up against the wall of the building. “But maybe I murdered someone else.” My eyes go wide. “R-really?”

He lunges forward, and I yelp. The next second, he’s doubled over with laughter. “My God, Finley,” he says between wheezes. I glare at him. “You’re so fucking gullible.” I make an exasperated noise and stomp my feet. “That wasn’t funny. It’s dark out here.” I look around nervously. I’ve never liked the dark. “Come on. Don’t you trust me?” Once again, he takes a step closer to me. Now he’s only a foot away. I feel my body begin to shake. I’m not sure if it’s because it’s nighttime, and unusually chilly for August, or if it’s because of the way he’s looking at me right now. “I trust you,” I say defiantly. I lift my

chin and watch him as his eyes flick over my body. As he inches closer, I can’t help but say the first thing that’s on my mind. “While we’re confessing,” I start, looking down, “I saw you with that woman. Sylvanna. Is she your girlfriend?” I can’t look up at him, not because I don’t want to know the truth, but because I’m embarrassed I actually asked about Sylvanna. I don’t want him to see how red my cheeks are. I’m also not sure if I can handle seeing his face soften at the sound of her name if she is his girlfriend . . . “When did you see me with Sylvanna?”

I look up and he’s squinting. “A few weeks ago. You two were, um . . . anyway. I was just wondering.” “Why are you blushing?” he asks, a smile growing on his face. “Did you catch me in a compromising position?” Now he’s full on grinning. I place my hands on his firm chest and push him away teasingly. “No. Maybe. You should invite her over sometime. I’d like to meet her.” I don’t remove my hands, and Emerson looks from me to them twice before nodding. “Yeah, sure.” Is she your girlfriend? I want to scream. Did he just admit she was his girlfriend? The uncomfortable, burning fire in my belly begins to grow.

I’ve only seen Sylvanna once, and even then she was a faraway illusion, but right now I want to claw her big eyeballs out. “How about tomorrow?” I blurt out. I push away from the wall and open the passenger door without waiting for him to answer. “Sure,” he responds. I sigh in defeat and buckle myself in as he climbs into the driver’s seat. I sulk the entire way home. I’m pretty sure Emerson can tell, because the whole fucking time he’s wearing this amused, smug grin. Why did I have to open my stupid mouth? Fuck Sylvanna. Fuck the sexy Emerson Whittaker

too.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Finley

I wake up the next morning as the sun is rising. It’s August 18th, or otherwise known as the day I was born. I get out of bed and stretch before heading downstairs for a large cup of coffee. I’m not even sure if Emerson will remember —I don’t recall telling him when my birthday was, but maybe I mentioned it at some point. As I’m rummaging around in the refrigerator for some of his “organic” creamer, my eyes catch sight of a large

pen set up in the living room. I close the door of the fridge quickly and walk over. Ralph and Waldo are asleep, cuddled together on a large dog bed, and they each have a small, yellow bow tied around their middles. The pen and the bed must’ve belonged to his old dog. I see a card propped up against the cage. Smiling, I open it. Did you really think I was going to get rid of them? HAPPY BIRTHDAY. One: there’s no writing work today. So don’t even think about it.

Enjoy yourself. Two: we’re having dinner with Sylvanna tonight. She’s excited to meet you. Three: aside from these adorable balls of fur, your real birthday present is coming tomorrow. E. I set the card down and then refill the food and water bowls for Ralph and Waldo. They don’t even stir. A pang of sadness washes over me when I realize in three months, my time with Emerson is up. These guys will still be kittens, and they may never see Emerson again.

I’ve already decided I will be taking the cats back home with me to the East Village. I haven’t asked Hannah yet, but luckily she can be easily swayed to do just about anything if it involves baby animals. We’re making quick progress on his book, and we probably won’t need the original six months. For a second I consider writing slower to spread my time out, but reality sets in and I realize that wouldn’t be fair to either of us. I make myself a large cup of coffee and go enjoy the view of the beach from the deck. The sky is still pink, and the muggy air suggests a hot day today. I can’t stop sulking about Sylvanna.

Why did I have to open my stupid mouth? Now tonight, on my birthday, I have to meet and interact with the woman who’s sleeping with Emerson. I definitely don’t want to see him with her. There’s no point denying my attraction to him, but I guess I’ll have to hide it away. Ignore it completely. I have to. This is my job, and besides, there’s no guarantee he feels the same way. For him, all of this between us could be purely physical. What kind of name is Sylvanna anyway? It sounds like an appliance or a form of birth control. “Hey,” Emerson says from behind

me. I twist around, and dear God—he’s shirtless and only wearing a pair of grey sweats. Happy birthday to me. His skin is so creamy and his chest tattoo plus the curly, brown hair make me squirm uncomfortably in my seat. He rubs his eyes sleepily and comes to sit in the chair next to me. I keep my eyes focused on the seagulls fighting in front of us. “Hi,” I say quietly. “Happy birthday,” he says, giving me a small smile. “Did you get my card?” I nod. “Thank you.” My eyes drift over his bare chest, where the tribal tattoo is on full display. He catches me staring at it. “What does the tattoo mean?” I ask.

His eyes darken as he licks his lips. “It’s Hunab Ku, the Mayan symbol representing one supreme God. Hunab means one state of being, and Ku basically translates to God. The symbol is a testament to the belief that it can unite opposite forces.” “Wow. So are you religious?” I think back to the weeks we’ve spent together. He’s never alluded to anything, but then again, religion can be a very personal topic. “Nah. Not anymore.” He smirks, and his eyebrows shoot up. “I went through a phase.” I nod, smiling. “Where’d you get it?” “Belize. I lived there for eight

months.” My eyes go wide. “That’s cool.” Add it to the list of things I don’t know about Emerson. Just at that moment, Ralph and Waldo come careening toward us, jumping and bouncing. “They’re seem to be happy that they’re staying,” I tease, picking Ralph up. I can tell it’s him because his tail is longer than Waldo’s. “Right,” he says chuckling. “We’ll have to come up with some sort of split custody when you leave.” He faces me and smirks. “It’ll guarantee I get to see you every two weeks.” Dear. God. My breathing quickens.

It’ll guarantee I get to see you every two weeks. He wants that? Everything starts to swirl around me —him, me, the kittens, the card, his surprise, the tattoo, his past, Sylvanna, everything . . . it’s all too much. I feel sick at the prospect of seeing him with another woman. It can’t happen—not without an ally. “Excuse me,” I say, hopping up. I quickly walk upstairs and dig around in my purse. When I find what I’m looking for I retrieve my phone. Hey, want to come over to Emerson’s tonight? It’s my birthday

and we’re having a small get-together. Lies. He responds almost immediately. Isaac: I’m there! What time? Me: Let’s say six? Isaac: Great. I’m really looking forward to seeing you. I don’t reply. Instead, I sigh and toss my phone onto my bed, face down. I hear Emerson ascend the stairs, and two seconds later he’s at my door. “You okay? You disappeared kind of fast.” He leans against the doorframe. “Oh, yeah,” I say casually. “I was

just texting Isaac.” Emerson’s facial expression changes immediately from concern to disdain. He straightens and crosses his arms. “Oh?” I shouldn’t admit how much I enjoy seeing him this uncomfortable. “Yeah. I figured since Sylvanna is coming over I’d invite Isaac.” I look down. I wish Brady hadn’t gone back to the city last week. I miss him. “Huh,” he growls. “So did Isaac say if he was coming?” “He’s coming,” I say, looking up at him and smiling. I don’t feel very awesome about doing this, but I can’t be the third wheel with Emerson and his large-breasted girlfriend. I need

someone on my side. “Great.” The insincere timbre in his voice pleases me. “Good,” I reply, looking around my room. He clears his throat. “I made some baked French toast for you last night— it’s in the fridge. I just have to pop it into the oven. Are you hungry?” “Yeah,” I answer, honestly. “Thank you.” “Not a problem,” he says curtly before turning and walking away. * The rest of the day follows in a

similar fashion. I spend most of my morning lying on the beach in a small bikini, and Emerson speaks to me in short, brusque bursts. In the afternoon, I spend a while playing with Ralph and Waldo in the living room while Emerson reads nearby in one of the armchairs. Every so often, I catch him looking at me, and every time, he turns away quickly. Around five, I stand to go upstairs to get ready. “I’ll be down in an hour,” I say, looking at Emerson and spying the book he’s reading. “What book is that?” It’s an attempt at initiating a polite conversation to replace the daggers we’ve been sending each other all day. This is so not

how I wanted to spend my birthday. How I wish Hannah were here. Why didn’t I invite her rather than Isaac? What had I been thinking? I smile when I think of the large bouquet of fancy rananculas she sent over this morning, along with the sweet note. Best best friend ever. “The Complete Stories of Franz Kafka.” I nod my head once, surprised. “Interesting choice.” “Kafka is my favorite author. His short stories are some of the best in history.” “Did Kafka employ a ghostwriter?” I jest, but Emerson doesn’t take the bait.

He just scowls and bites his thumb. “Most likely not.” I sigh. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad or inadequate,” I say quickly. “I just . . . you could write like Kafka. You have the potential. Saying that goes against everything about our situation, I know, but I think you should try writing after this book is done.” “I can’t,” he replies, his voice low and reverberating. “I’ve tried.” I hold my hands up and begin to climb the stairs. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” I add, shrugging. He scowls at me. “Trust me on this, Finley.” His voice is cool and harsh, and

for some reason, his lack of trying angers me. Men. “Whatever, Emerson. Be my guest and continue to throw yourself the world’s biggest pity party.” I turn and stomp up the stairs, ensuring I don’t hear his response. I slam my bedroom door like a teenager and blast some music. Why does he infuriate me so much? He’s just so goddamn stubborn. Someone needs to call him out. I walk to the bathroom and start a bath. I mean, he wrote his first book without the help of a ghostwriter. Why does he assume he can’t do it again? What happened to make him lose faith? Or better yet, why does he refuse to even

try? After a long, luxurious bath, I get changed quickly. My closet here consists mostly of shorts, tank tops, and T-shirts. Luckily, the last time I was home, I thought to grab a fitted, black dress with thin straps. You could say it shows off my best assets. I pin my hair into a messy updo, and I spend more than five minutes making my face up, which is a miracle—usually I go without it completely. I swipe some blush and eyeliner on, followed by a quick coat of mascara. The look is completed by a dangly bracelet, black booties, and some cherry-red lip stain. At 6:05, I head downstairs. I walk

down slowly, trying to listen for voices. I don’t hear anything, so I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge to grab a beer. Alcohol is a necessity for tonight. I will need every ounce of liquid courage I can get. When I close the fridge door, Emerson walks into the kitchen. He stops mid-step and his eyes slowly roll from my face to my feet. “Uhh,” he says, flicking his eyes back up to mine, “you look very nice.” He licks his lips nervously, and I smile at his reaction. Nailed it. “Thank you,” I say, my voice low. I eye his outfit—tan fitted cargo pants and a denim button-up. He even trimmed his

beard, so instead of the crazy reclusive writer look, he’s now sporting the rugged, edgy look. I turn and grab another beer from the fridge, hitting it roughly against the bottle opener on the opposite side of the counter. When I turn to hand it to Emerson, I catch him looking at my ass. “Here,” I say, walking toward him, “for you.” “Thanks,” he says, clearing his throat and taking it from me, but not before wiping his palms off on his pants. Is Emerson nervous? We both silently sip our beers—me leaning against the counter, him standing awkwardly in the doorway. Neither of us say anything for minutes—we only cast

furtive glances at each other once in a while. He’s the first to break the silence. “Sorry about earlier,” he says quietly. His emotive eyes meet mine. “I guess I was just shocked you invited Isaac.” I set my beer down and cross my arms. “Do you have a problem with the idea of me dating Isaac?” He sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair. He avoids looking at me. “Yes,” he whispers, and his poignant answer makes me inhale sharply. “Why?” I ask daringly. At this, he stands up taller and looks at me with what looks like desperation. In that moment, he’s totally exposed—

he’s laying everything out for me. And do you know what I see? A man who has nothing left to lose. Over the last seven weeks, there have been a few suspect scenarios, but here, now . . . he’s evidently claiming me as his, and he’s not afraid to admit it. His fierce expression says everything. “I know I shouldn’t tell you who to date, but why did it have to be Isaac?” he asks, his voice burdened. I open my mouth to respond, but he interjects, “I don’t want you to date him.” He doesn’t want me to date Isaac? “Umm, since when did you get to dictate my personal life?” I ask, my voice tinged with anger.

He sighs and shakes his head. “Jesus, Finley. I’m just trying to protect you. Isaac can be a real bastard to women.” “And that’s the only reason you don’t want me to date him?” I ask caustically. I watch him as he struggles to respond. As if on cue, the doorbell rings, and Emerson’s eyes pierce mine as I walk past him to answer it. I need to get away from him. He grabs my arm and pulls me back, turning me around to face him. His eyes are searching mine, searing my heart, and it’s obvious he’s desperately trying to tell me whatever he wishes he could say. The man is a writer. He owns

words. Why can’t he speak them? My heavy breathing is the only thing I hear— besides the rush of blood in my ears. The doorbell rings again, and he drops my arms. “I should answer that,” I say thickly. Emerson nods. “Fine. Let him in if he’s really what you want.” My mouth drops open into an angry O. His attitude doesn’t even deserve a response. I can’t believe he’s acting like a teenager. He’s a grown-ass man. He should know how to talk to a woman, and better yet, he should be able to go after what he wants. Perhaps I’m not what he wants. I stalk away and rush to open the

door. It’s not Isaac—it’s Sylvanna. “Hi,” I say, surprised. For the first time, I get to see her in all her glory—and not just a sneaky glance while Emerson writhes on top of her on the couch. She’s tall with an hourglass figure, and her flowing, dark brown hair cascades beautifully over her shoulders. Her face is pleasant, I guess, although she looks like she loves the tanning bed. Her skin is leathery. She’s wearing a simple white T-shirt and a black, pleated high-waisted skirt. Even in flat sandals, she’s at least five inches taller than me. “Hi,” she chirps. “You must be Emerson’s assistant.”

I balk at her words, but then remember the contract. I bristle when I think of Emerson telling her about me. “Yes, that’s me,” I answer, mimicking her sprightly tone. Emerson walks past me to Sylvanna, bending down and kissing her on the cheek quickly. “You look lovely,” he purrs, and I clench my fists. “Mmm, so do y—” “Shall we get a drink?” I exclaim loudly, gesturing to the kitchen. They both stare at me as if I’m a crazy person. “I’m thirsty,” I add, glaring at Emerson. We all walk into the kitchen, and I quickly finish my beer. After tossing it into the recycling bin, I grab three more

beers, handing two to Emerson and Sylvanna. “So,” I say, sickly sweet, “what do you do for a living?” She chuckles, as if my question is coming from an adorable child. I hate her already. “Well, I own my own apparel business. We sell eco-friendly clothing at an affordable price. I source everything locally—no Chinese sweatshops—and though we’re small, we’re growing every day.” I nod. I wasn’t expecting her to be some goddamn hero. If she wasn’t dating Emerson, and if she wasn’t interlacing her fingers with his right at this very second, I might actually like her—for an

older woman. “That’s cool,” I reply, sipping my beer. Emerson is strangely quiet. He’s studying me with narrowed eyes, as if I might jump and attack Sylvanna at any moment. I hate that he feels the need to be protective of her. “Are you still in college?” she asks condescendingly, and I almost lose it. I formulate something catty in my mind, but the doorbell interrupts my bitchy response. “Thank God,” I say, under my breath. I walk to the door quickly and throw it open. Isaac. With a bouquet of daisies. Looking mighty dapper. He’s wearing a

light blue button-up and fitted navy trousers with a brown belt. His jade eyes are stunning, and his short brown hair is neatly combed. “These are for you,” he says, his voice deep. “Happy birthday. You look beautiful.” I smile. “Thank you.” I move to the side. “Come in. Sylvanna is already here.” I try to keep the disdain out of my voice. Isaac doesn’t notice anything. He just brushes his nose with his finger and hesitates in the doorway. “Sylvanna Rodriguez?” he asks, craning his neck to look inside. “Uh, I don’t know her last name. Tall, brunette, massive breasts,” I add,

hoping to get on Isaac’s good side. He just scowls and walks in. “Is Emerson still seeing her?” he adds, placing a hand on the small of my back. “Uh-huh,” I reply, biting my lip to keep the snarky comment at bay. He makes a small, disapproving noise. “Last I heard he was thinking of breaking it off. Guess he decided against it.” I stop. “Really?” Isaac nods. “Yeah. He wasn’t really feeling her.” I try to contain the smile that works its way onto my face, but instead I take his hand and lead him to the kitchen.

Emerson’s face constricts when he sees our joined hands, so I shrug out of Isaac’s grip and walk to the fridge to get him a beer. When I turn around, Emerson has an arm around Sylvanna. Oh, so this is how it’s going to go tonight? I give them a tight smile and hand Isaac his drink. We all chat about the unusually cool weather, Ralph and Waldo, and just after seven, Emerson begins to cook the pasta. Isaac decides to help, leaving me alone with Sylvanna and the sunned hands that love to feel Emerson up every second she gets. She probably didn’t realize I was watching their every move with eyes like a hawk

—but I was. Why are we doing this? We’re denying the inevitable, but it’s there. The oppressing, suffocating, wonderful feeling of Emerson is all I can think about. His presence alone ignites something inside me. When did this happen? Was it the night of the power outage? No . . . it started before that. His perplexing, wild persona just does it for me. Everything about him does it for me. A feeling of guilt washes over me. I shouldn’t feel this way about my boss. Not only are my feelings misplaced, but also they’re inconvenient. I have to work professionally with him for the foreseeable future—until we finish the

book—which, lately, I hope is never. And more than that, I have a career at stake. If I can get through these three months, I could have a real chance at breaking into the writing world. I could have a chance with his agent. I could have a chance at actually succeeding by my own merits. Why do things have to be so complicated? Throw in Sylvanna and Isaac, and it’s a shit show. For once, it would be nice to think of him as a normal man. Not my employer. Not the writer who hired me. Not the person I need to move forward in the industry. “So, what are you helping Emerson with exactly?” Sylvanna asks. She’s

sipping from a large wine glass, and it’s filled with dark red liquid. She didn’t drink a drop of the beer I handed her earlier, which I judge her entirely for. People who don’t like beer freak me out. “Oh, mostly editing and emails. That kind of thing,” I say slowly, making stuff up. “Cool,” she says, smiling at me in that weird way. “You’re very pretty. Do you have a boyfriend?” Ah. There it is. “No. I’m single.” “But you and Isaac are a thing, right?” I shrug. Why does she want to know so badly? Is she that insecure? “Not really.” I look at the guys, who are

deeply immersed in chopping tomatoes and onions. I want Emerson to swoop in and save me from this brunette bitch, but I know I’ll have to fend for myself. “I mean . . . nothing serious,” I add, smiling slyly. Sylvanna giggles. It sounds like a hyena. “You naughty girl. He’s so much older than you though,” she says, emphasizing older. Just at that moment, Emerson looks over at me. “The heart wants what it wants, I guess,” I say a little too loudly. I don’t break eye contact as I take a swig of my beer. His mouth drops open. Sylvanna and I continue our dull conversation for a few more minutes as

the men prepare the fettuccine and sauce. To be quite honest, she’s not that bad. The beer numbs the fact that Emerson has been inside her, and instead I try to view her as a regular human being. She’s really not that bad. Dinner is just as awkward. I’m seated next to Isaac to my right, and Emerson to my left at the head of the table. Halfway through my meal, I feel warm a warm hand on my bare knee. I assume it’s Isaac, but just at that moment, in the middle of flamboyantly describing his hike through the Andes to Sylvanna, both of his arms flail around. I suck in a loud breath of air when I look over at Emerson.

He’s watching me with a fervent expression, gauging my reaction. His eyes scan my bare neck and then lower. I flush as he licks his lips. When his eyes come back to mine they’re hooded with desire. He was checking me out—eyes don’t lie. They drop again to my lips, and my mouth goes instantly dry. I feel a stabbing pain in my stomach, and shortly thereafter, I realize it’s nerves. His hand moves ever so slightly upward, and I jump. A second later, the warmth is gone, and he’s fixing the napkin in his lap. Is. He. Fucking. Kidding? “Do you guys want to go to Fellingham’s?” Emerson asks, ignoring

my probing eyes. Isaac sits up straight next to me. “I thought your bachelor days were over,” he jokes, winking at Sylvanna. He turns to face me and whispers into my ear, “Emerson used to go to Fellingham’s for one reason and one reason only— pussy.” He laughs. “Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. Chicks. He went for the chicks. Don’t tell Sylvanna.” I take in Isaac’s words and look over at Emerson. A dark expression clouds his face as he watches Isaac and me. “I don’t know,” Sylvanna says, looking from Isaac to Emerson. “I have an early meeting tomorrow.” “Oh, come on,” Emerson urges. One

second ago he looked furious as Isaac whispered into my ear. Now he’s sporting a jubilant grin. Psycho. Why do some grown men act more like boys than men around women? Do they ever grow up? “It’ll be fun.” I study him for a minute. He’s acting strange. Maddened. Riled. Bipolar. It thrills and scares me all at the same time. That’s the thing with him. I never know what’s coming next. He’s unpredictable in the best kind of way— without being manic about it, but still retaining mystery. “Sure,” I chime in, “let’s do it.” Sylvanna sighs. “Fine. But one drink, okay?” she asks Emerson.

“One drink,” he says, winking at Isaac. And then his heady gaze wanders to me, and I forget to exhale. I forget to inhale, for that matter, because even though he’s only looking at me, I can feel his hand on my knee again. I can feel his eyes roving all over my body, and I wonder what it would feel like to have his hands all over my body.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Emerson

I call an Uber as Sylvanna and Finley use the restroom in the house. It’s a good ten minutes to the bar, and we’ve been drinking heavily—two bottles of wine and nine beers down since Sylvanna and Isaac arrived. I tell myself it’s because we’re adults that like to drink, but I know deep down that Finley and I are the ones drinking ourselves into oblivion. What the hell is wrong with me tonight? It’s the dress. It has to be

that fucking dress. Tight in all the right places; conservative enough to put my imagination into overdrive. And the whole hand thing? God. I’m such a tool. Yeah, she seemed to like it, but it was a dick move. Isaac was right next to her— Sylvanna next to me. My heart may not lie with Sylvanna, but I still owe it to her to be faithful as long as we’re dating, however casual. Which—as of today—we still are. But I’m hoping to change that soon. I was going to end things last night. But then Finley wanted to test me by inviting her over, and I couldn’t resist. Had I known Isaac would become part of the equation, I might’ve called the whole

dinner off. Now it’s turned into some kind of sick game between Finley and me. The little knowing smiles she continues to throw my way. The way she arches her back and sticks her chest out. The way she twirls her hair. The way she licks her lips. The way her eyes dilated when she realized it was my hand on her knee. How much longer can we do this before we can’t resist the temptation? When the Uber pulls up to the curb, I check my watch. It’s a little past nine. Isaac follows my nervous movements. “You okay?” he asks, smoking a

cigarette. It’s his only habit I absolutely loathe. Well, not the only one. His pursuit of Finley tops the list right now. “Yeah.” I maneuver away from him so I don’t smell like acrid smoke all night. “You know I hate that,” I say under my breath. “Brah. Why are you so on edge tonight? You’ve been off all night.” I shake my head and look down. “I don’t know.” I look at him, and he scowls at me. “Yeah, you do.” I open my mouth to answer him, but before I can say anything, the girls come tumbling out of the front door. And by tumbling, I mean literally tumbling on

Sylvanna’s part. “Fuck,” she shrieks as she goes down. Finley gasps and reaches her hand out to pull her up. My heart tightens. Only Finley would help the woman I’ve been fucking—without thinking. They both giggle as they walk over. “Hey,” Finley says to Isaac. I don’t approve of her lusty intonation. Sylvanna links her arm with mine, and we all pile into the small car. Somehow, everyone decides Finley should go in the middle since she’s the smallest. Isaac offers to take the passenger seat, and when the doors are closed, I realize I’m pressed closely to Finley. Her warm skin is alluring—I want to move my hands up

her knee-length dress. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? “You okay?” she whispers into my ear. She doesn’t have to move far. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to her. I can hear her every breath. I can see the tiny freckles on her nose. I can see the way her royal-blue eyes have flecks of gold in them—and the way her lips slightly part when I look at them. Needless to say, the ten-minute car ride is uncomfortable. I have to keep my hands clasped in my lap to hide my erection. Just the scent of her enthralls me. I feel every movement she makes. I hear every sound she makes. When we hit a speed bump, the jolt sends her

sideways and onto me. Everyone laughs except for us. Her hands rest on my arm before she pushes herself back up. Once we get to Fellingham’s—the local sports bar—I eagerly climb out as soon as we stop. I hold the door open for Finley and then Sylvanna. I try to hide my disdain when Isaac wraps his arm around Finley’s shoulder. This whole thing is so fucked up. Two months ago, when I decided to hire Finley, I knew it was probably a bad idea, for an entirely different reason. I needed her—this autobiography could only be written by her. I thought our biggest issue would be my fucked up past. Now, I have feelings for the one

person I shouldn’t. Add that into the mix, and I’m pretty sure this whole thing will go down as the worst possible idea in the history of ideas. I never meant to fall for her. This was supposed to be temporary. Now, I’m realizing it’s very, very permanent. And it scares me shitless. We all grab a table in the back. It’s relatively empty for a Tuesday, which is nice. I like this bar. It’s dark, and they have a lot of beer on tap. We don’t have to talk over the booming sound of other voices. The more I drink, the less I care about Finley and Isaac. After two beers, I have to stop myself and order some fries. Then our conversation becomes

kind of fun. I’ll admit it—Isaac can make any situation better. He’s a great guy. There’s a reason he’s my best friend. Still, that doesn’t mean I think he’s good enough for Finley. I’m not sure anybody’s good enough—not even me. Especially not me. A little past midnight, they ring the last call bell. I stand to use the restroom. I’m feeling a little more sober, a little more like myself. After I take care of business, I wash my hands and walk out into the dark hallway. I stop mid-step when I see Finley leaning against the wall, watching me. “Hi,” I say, unsure. I look beyond her. Our table is hidden from sight. It’s

the first time we’ve been alone since Sylvanna got to the house. Her eyes search mine, sweeping over me with emotion. I feel instantly gutted. She must have stopped drinking too, because I don’t see drunkenness in her eyes. She is alert. Focused. What am I doing to her? “Isaac isn’t who I want,” she says slowly, looking down and then back up at me through her lashes. “To answer your earlier question.” I sigh and run my hand through my hair. “I know.” What am I doing? I know I should walk away, or tell her this is a bad idea. It was always a bad idea. It will always be a bad idea. There isn’t a situation

where acknowledging our feelings is anything but disturbed. In so many ways. She watches me wordlessly. I can see the internal struggle she’s fighting. I know, because I’m fighting it too. But fuck it. Even if it’s just for a minute, I’m done fighting. Just one touch. One kiss. I walk up to her with my arms at my side. I reach out for her hand, and she gives it. I interlace my fingers with hers. I do the same with her other hand, and I inch slightly closer to her. She looks up at me, and it’s not even a sexual look. It’s different from all her other looks. Acceptance of our situation: that’s what her pleading, sorrowful eyes are

saying. I unlock my fingers and pull her in for a tight hug, crushing her to me. She wraps her tiny arms around me, grabbing a fistful of my shirt with both hands as if she’s afraid to let go. The motion wrecks me. I hear her sigh against my chest. I close my eyes and rest my chin on top of her head. It could be like this. As soon as I think it, I know it’s not true. Once she knows the truth, we’ll never get a chance to do this again. “I shouldn’t care who you date, Finley,” I say, pulling her as close as possible. “I have no right to care.” I pull away and look at her, but I place my

hands on her shoulders. She just looks at me regretfully, her concerned expression tearing me up inside. “How did this happen?” she asks, her voice hoarse. I shrug. “Accidentally.” I reach out and brush her sun-kissed hair off her shoulder. It’s so soft. My hand travels down to her cheek, and I brush my thumb across her cheekbone. She inhales sharply and closes her eyes. I feel a stabbing pain in my abdomen— I’m not sure if it’s from her reaction or mine. I lower my hand and run my thumb over her lips and down her jaw. Her mouth falls open, and I feel her push her body against mine unconsciously.

“Emerson,” she whispers, opening her eyes. “I don’t think I should write for you anymore.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN Finley

I did it. I just blurted it out in the middle of the most intense moment we’ve ever had, and now he’s looking at me like I stabbed him in the ribs with a hidden knife. Betrayal. But what does he expect? We’re seconds away from kissing. I think we both know that if we’re alone in that immense, dark house, the inevitable will happen. So what? my subconscious asks,

making me rethink everything. So what? So fucking what? I reach out and place my hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down to my lips. He lets me. As soon as our lips connect, my body collapses against his fully. He supports me by wrapping one arm around my waist, and the other drops to his side. I feel my insides tighten, constricting blood flow to my brain. All I want are his lips. And when his tongue parts them, I moan. His herbal cologne makes me moan. He makes me moan. Sensory overload. I grab a fistful of his hair and pull his body impossibly close with my other hand. He’s warm and

hard, and I love everything about it. His tongue continues to swirl in my mouth, and with every flick, I push myself harder against him. He lowers his hand and cups my ass, and then I cry out as he grinds into me once. Jesus. “Finley,” he rasps. “We need to stop. Otherwise, I’m going to fuck you against this wall.” Fuck. I’m not sure what to say. Does he expect me to stop because he said that? Doesn’t he understand how much I want this? “So?” I ask, my voice pleading. He drops his hands and takes a step

back. My heart cracks as he runs his hand through his hair and looks away. “So?” he answers, glaring at me. “Do you think you deserve a quick fuck against the wall of a bathroom in a dive bar? Is that really what you want? From me?” His voice breaks on the last word. I whimper. “I want you,” I plead, reaching out for him. Every part of my body is screaming for him. “But I need you, Finley.” His eyes search mine. “I need you to stay. I need you to write for me. Please don’t leave. I don’t want to give you another reason to leave.” “Can’t we have both?” I ask quietly.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” The finality in his words cracks my heart wider. The blood pools in and flows back out again, and in two heartbeats, I feel shattered. “Okay.” I walk past him, embarrassment seeping into every part of my body. I don’t say goodbye to Isaac. I don’t say goodbye to Sylvanna. Instead, I walk straight out into the night. I walk quickly, hoping I can get far enough away from the bar. When I look back a few minutes later, nobody is chasing after me like I’d hoped. No cars are pulling up. No scruffy faces. No brown, messy hair. No honey-colored eyes.

I pull my phone out and call a cab. Now more than ever, I wish I had a damn data plan. Two minutes later, a yellow taxi pulls up, and I head to the house alone. When I get upstairs, I contemplate packing and leaving tonight. I even pull the small rolling suitcase down from the closet. But Emerson’s words keep replaying in my head. But I need you, Finley. Need is a strong word. It’s stronger then want or crave. It evokes necessity, like food, water, and air. I am Emerson’s air. And now, he is mine. Even if we can’t act on our feelings, we need to continue writing this book. I put the suitcase back. I walk to my

dresser and slip my clothes off, throwing on a silky negligee to sleep in. I brush my teeth and wash my face. I fill up a glass with some water, gulping it down so I’m not deathly hung over tomorrow. When I hear the front door close, I flip my light out and climb into bed. I hear Emerson walk up the stairs. My heart races. I can hear him pause in front of my door. And then, the handle turns. I keep my eyes shut, my body turned away from him. I hear him walk quietly to my bed. He reaches a hand out and brushes my hair away from my face. I make my breathing even—I want him to think I’m asleep. He walks away, and I hear him click on my nightlight. He turns

and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. A single tear falls down my cheek and onto my pillow. Happy birthday to me.

CHAPTER TWENTY Finley

“Finley.” I groan and turn over, away from the thing making the noise. It repeats itself. “Finley.” My eyelids flutter open, and Emerson is standing over my bed with a cup of coffee. Unsteadily, I push myself up onto my elbows and tilt my head. The motion makes my head pound. “What?” I whine, looking around the room. It’s not even light out yet. “We have to leave in twenty minutes.”

I push myself all the way up and glare at him. “Am I dreaming? What are you talking about?” He chuckles. “Drink this,” he says, handing the warm mug to me. I reach out and take it, sipping it slowly and looking up at him through my eyelashes. “Where are we going?” I ask, once I’ve had a couple of sips of the delicious, perfectly made coffee. “I promised you a birthday present, didn’t I?” I shrug. “Yeah, but—” Reliving the tension from last night is painful. Did I really say I couldn’t write for him anymore? And did we really kiss?

“Finley,” he says sternly. “We drank too much. Let’s let it go today and just be friends. I have somewhere I want to take you.” I swallow. His words are tender, and they weave their way around my heart and bones. His use of the word friends is amusing. Usually that word might turn me off, but today, it’s lovely. Friends. It certainly takes the pressure off. Also, I like being friends with Emerson. I like having him in my life in general, in whatever capacity. “Okay,” I say, feeling more awake now my coffee is almost gone. I throw back the rest, and Emerson takes my

mug. “Be ready in twenty. Dress for the beach.” He stands, eyeing my barely there negligee. Oh boy. “I hope you’re hungry. I’m making pancakes.” He turns and leaves, taking my heart with him. When did my heart start to become a part of this equation? I can’t deny the way my stomach knots when I’m around him, and the way my chest feels empty when he leaves. At this point, I can’t imagine my life without him. How did that happen so quickly? More importantly, how am I going to say goodbye in three months? It’s funny how just three months ago, he was nothing to me except a writer I admired. Now, he

makes my heart hurt when he leaves. I climb out of bed and text Hannah. I need her input, and pray she’s not asleep. Though by the looks of the sky, she most likely is. That girl was not designed to wake up early. Sooo, Emerson and I kissed last night. It was very intense, and today he’s taking me somewhere for my birthday. Please tell me I’m crazy for thinking we could ever be a possibility. I sigh and set my phone down. She doesn’t reply by the time I’ve thrown on cut-off shorts and a white tank over a bathing suit. I slip on my Vans and throw

on a dark grey sweatshirt. I braid my hair off to the side, and though it looks extremely messy, it’s five in the morning. End of story. I grab some beach essentials before chucking my phone and keys into a large tote and slinging it over my shoulder. I’m done in eleven minutes. When I get downstairs, Emerson is drinking coffee and flipping pancakes. His back is to me. I smile and watch him for a second, admiring his fine backside. He’s wearing jean shorts, a white T-shirt, and Vans. Matchy-matchy. “Hey,” I say, sliding into a seat at the bar.

He spins around and eyes me invitingly. He doesn’t even try to hide it. “Morning, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, handing a plate of steaming blueberry pancakes to me. “Mmm,” I say, licking my lips, “I’m starving.” “How do you feel today?” he asks, his back to me. The way he says it makes me think he’s gauging my feelings about everything last night and not my physical hangover. “I’m good,” I answer, chewing. “Really. Just a small headache.” He turns slowly. “I think I’m okay, too,” he answers, wrapping his arms around his chest and leaning against the

counter. “Anyway, enough about yesterday. We’re going to Montauk.” I’m about to reply, but my phone beeps once, twice, three times. I look down at my phone on the counter. Three texts from Hannah pop up. WHAT?!?!?! FINLEY!!!! To answer your question, YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR MIND. But maybe in a good way? Was it good?! I smile and ignore Emerson’s penetrating gaze as I respond.

It was fucking incredible. When I look up, it feels as if Emerson can read my mind. He’s watching me with a sly grin, and his dazzling eyes are searching my face impishly. “What?” I ask, nervous. Sometimes I feel like he can read my mind. “You’re blushing,” he murmurs. His right brow is slightly arched. “Am I?” I ask, fanning myself with my hand. I don’t even have an excuse. “You told Hannah about last night, didn’t you?” His voice isn’t accusatory. Instead, it’s teasing and light. How did

he know? “Maybe.” I sigh. “How could I not?” I ask, looking down at my hands and twiddling my thumbs. “Finley,” he says, turning to flip the pancakes. His tone has completely reversed—it’s no longer playful. It’s heavy. I see him plate a few for himself. As he sits next to me, his sad eyes wander across my face and then down to the floor. “I know I said we wouldn’t talk about it today. But I have to know— are you quitting?” I open my mouth to speak and he interrupts, suddenly acting very impassioned. “Because if you are, I’m begging you to stay.” He looks up at me, and I’m astonished to see his eyes

swimming with fear. “I meant it when I said I needed you.” I shake my head fervently. “I’m not quitting.” I have to bite my lip to keep from crying. Why does everything with him feel so intense all of a sudden? He nods quickly and sniffs. “Good.” We finish our pancakes in silence. I suppose emotional moments like just now will be the norm from now on. There’s no going back. We’re in, and even though we haven’t jumped in fully, we’re dipping our toes in and testing the waters. I have a feeling when we finally jump, it’ll be a cannonball. *

Not much later, we’re in the Soob headed toward Montauk. Emerson made me close my eyes as we got into the car. He leads me to my seat, and I cringe to think what his sneaky plans entail because once we’re in the car, he says I can open my eyes. I file it away in the Emerson is strange file. The sky is a glittering pink, as if the sun is about to burst over the horizon flamboyantly. It’s stunning. I pull my sweatshirt tighter around me. It’s chilly this morning. I’m fully awake now. The second cup of coffee has me buzzing, and I can’t stop thinking about last night. I’m like a giddy schoolgirl. I quickly

grab my phone and text Hannah again. More deets later. “Why are we going to the beach so early?” I ask, eyeing Emerson suspiciously. He’s wearing a pair of aviators now that the sun is bright and beginning to peek out. I study his profile —his chiseled jaw, his messy hair. The way his baseball cap makes him look so artfully distressed. “You’ll see.” I sigh and turn the seat warmers on. “It’s August,” he adds, his voice incredulous, “you can’t possibly be cold.” “I get cold easily,” I retort, smiling.

He smiles. “You’re going to hate your birthday present, then,” he says, shaking his head. “As long as we’re not going in the water, I’m good.” He’s quiet as we pull off the highway and toward the part of the beach I used to go with my parents. There’s no one around. The only people at the beach at this time are . . . suddenly it clicks. “Oh, hell no,” I hiss, under my breath. “Surfing?” “Come on,” he yells, laughing. “Please tell me you’ve surfed before.” “Umm, no.” I scowl at him. “I brought wetsuits,” he says,

nudging his head toward the back of the car. “You’ll be fine.” “No,” I say simply. He pulls into a spot right in front of the water. The expansive beach is teeming with seagulls, and there are several bodies already in the water. Shark bait. “No? You’re not even going to try?” He looks at me with narrowed eyes, his hands firm on the steering wheel. “No,” I repeat. I hold back tears. “I’m . . . scared of sharks.” He stares at me. “What? Sharks?” I shrug. “I had a close call the last time I went in the ocean. It was here, at this exact same beach.” I point to the

ocean. “Chloe and I were boogie boarding, and I felt something brush up against my leg. I was thirteen. I never went in the water again. I consider myself lucky I wasn’t eaten alive. It could’ve been much worse,” I add, my voice unwavering. “Finley,” Emerson starts, and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “It was probably a small tiger shark. Or a fish. Or a seal. It’s very rare to see a great white shark.” “Stop chastising me,” I say quietly. “I’m not going.” “I’ll give you an additional twenty percent of my royalties,” he jokes. “Please. Try. Try for me.” He looks at

me apprehensively. “Try for Chloe.” I sigh and put my face in my hands. “That’s not fair,” I cry, shuddering at the thought of having to go in the water. Did he have to bring up Chloe? How can I say no to that? She’s my biggest weak spot. “Ugh, fine. You win. For Chloe.” I hop out of the car, courage fueling my veins. If Chloe were around, I’d do it for her. If Chloe were around, I’d do it with her. Just like old times. I’d do just about anything to see her again. I want to make her proud. “I want that twenty percent,” I add, reaching into the trunk for my wetsuit. “Also, whose is this?” I ask, holding the wetsuit up to him. God, I hope it didn’t belong to a previous

girlfriend or something . . . Emerson closes the driver’s door and meets me at the trunk. “I bought it. For you.” I groan. “And I assume you bought me a surfboard too?” His eyes wander to the roof. I see a large rack with two boards. So that’s why he had me cover my eyes. When I look back at him, he’s grinning mischievously. If I weren’t so annoyed with him right now, I might find his eagerness endearing. “Way to guilt me into this even more,” I grumble. “I hope the shark eats you first.” I take my jeans and tank top off. I smirk when I see Emerson’s eyes flick to my body automatically. They sweep up

and down twice, and when I twist to look at him fully, he clears his throat and looks away. I pull the new wetsuit on. It’s extremely tight—he must’ve underestimated my size. It feels like I’m wearing a scuba body glove. “I think it’s too small,” I say, straining to zip it up my chest. God, how embarrassing. “It’ll loosen in the water. It fits perfectly,” he adds, scrutinizing me. He reaches out and adjusts the zipper near my neck, and the tugging motion brings me forward a bit, toward him. I automatically reach a hand out and place it on his bicep. We both freeze. I blink and look up

at him. His eyes search mine. He pats the spot he was fixing. “Better,” he says softly. He clears his throat again and looks down, stepping away. “Ready?” I gulp. “No. I think you’re underestimating my fear.” Emerson unlocks the roof rack and I see him pull two surfboards out. One is worn, with used wax all over one side. The other is shiny and . . . teal. “It’s so pretty,” I squeal, taking it from him awkwardly. I admire the gleaming body, and the pink cord I’m supposed to attach to my ankle. “Let’s get you used to the water before we attempt anything. Just paddle. Follow me, okay?”

I nod. My heart is pounding, and I’m beginning to sweat underneath my suit. Emerson locks the car with the valet key and tucks it into a section of his suit. Well, that’s nifty. I wonder how often he goes surfing. The closer we get, the more I realize how much better for surfing this beach is from the one outside Emerson’s house. The sand is pristine, and the waves are perfectly formed. At the house, the sand is rocky and the waves just lap at the surface due to the house being in a small enclave. The second my feet touch the water, I yelp. “It’s cold,” I cry, hopping out and standing a safe distance away.

“Here,” Emerson says, reaching out for my board. I unlatch it from my ankle and he carries both boards to the sand. What is he doing? I thought the whole point of surfing was to . . . surf. All of a sudden, he’s sprinting toward me. I giggle and shriek, twisting around and running down the shore, away from him. I can hear him behind me laughing, and soon, an arm reaches around my middle. He picks me up and throws me over his shoulder. I beat my fists against his back. “Don’t you dare,” I yell, kicking and squirming, trying to get him to drop me. “Too late,” he says gleefully, running into the ocean. The water splashes up

into my face and I scream. “Stop,” I yell, but I can’t help but laugh. He lets go, tossing me into relatively deep water. I go under, and for a second I’m overcome with panic. I stand up and surface, gasping for air. “I . . . hate . . . you . . .” I rasp, splashing water at him. He runs forward and grabs my waist with his arms. “No, you don’t,” he says quietly, pulling me flush with his body and leaning down to kiss me. The second our lips meet, my body implodes. The kiss last night was ravenous—as if we couldn’t believe what was happening. As if we couldn’t get enough.

The kiss today is even more so. His hands run through my dripping hair. I bite his lip gently, and he moans into my mouth. The guttural sound weakens my knees and makes me want to drag him underneath the water with me just so I can lie underneath him. And holy hell, I can feel everything in his wetsuit. This is too much. I’m beginning to feel dizzy from the intensity, but I definitely don’t want it to stop. I could kiss Emerson every single second for the rest of time. “Warm now?” he says into my mouth. I’m overcome with desire—the way he smells, the salt water mixing

with our saliva, the way he tastes, the way I crave his large, warm hands on every surface of my body . . . “Yes,” I whisper. We pull apart. We’re both breathing heavily. He places his hands on his hips. I try not to stare at the large bulge in his wetsuit. “Good,” he replies, dumbfounded. He turns and walks toward the beach. I take three deep breaths and follow him, touching my lips. They’re still tingling. “Emerson,” I start, looking at him as he hands my board to me. “Don’t,” is his reply. “I don’t know would be my answer.” He turns and walks into the water. I scowl as he gets farther away, eventually

lying on his stomach and paddling out. I sigh and follow him, because what other choice do I have? My heart begins to beat a thousand beats per second. Sharks, is all I can think. I push forward reluctantly, feeling as if every step is inevitably leading to my death. No wonder I’m a writer. This overactive imagination is ridiculous. When the water gets to my stomach, I bend down and lie atop my board, mimicking Emerson. I paddle slowly. My arms immediately begin to burn. I shamefully think back to the last time I worked out. Two years ago. Eventually, after what seems like

hours of paddling, I reach him. He’s facing away from me, looking out into the vast abyss, his body stiff and rigid. He’s sitting up, one leg on either side of the board. “Hey,” I say, out of breath. “Hey,” he replies, not turning around. “You did it.” “Yep.” For some reason, I’m unsure of what to say to that. “Did you kiss me to distract me?” I ask, coming up next to him. I try to get into a seated position, but I fail three times—each time the board flips, and I flop into the water. Finally, on the fourth try, I get it. I’m still a little wobbly. Emerson looks like a pro. He’s ignoring my question.

“Here’s one,” he says, his voice serious. “Turn around and get ready.” “What?” I screech, looking out. A small swell of water is making its way toward us. “Turn around,” he yells, urging me with his eyes. I struggle to turn, but eventually I do. “Don’t try and stand yet. Just ride the wave on your stomach. Okay?” I nod, and he begins to paddle forward. “Go!” I paddle vigorously. I feel the bump of water underneath me, and I swallow when I think of all the things potentially living underneath it. “Faster,” Emerson yells from next to me.

I go as fucking fast as my little arms will take me. Eventually, the water under me curves, and I fall forward, my paddling fruitless now. The wave carries me forward quickly, and I holler as I see Emerson stand next to me. “Woo hoo!” I yell, just before the wave stalls and I fall off the board and into the water. When I emerge, I stand and throw my arms up into the air. “Let’s do it again.” I find the whole ordeal exhilarating and exciting. Having him around eases my fear, and I no longer feel as if I’m going to get my leg bitten off. My favorite part is sitting on the still water, waiting for the next wave. There’s

something so calming about the ocean. Emerson seems to have lightened up too, and by the time the magical wave comes, we’re talking and joking like old friends. The kiss has been forgotten, for now. When I see the wave, I know instantly that it’s different. Emerson teaches me that you can tell which wave is good versus bad, depending on where and how it forms. I study each wave attentively, and they’re all relatively the same. Until I see this one. “This is it,” Emerson says, eyeing me excitedly. “You ready?” “Yes,” I say, my voice determined. “Just remember, stand up slowly,” he adds, referencing my past failed

attempts. “Got it.” I turn and begin to paddle just as the wave lifts us. My blood is rushing through my ears, and my vision becomes tunneled. I see the wave and only the wave. I will stand. I will stand. And then I do stand. I wobble a bit before straightening out, and I only stand for maybe ten seconds before the wave crashes, but I do it. I’m surfing! It’s an incredible sensation. The water moves underneath me, pushing me forward. I have to balance, but once I get it, the adrenaline rush is like nothing else I’ve ever felt. When I get to the shore, Emerson is waiting for me. I unlatch the

ankle band quickly and run to him. “You fucking did it,” he yells, dropping his board and meeting me. He picks me up and spins me around. “I’m so proud,” he whispers, holding me in a tight embrace. I can’t stop smiling from ear to ear. Some people bring out the bad parts of you. Various exes of mine certainly have: smoking, drinking, laziness. It took breaking up with them to realize their influence. And then there are those that bring out the best in you. For example, Hannah. She reminds me every day of what true friendship should look like— and we’re platonic soul mates because of it. She motivates me with her courage

and shows me how to be compassionate. Then there are those who bring out the most of everything. They make you feel so alive, so free. They fill your life with exhilaration. They make you feel so good, you’d follow them straight into the depths of hell just to continue spending time with them. That’s Emerson. The person who awakened my soul, uprooted my life, and made me conquer my fears. When we pull apart I’m feeling overly nostalgic. “Want to see my old summer house? It’s just down there,” I add, pointing to the row of houses to our right.

He nods. “I’d love to.” We drop our boards and walk silently toward a place I haven’t been back to in nine years, though as my feet dig into the sand and the sun begins to beat onto my face, it feels like yesterday. “You miss them, huh?” Emerson asks, and I don’t have to ask who he’s talking about. I sigh. “Yeah. I mean, as far as parents go, they were pretty shitty. But still, they are my parents. I unwittingly, unconsciously, miss them. They’re my flesh and blood.” “I know. I get it. Even though my mother was a horrible person, I still feel that tugging in my heart whenever I think

of her. I have, maybe, three good memories of her, and yet I think about those every day.” I grimace. “People should have to take a test before they procreate. Imprinting on awful people is the worst kind of nostalgia. You miss them because you’re programmed to. It sucks.” When we get to the house, a large, royal-blue beauty with floor-to-ceiling windows, I stop dead in my tracks. The blood drains from my face. It’s him. Tending the fucking rose bushes. “Finley?” Emerson says quietly. All I hear is the blood rushing past my ears. And then my dad straightens out and

turns around.

CHAPTER TWENTYONE Emerson

I watch the scene unfold in slow motion like a car accident. First, Finley’s face goes stark white, the warm flush from earlier replaced by awe and fear. Second, I follow her gaze to a blue house with a back garden, and there I see an older man pruning a rose bush. We’re only about fifty feet away, so when he turns and holds his hand up to squint in our direction and then promptly proceeds to drop his pruning scissors, I

put two and two together. Gabriel Matthews. Unsure of what to do, I stay quiet and still. This is Finley’s forte—I don’t want to get involved. She might run, and that’s okay. Or, she might do the unthinkable and walk up to him. Just as I’m about to clear my throat, a woman with coifed blonde hair comes out the back door and brings a mug of something to him. Her mother. Mary Matthews. When she turns to look in Finley’s direction, following her husband’s line of vision, the mug drops and shatters. The noise seems to wake Finley up, because she jumps and turns around, walking away from the whole scene.

“Finley,” I say delicately. She doesn’t answer me. I follow her, but not before I see her parents come out of the back garden toward us. “Finley!” her mother shouts, her voice shrill and desperate. She’s chasing after us in a skirt suit and kitten heels. From the looks of it, the woman doesn’t know how to relax. It’s barely eight in the morning, we’re on a beach, and she looks as though she’s headed to a corporate office. “Wait.” This makes Finley break out into a sprint. I don’t know what to do. I look between the three people here. Are Finley’s parents glad to see her? Ultimately, I’m on Finley’s side. So I

begin to run after her. We make it back to our boards. Mary and Gabriel are still following us as if Finley’s a ghost they can’t believe they’re seeing. I quickly grab the boards and we walk to the car. When we get there, Finley stops. “Hey,” I say gently. “We can leave.” She shakes her head and stops in place, placing her hands on her hips. She takes three deep breaths, looking for some sort of direction in what to do. “It’s okay. It’s now or never. I should do this.” She walks out toward the sand where her parents are panting and watching us with anguished expressions. One of Mary’s hands is on her hips—the

other hand is holding the heels she took off to run. Gabriel walks up to Finley and embraces her, pulling her into a tight hug. I see him begin to cry. It’s not really my place, so I load the boards on the racks and get into my car, watching from a distance. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but there are a lot of angry glances on Finley’s part, and a lot of tears on her parents’ part. They talk for a few minutes. Mary takes Finley’s hands and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. I see Finley relax instantly. Nothing like a mother’s touch. I, for one, know this all too well. A minute later, they part ways. I

study the situation before Finley gets into the car. Mary and Gabriel watch us, waving and beaming. Finley is scowling. She opens the door and shuts it quickly. I wait for her to say something. Finally, she does. “I didn’t know they still owned the beach house,” she says quietly, obviously dumbfounded. “My dad’s retired. My mom works from home. They live here for six months out of the year now. They tried calling me every day for two years.” She turns to me. “When I cut them off, I changed my number. I made Hannah change hers too, because I knew they’d manipulate her somehow.”

“Are they . . .” I begin to ask, before I realize I’m not entirely sure what I’m asking. “They seem different.” She shrugs. “It’s hard to tell. I don’t want to buy their bullshit just yet. One right doesn’t conceal a million wrongs. But we have dinner plans tomorrow.” As I take this in, I observe her scattered behavior. She’s picking at her old nail polish and her jaw is clenched. Her eyebrows are pulled together, and she looks like a wounded child. She looks like someone who was hurt. Badly. And that pains me to the point of no return. “Is that what you want?” I ask. “To

let them into your life again?” She nods slowly. “I think so. But . . . only if they’re different. They’re my parents,” she says quietly, and I see a tear slowly make its way from the inner corner of her eye and down her cheek. She squeezes her eyes shut. “Can we go home now?” I’m gutted. Thoroughly, completely gutted. Seeing her like this is like experiencing a small death. Or a big death. Her use of home startles me. My house is now synonymous with home? That makes me extremely happy. I’m now realizing I want her to think of this place as home. I want her to stay. Not

just because she’s contractually obligated, but because she wants to. This is all getting so out of hand. I can’t deny the deep feelings I’m developing for Finley. It’s more than physical, too, which terrifies me. I haven’t thought of Sylvanna as my girlfriend for quite some time. Well, never really. Occasionally fuck buddy? Yes. I don’t think Sylvanna has permanence on her mind, but regardless, we need to be done. The night I pushed Sylvanna away was the start. With Finley, I’m beginning to feel— everything that will ruin me. There’s no denying the start of

something now. Not after today. Not after the way her face lit up so brightly when she stood up on the surfboard. I want those smiles. I want that joy. I want that delight. I almost kissed her again after she stood. Almost. “Yes, we can go home now,” I answer, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the main road. We don’t say anything during the drive home. I play the new CHVRCHES album, because I know she likes it. She listens to it every damn day. It seems to relax her, and as we pull into the driveway of the house, she peeks up at me through her lashes. I come undone. She’s too beautiful.

She owns my soul whether she knows it or not. “Emerson,” she says vulnerably. “I wrote something. Will you read it?” I don’t know what to say at first. One, I suspected she might be writing when she holed herself up in her room on her off days. Two, I think it’s wonderful. I’m thankful she trusts me enough to share her writing with me. I know how very personal writing can be. It’s like slicing your soul and gluing it to the paper, one page at a time. “Of course. I’d love to.” She gives me a large grin, and I feel my cheeks burn from the smile I unconsciously mirror. We walk inside,

and she goes up the stairs without saying anything. She’s still in a daze, and she needs space. I can respect that. I walk up to my bedroom and hop in the shower. As the water runs down my salty body, I think of Finley. Why is it that my only thoughts of late are of her? Seven weeks. That’s how many weeks she has officially been in my life. When I first met her I told her she interested me. What a fucking understatement. She beguiles me. After that first weekend where I brought home a water-drenched, despondent Finley, things have changed. Initially she had been hesitant, but warm, toward me. So much so, every moment I touched

Sylvanna that night, I was distracted. I turned her away because all I could think about was Finley. Fuck, that pink shirt that had hidden nothing. Every curve. Perfection. I hadn’t been feeling it with Sylvanna since that night. Why have I kept things going with her? You’re a man, you ass. You want sex. Last night, I don’t think my eyes left Finley once though. Seeing her with Isaac made my blood boil. Even the excessive alcohol hadn’t burned through that seething anger. I had to kiss her last night. And today. Now I know what she tastes like I might not be able to stop again. Every

alarm bell is going off, but I don’t fucking care anymore. Why delay the inevitable? From the start, we were like two sticks of dynamite, strings tied together. When we met, we sparked. When we kissed . . . we exploded. I step out of the shower and change into black basketball shorts and a white T-shirt. I shake my hair to dry it, and I swish my mouth with Listerine. When I spit it out and look in the mirror, I sigh. She just saw her parents for the first time in five years, and I’m mouth-washing in case we kiss? I’m a sick fuck. I jog downstairs and spot a freshly showered Finley at the breakfast bar, eating yogurt from the tub. It disgusts me

that she doesn’t use a bowl. So much bacteria . . . I don’t say anything. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter. As long as she’s happy, I can deal with germ-ridden yogurt. I sit down next to her and we exchange a wordless glance. Her eyes are heavy—perhaps she’s just tired, but I think it’s more than that—and she slides a stack of papers over to me. I look down, astounded to see a legitimate start to a book. There are at least fifty pages before me, and I honestly can’t wait to dig in. I want to learn anything and everything I can about her. The writing is my way into her soul. She’s inviting me into her soul?

Like I invited her into mine? “Have at it,” she says, smiling. “I’m going to go take a nap. Surfing wiped me out.” “Okay.” I smile back. “Goodnight,” I add, cheekily. She just smirks and walks off. She’s wearing the lace shorts. I admire the backs of her tanned thighs, and then I immediately exhale. Finley Matthews . . . what have you done to me? More importantly, what are you doing to me? What will we do to each other?

CHAPTER TWENTYTWO Finley

I wake up and my room is still bright —which thankfully must mean I didn’t sleep the day away. I check my phone. 2:34 p.m. I sit up straight with a start, remembering earlier. Emerson is reading my book. I saw my parents for the first time since my graduation day. Oh, and Emerson and I kissed. Again. I groan and put my hands in my face.

When did everything become so complicated? I pick my phone up and dial Hannah’s number. Right now I just need to hear her voice. “Finley?” she answers, and I immediately begin to cry. “I saw them,” I sob, wiping my eyes with the back of my free hand. “What?” Her voice sounds tiny and so far away. I crave her lavenderscented presence. The thought makes me cry even harder. “Tell me,” she says, her voice gentle. “Emerson took me surfing for my birthday, and afterward—” “Wait,” she says loudly, interrupting me, “but you hate the water. Did you

actually go in?” “Yes,” I say proudly. “We surfed for like two hours. I even stood up. It was amazing.” She’s quiet on the other end. “I can’t believe he got you to go in the water,” she says finally, astounded. “I know. Anyway, afterward, I wanted to show him the house. Low and behold, my dad was trimming the fucking roses. And he saw us. Can you believe it? I didn’t even know they still had the house. We never discussed going after . . . after what happened to Chloe.” “Did you talk to him?” “Yeah. My mom came out. I panicked and ran away, but they chased

after me. They seemed really happy to see me,” I say, my heart lighter. It’s true. They were so relieved I was doing well. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to start a relationship up with them again. “Finley,” Hannah replies, her voice skeptical, “I don’t want you to get your hopes up. Okay?” I shrug, but then realize she can’t see me. “I know,” I answer glumly. “But it was really good to see them. We’re having dinner together tomorrow. Maybe they’ve changed.” “Maybe.” Hannah sounds doubtful, and I love her for protecting me. “You should bring Emerson.” I pause. “What? To dinner?”

“Yeah. As a buffer. In case things go awry.” “I don’t know, Han. I don’t want to involve him in my life drama. He’s my boss.” The minute it leaves my mouth, I know it’s no longer true. Because he’s not just my boss—we’re so much more than that now. “Mmm-hmm, your boss,” Hannah muses, her voice sarcastic. “How was that kiss with your boss last night?” I grunt. “Oh my God. It was the king of all kisses. The crème de la crème. And he kissed me again this morning, in the water.” “So it wasn’t just a one-time thing?” “I guess not.”

She’s silent on the other end. I wait for her to say something, but I can only hear background noises of cars rushing by and a siren. “I like Emerson. Maybe you should see where it goes.” I don’t respond right away. I’m surprised she’s supportive— not because she doesn’t like him, but because she’s normally so distrustful. “I have some news,” she continues slowly. “I’ve been wondering how I was going to tell you . . . but I guess since I won’t see you for a few days, I should tell you now. I got an acting job in San Francisco. It starts in September.” I nearly drop my phone as I squeal. “That’s great,” I say, smiling. “I’m

really happy for you.” Finally. Finally someone has seen the wonder who is Hannah Burrows. I’m beyond thrilled. “Thanks. I guess things are finally starting to happen for us, huh?” “Yeah, I guess so.” I stare at the wall for a few seconds. “I can’t wait to hear all about it this weekend,” I add, my voice firm. I need to go home. I need a break from everything here, and I need to spend time with my best friend before she leaves. “Sounds good. Love you, Finn. Make good decisions.” We hang up and I quickly brush my teeth and wash my face. I hate that grimy, just-woke-up-from-a-nap feeling. My

stomach is grumbling painfully, so I decide to check on Emerson. I wonder if he’s finished the first part of my book— something I’ve been writing on the side. The minute I moved in here, it was like Emerson’s creative energy rubbed off on me because I finally wrote the first chapter of my book—and then the second, and the third, and so on. I gave him everything I have—all eleven chapters. Eleven chapters of him.

Untitled By Finley Matthews PROLOGUE The first thing that drew me to him was his hands. They were artist’s hands. Long, thin, perfectly tanned. His nails were perfectly trimmed, and his touch left my feelings somewhat unfinished. Isn’t that a cliché? That a man made me feel helpless? That’s how it always goes. Except my story is different. In my story, there is no happy ending.

There’s only a beginning and a middle. And I broke all my rules for him.

When I get downstairs, Emerson is hunched over my manuscript. I retreat backward and watch him as he traces a pen across my words—across my heart. I see him circle a word and I’m dying to know his opinion. I know it’s a shitty first draft—all first drafts are. But I want to know how the story makes him feel. I clear my throat, and he spins around. “This is amazing, Finley,” he says quietly. He motions for me to come over, and it’s like an invisible rope is drawing me in. That’s how he affects me. “Do you like it?” I ask meekly. The truth is, my guards are down. Whatever

walls I’ve built to keep him out are gone. I’m sick of fighting against my feelings—our feelings. So giving him the first part of my book, however transparent it may be, is something I feel good about. I want him to see that side of me. I want him to understand. “I love it.” He looks down at the papers and then back at me. “I’m almost done. Give me five more minutes.” I nod and walk to the refrigerator. When I turn around, he’s already scribbling something, completely engrossed. In my story. I smile and make myself a cup of coffee. I quietly walk to the deck and take a seat in one of the

lounge chairs, as if the soothing lapping of the water will give me a sense of peace. Emerson joins me a few minutes later, the manuscript pages and a pen in hand. “No wonder you wanted to quit ghostwriting and get your name out there.” He sighs, sinking into the chair next to me. “Damn.” I blush at his kind words. “I’ve always been intimidated by putting myself out there. You know how it is— people judge you. It’s easier to write under another name. It gives me the courage to write freely. It takes the pressure off.” He nods. “I get it.” He surveys me

quickly before asking his next question. “Where did you come up with the idea of captive and captor?” I smile abashedly. “I don’t know.” Yes, I do know. It came from you. From being stuck here with you, Emerson. Day in, day out . . . I was subjected to YOU. Captured by you. “Well, I think it’s great.” I nod. “But?” “You need to keep writing. I’m giving you homework. One thousand words a day of your book.” “I have enough writing to do already.” I chuckle. He winces. “Yeah, I know. But you’ll just have to write my book

slower. And maybe . . . I can try writing my own stuff every once in a while.” I want to protest. I want to say no. This means an unlimited extension of our time together, and I’m not sure I can handle that. “To be honest, Finley, I think we’re going to need to redefine our contract.” I swallow the spit that’s accumulated in my mouth. “What parts?” I ask timidly. Does he want me to leave? Is he done? Does he not feel he needs me anymore? He watches me, his eyes moving across my face. “Like maybe we should split your work in half—half your book, half mine.” “Okay . . .” I reply skeptically.

“That means you’ll be here longer than the original six months.” He’s watching me carefully. I feel a smile begin to hint at the corners of my mouth. “More time together? What could possibly go wrong?” We both laugh. He observes me with a smoldering stare. “Frankly, I’m done worrying about all the things that could go wrong. What about all the things that could go right?” His words wrap their way around my vulnerable heart, squeezing it in all the right places. “Will you come to dinner with me and my parents tomorrow?” I blurt out. He looks surprised. “You want me

to?” “Yes,” I whisper. I reach a hand out bravely and place it on top of his. “I need a friend.” His body sags at my words. He looks relieved. He turns his hand over and intertwines his fingers with mine and brings them to his lips, kissing each finger gently. My breathing halts, and I feel my body quake beneath the warmth of his lips. I have to stand and leave immediately to avoid jumping and straddling him. My hormones are out of control. I decide to read for the rest of the afternoon, and around eight, Emerson knocks on my door to invite me

downstairs for supper. When I see the dining room table, I feel every last ounce of doubt about us leave my body. He’s roasted a leg of lamb, which is on a platter in the middle of two candlesticks. Two glasses of red wine await us, as well as a salad and bowl of polenta. The lights are dimmed, and music is playing through the wireless speaker. My mouth hangs open as I take it all in. “This is for me?” I ask weakly. No one. No one has ever done this for me. “I feel like I should go upstairs and change. I’m in sweatpants, for God’s sake.” I gesture to the ratty sweats and baggedout tank I’m wearing. Also, I have a

pencil sloppily holding my hair out of my face. Not exactly date-worthy. Or, is this a date? “You look perfect,” he says, his voice low and gravely. He holds my chair out for me. I take a few unsteady steps forward, and when I sit down, he scoots me in. I swallow the lump in my throat as I study the table. A vase of daisies sits next to one of the candlesticks. “Are those . . .” I trail off. Did he really set the table with Isaac’s flowers? “No,” he replies sternly. “I went out and bought some more.” I hide my smile with my hand. “Oh.

They’re lovely.” He sits across from me and holds his wine glass out for a toast. I pick mine up and we clink glasses. “To new rules,” he says, the curve of his smile lopsided. My stomach and chest constrict helplessly. I am in so much trouble. “To new rules,” I repeat, mirroring his smile. Fuck.

CHAPTER TWENTYTHREE Finley

The next morning I wake up and decide I might as well take advantage of living on the beach. I spend the first part of the day outside, lounging on the sand and relaxing. Around noon, I notice Emerson’s car is gone so I make myself lunch. I leave him a plate in the fridge in case he’s hungry when he gets home. After I’m done, I play with the kittens for a few minutes and then spend about four hours writing and catching up on chapter

ten. In the book, Emerson’s now in college and discovering his love of writing. It’s pretty incredible to be learning so much about him. I wish I knew more, and yet, the more I think about the hesitance he expressed about his past, the more I don’t want to know. What is he hiding? How bad can it possibly be? I begin to get ready, nervous because Emerson still isn’t home. I know he’s not obligated to go with me, but I really want him to be there. I need him to be there. At six thirty, I’m dressed casually in white jeans, brown ankle boots, and a

light blue tank top. I’ve curled my hair a little bit and dusted on some blush. I can’t hold color for the life of me, but at least I can fake it. I wander downstairs with my purse and retrieve my phone. I have a text from Emerson—it must’ve come in when I was drying my hair. I’m so sorry—I’m running late. Text me the address of the restaurant and I’ll be there by 7. I shoot him the address quickly. I start to dial the taxi dispatch number and not one second later, Brady comes through the front door.

“Hey,” he says, motioning for me to come outside. “I’m taking you to the restaurant since Emerson is running late. He doesn’t want you to have to take a taxi.” “Oh.” I stand. “Okay.” I lock the door using the code. “I thought you were in school this week.” He shrugs. “I am. I have a few days off so I’m with Isaac.” I swallow at the thought of Isaac. He never texted me after my birthday night, which is kind of rude considering how flirtatious he’d been. Oh well. A small part of me wonders if Emerson has anything to do with Isaac’s lack of communication.

“How’s everything going?” he asks as we get on the road. I’m meeting my parents at The American Hotel in Sag Harbor. It was Chloe’s favorite, and I haven’t been back since I was a kid. “Really well,” I answer, smiling. Brady looks at me sideways. “I see.” He sighs and opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t say anything. “Is it that obvious?” I ask, watching him. He laughs. “Kind of. It’s been pretty uncomfortable to be around the two of you.” I wince and look down at my lap. “I’m sorry.” “I think he really likes you,” Brady

adds, giving me a sincere smile. “I’ve never seen him this happy.” His words give me the warm fuzzies. “I really like him too.” Brady turns on some music and changes the subject to my parents. I give him the lowdown, and he nods—he’s a good listener. When we pull up to the restaurant, I scan the parking lot for the Civic, but it’s not here yet. I gulp and turn to Brady. “Thanks for the ride.” “Good luck.” He reaches a hand out, and we high-five. “Emerson said he’d be here by seven.” I nod. “Okay. Night.” I hop out and walk to the restaurant. I ask the hostess

to be seated at the table for four, under the name Matthews. She clicks at her computer and gives me a quizzical look. “I’m sorry, there’s no reservation for Matthews.” “Okay . . .” I say, clicking my jaw nervously. “What about Gabriel or Mary?” She smiles. “Yep. I have a table for three under Mary.” “It’s going to be four,” I reply, and she raises her eyebrows at me. “Very well. You’re the first to arrive from your party. Please follow me.” She seats me in the back, and I sit down with shaky legs. I don’t know why I’m so nervous—they’re my parents, for

God’s sake. I check my phone, but I don’t have any messages. It’s only six minutes until seven. They have plenty of time. I order a glass of wine while I wait. I cross my legs and tap my foot against the table nervously, watching the front door like a hawk. I keep an eye on my phone. 7:08. 7:15. 7:34. The waiter comes over and offers me an appetizer. I shoo him away. To be honest, my stomach is in knots. Where is everyone? Am I at the right restaurant? I shoot a text to Emerson.

Where are you? It sounds demanding upon second glance, so I add a follow-up text. Just wondering. They’re not here yet. Getting antsy. He doesn’t reply. I glance nervously at the front door. The waiter makes two more rounds before giving up and watching me from afar. 7:50. 8:06. Tears begin to well in my eyes. I don’t know what I expected from my

parents—they were never reliable growing up, and it doesn’t surprise me that they forgot or made better plans. But Emerson? Where the hell is he? My phone buzzes. An unknown number. My heart races as I pick up. “Hello?” I rasp, my voice hoarse from unshed tears. “Sweetie,” my mom says, her voice casual, “we need to reschedule our dinner.” What the fuck? My mouth drops open. “Seriously? I’ve been here for over an hour. I didn’t know where anyone was. I—” “I’ll have Maggie reschedule you. Okay?” Is she serious? She needs a housekeeper to schedule an

appointment with her daughter? Fuck that. She hangs up without an apology, and I feel a single tear drip down my cheek. Some people never change—no matter how much you wish they would. They were so surprised to see me yesterday. I now realize surprise can be a good or bad thing. In their case, it blinded me to their flaws—and now I realize they’re exactly the same people they were five years ago. I stand abruptly. I dig around in my purse with shaky fingers and retrieve a twenty-dollar bill. The waiter walks over. “Here,” I say. “For the wine.”

He gives me a pitying look. “Oh, honey, don’t worry about it. It’s on us.” I look back to where he’s pointing. A group of young waiters and waitresses are watching me absorbedly. Great. That’s embarrassing. “T-thanks,” I stutter, biting my tongue to keep from crying. I rush toward the exit and the waterworks begin. When I walk into the foyer, I’m so distracted that I don’t see Emerson or feel his tight grip on my arm. I recognize his scent immediately though, and I feel myself collapse against him, my body wracked with sobs. “Hey,” he says gently, rubbing my back and holding me. I can’t respond.

Everything hurts, but mostly my heart. I just clutch his shirt and continue to cry. I feel foolish for actually believing my parents would show up. I feel even worse for involving Emerson—now he gets to witness that side of me. I’m embarrassed. I felt so hopeful that maybe I could patch our relationship; that maybe my mom and dad actually wanted me in their lives. But they cast me aside, just like they did my whole life. “You’re better off without them,” Emerson murmurs in my ear. I pull away hesitantly. I know I must look god-awful —snotty, red nose, puffy eyes, wet face.

But I don’t care. It feels so good to have someone on my side. Be in someone’s arms. “Yeah,” I say, sniffing. My voice is thick. I wipe the tears off my face and look up at Emerson. The look on his face is angry—it startles me. “I can’t believe they stood you up. And I can’t believe I was so late. Please forgive me.” He tugs me forward and hugs me again. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re here now,” I add, taking a deep breath and inhaling his scent. Over time, his scent has gone from intoxicating to comforting. Right now it’s both. “I’m here now,” he repeats, sliding

his hand up and down my back. It feels good. “Let’s go home.” Home. Yes, I need to be home. I nod and he takes my hand, leading me to the Civic parked out front. I feel mostly numb. What had I expected? I guess I thought since my dad was retired, and because they lived so close, that it would be a no-brainer. I don’t work the same way as them—thank God—so I can’t really understand their reasoning. I keep my plans with people. I never back out. I guess they don’t share the same mentality. Then again, they never did. Not with me. “Stop overthinking,” Emerson says gently as we drive away. It’s starting to

get dark, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying more. “Also, stop holding back your tears.” I half-laugh, half-cry. “It’s hard not to overthink when your parents want nothing to do with you.” I take in my own words, and it stings. Hard. Emerson is quiet for a minute. “Yeah, but what does that say about them?” I shake my head, not comprehending. “What do you mean?” He chuckles lightly. “Think about it. They lost their eldest daughter, and they haven’t seen their youngest daughter in five years. And then they stand you up? Come on. They should be breaking down

my door to see you. This is all them, Finley. Not you.” I look down at my lap and play with the ring on my right index finger. No matter how he spins it, it still hurts. He continues, “I don’t know how they ended up as your parents, but hey, we can’t choose our family. At least not our biological family.” “I know,” I say, my voice shaky. “You of all people know that.” I look over at him and he smiles. “Exactly.” He stares at the road ahead. When I look out, I realize we’re not going in the direction of his house. “Where are we going?” I think I know where we’re headed, but I don’t know if I want him to admit it.

“I have words.” That’s all he says as he pulls off the highway and gets on the main road to Montauk. I bite my tongue, not sure if I’m happy or angry. I think it’s the former. The closer we get, the more his hands tighten around the steering wheel. By the time we pull up in front of the house, his eyes have darkened, and he’s breathing heavily. “Stay.” It’s a command, not a request. I sit helplessly as he slams the door and walks to the once-familiar front door. It’s strange being back here in the driveway. I spent so much of my childhood here. And now, the man I love

is going to tell my horrible parents off. The man I love? In this moment, watching this amazing man defend me, I realize I might actually be in love with Emerson Whittaker. I slowly unbuckle my seatbelt and open the car door. Emerson is pounding on the front door. The porch light is on, so everything is illuminated. My mother is paranoid about robbers, even though she installs state-of-the-art security systems. I have to see this. No, I need to see this. My dad answers the door, followed closely by my mother. They look startled

to see him. “Weren’t you that friend of Finley?” my dad asks, a smile creeping onto his lips. I hate the way he can ask that so casually when not even an hour ago, they chose to stand me up. “That’s right.” Emerson’s tone is obvious, and my dad crosses his arms. “Can we help you?” My mom asks, annoyed. “I’m not sure,” Emerson says slowly. “Do you have any idea how much you hurt her?” My mother looks at my father, and then they both look up at Emerson dubiously. “Is this about tonight?” my father asks, his voice sharp. Emerson

doesn’t back down. “Hmm, I wonder. She was crying her eyes out, for fuck’s sake.” My parents look at each other, surprised at his profanity, I’m sure. For the first time, I see true, actual shame. “We didn’t realize—” my father starts, but Emerson holds his hand up. “I didn’t come here to discuss your excuses. I came here to tell you that you’re both idiots for not doing everything you can to be a part of her life. You lost Chloe, yet you so flippantly push Finley away.” “Now, now,” my dad says sternly. “You don’t know anything about our family.”

“Like hell I don’t,” Emerson shouts. He’s so angry. Angry for me. “You don’t know anything about her.” “We’re her parents,” my mother answers shrilly. “Bullshit,” Emerson hisses. “You think because you birthed her, because you put the least amount of effort into showing her affection, that you know her as a person? It doesn’t work like that. Tell me about her fears. Tell me about her dreams—about what breaks her heart. In fact, tell me a story of a time you loved her without involving money.” They stay silent. The truth stings. He continues. “You think because you’re her

parents you deserve her love. Well, you don’t. You never did, and you never will. So stay the fuck away from her.” He turns and begins to walk back to the car. I’m glued in place. When he sees me, he motions for me to get in with one tick of his head. I climb in, and he starts the engine. We leave quickly, tires screeching. The farther away we get, the more relieved I feel. Ever since I cut my parents off, I’d wondered if I’d done the right thing. I’d wondered what it would be like to have them in my life. Would we get dinner every Sunday night? Would I see them at Christmas? Probably not— Christmastime has been hard since

Chloe died so close to it. But I have to wonder: would my mother and I bake cookies and talk about boys? Would my father teach me about investing money and how to pay my taxes? I’ve come to realize something only recently: I don’t need them. I don’t need any of that in my life. Certain people bring me down—and I have to avoid those people in order to thrive. We wouldn’t get dinner every Sunday, because my parents are way too busy. I probably wouldn’t see them at Christmas, because they’d probably be at their chalet in Switzerland—Chloe and I often spent Christmas with our nanny. My mother and I wouldn’t bake

cookies. She doesn’t know how to bake —she has a cook for that. And my father wouldn’t teach me about money and taxes, because he never really talked to me. Not genuinely, anyway. I was just some kind of pet for him to pat on the head and then discard. Mary and Gabriel Matthews never should’ve reproduced. I made the right decision five years ago.

CHAPTER TWENTYFOUR Emerson

I’m angry as we pull up to the house. The blood is still rushing past my ears, and I have a death grip on the steering wheel. Finley and I don’t say anything as the car idles. I would park in the garage but both spaces are taken. A storm is blowing in, and the wind is howling all around us. “Can I ask you something?” Finley asks quietly. She turns to me. Even after crying—even though the makeup she was

wearing has washed off—she still looks stunning. “Sure,” I answer. “How did you get to the place of not caring? About your mom?” I shake my head. “You think I don’t care?” She looks at me, startled. “I just . . . you’re so indifferent.” I shrug. “It’s a front.” She watches me curiously, her disconsolate eyes studying my expression. “Oh.” I continue. “It does get easier. The longer I stay away. I don’t know who my father is, so that part’s easy. I suspect my mom doesn’t remember. She was

probably high the night they . . . ” I trail off. “Anyway, I have Isaac. And Brady. And a few friends in the city. And you.” I say the last part softer. Her eyes well with tears. “You do have me.” Fuck. Me. I reach out and wipe the single tear off her cheek. “Your parents may be dicks, but you have me. Do you understand?” “I’m beginning to,” she whispers. She leans over slowly. She looks at me through her lashes, her intentions clear. I hesitate. “Finley,” I sigh, scooting away. I turn the car off and look down at my hands. “You’re vulnerable.” “I know.” She says it confidently. I

watch her as she unbuckles her seatbelt and in slow motion, crawls over to my side, straddling my thighs. Her warm thighs hug my hips, and I can’t help but stare at her glorious breasts that are level with my eyes. Must. Resist. I move to push her off, but her hand grips mine firmly. “Emerson,” she says in a low voice. That voice alone makes me hard. “What are you doing?” I ask, my resolve crumbling. Every time I inhale, I can smell her. Coconuts. Every time I move, I can feel her. Softness. She bends down to kiss me, and I let her. Her hair tumbles onto my chest, and

the intoxicating mix of her scent and the feel of her mouth on mine are exquisite. I bite her lip gently, and she moans. God help me. “Finley,” I rasp into her mouth. She moves her hands to my stomach, inching lower. “Finley,” I repeat, louder this time. She looks at me—her face inches away. Her eyelids are hooded and she’s breathing heavily. Her breath smells like mint. I want everything. I love everything about her. It begins to rain. Drops pelt the roof of the car. “Stop saying my name,” she says quietly. I feel her hand inch along the waistband of my jeans. “I know what I’m doing.” I feel her unbutton my pants,

and my whole body tenses. My heart is hammering in my chest. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more. But . . . “If you unzip my pants, I’m not responsible for what happens next,” I growl. “Good.” She slowly unzips my pants, and I suck in a deep hiss as her fingers clutch me. I slide my hands underneath her shirt. She’s warm—hot, even—and the touch of her smooth skin enhances everything. She moans, and bends down to kiss me again. This time, our kiss is molten lava —we’ve thrown away the boundaries and now it’s just us. She wraps one arm

around my neck and deepens the kiss, while the other arm busies itself by sliding deeper down my pants. I grip her waist and push her away. “God, Finley. What are you doing to me?” I ask, my voice hoarse. She doesn’t answer me with words. Instead, using both hands, she begins to slowly unbutton my shirt, one button at a time. Every time her hand makes contact with my chest, I inhale sharply. Everything is so intense with her. I feel drunk from her, like the smell of her alone could intoxicate me. “I don’t know,” she says slowly, ducking her head and awkwardly pulling her shirt off. We both laugh as she flings

it into the back seat. She’s wearing a light-pink bra. “Should we go inside?” I ask, staring at her perfect, golden skin. She has a small freckle on top of her right breast. I can’t help myself—I bend over and gently place my lips on her skin. She groans. I reach for the door handle. “Inside,” I rasp. She climbs off my lap and stands on the driveway. It’s raining, and she’s shirtless. She wraps her hands around herself, and her hair begins to stick to her neck. Fuck. Me. I drop my keys and rush to her, lifting her up so her legs wrap around my waist. I push her up against the closed garage door.

She cries out as I kiss her neck, her jaw, and her cheek . . . her hands claw at my shirt as I slip out of it. I grip her wrists and push her harder against the door. Her head tilts back. She moans. If she keeps making noises like that, I’m going to fuck her right here, right now. “Emerson,” she begs, pulling away and watching me. “I need this.” I need this. For some reason, instead of having the effect I think she wants them to have, I pull away. Her legs drop, and she watches me with curious eyes. I breathe in and out and watch her, panting. “If we do this, there’s no turning

back,” I warn. “There’s nothing to go back to,” she whispers, smiling. “Did you really think this would end in any other way?” “Yes,” I say quietly. “I didn’t expect . . . this. But then I broke all my rules for you, Finley.” “There were never any rules,” she answers, biting her lower lip. “Not really, anyway.” She’s shivering. I’m not sure if it’s from the rain or from me. Oh, how I wish there were never any rules, Finley. “No, I guess not.” I reach for my keys and nod toward the door. “Inside.” I briefly look back to check the car. Doors closed. Locked. “Go.”

She nods and we rush in. I set the keys down on the table, and she sets her purse down. The storm grows stronger —a burst of lightning followed quickly by thunder. She’s still trembling. I walk over to her and she meets me halfway, jumping back into my arms. I hold her up and carry her up the stairs. We don’t stop kissing the entire way; our mouths hungry for each other; her legs wrapped around my hips. I walk her into my bedroom, and then I continue to the bathroom. I set her down on the counter. She eyes me with dilated, dark eyes. I don’t have to ask her—she reaches her hands up and I pull her bra over her head. It’s a

sports bra—I like it. I like her. I like every single fucking thing about her. I inhale a sharp breath when I see her, naked from the waist up. She’s perfect— womanly and delicate. I brush my thumb against one of her nipples, and she throws her head back. Every noise she makes undoes me. I trace my hand lower and slowly unbutton her pants, pulling them off and throwing them to the side. She’s wearing a white lace thong. My. God. She’s perfect. I slide my finger into the waistband of her thong, peeling it off and pulling it down her legs, fling the small, white piece of fabric to the other side of the room, and study her.

Most fucking beautiful person I’ve ever seen. “Wait,” she whispers, covering herself. I remove her hands and kiss her lips gently. “Don’t,” I demand. “You’re perfect.” She pulls away. “Compared to Sylvanna?” She bites her lip and looks down. My heart constricts. How could she even consider comparing herself to Sylvanna? Why the fuck didn’t I end things sooner? “You are perfect. Do you understand how completely crazy I am for you?” I ask a little too loudly. “That’s why I was late tonight. I ended things with her.”

Finley’s head shoots up. “That’s where you were all day?” She looks a little panicked. No, beautiful, not all day. “I met with Isaac in the city. Explained the other night. Shit traffic getting home so I called Brady so you wouldn’t be late. And then I went to Sylvanna’s store, but had to wait till after 7:15 before I could talk to her. Didn’t think she’d want a crowd. But possibly due to women’s intuition, she knew anyway.” Finley watches me with uncertain eyes. “Okay,” is all she says. She gives me a small smile. “You,” I say, placing my lips on her collarbone. She sucks in a breath. “Are,”

I add, trailing my lips lower. I take her pink nipple in my mouth. “Flawless.” I suck and flick my tongue. “How has no one claimed you as theirs yet?” I ask. She stiffens. “I am not a woman who can be claimed,” she explains simply. I sigh and rest my head on her chest. “How is it that I’m the lucky one who gets to do this with you? Your exes are tools, apparently.” I’ve wanted to punch the wall at some of the stories she’s told me over the last few weeks. She really did have bad luck with guys. Until now. In some ways I am thankful they were idiots, because it means she can be mine. Mine. She laughs. “You remember my

stories about my exes?” “I remember everything,” I say seriously. I don’t give her a chance to respond. I move my mouth to her other nipple. She arches her back and lets out a guttural sound. “Don’t stop,” she begs. I continue, flicking my tongue gently. Her supple skin is mind-altering. After a minute of writhing, she reaches out and goes for my cock. Yes. I let her. She moves the pants down and I step out. She places a finger into the waistband of my boxers. I growl into her mouth, thrusting unconsciously. She giggles, removing my boxers. Again, I step out of them and then take a step

back. I follow her eyes as they wander over me and widen when she fully takes me in.

CHAPTER TWENTYFIVE Finley

Holy. Fucking. Shit. Emerson Whittaker’s body is godlike. It’s toned and muscular, but lean enough as to not be bulky. He hides it well beneath his clothes, but now that I can look at him unabashedly, I can’t stop staring. He steps closer and kisses me fervently, his mouth hungry and crazed, his hands flying everywhere. I can feel his hard-on against my thigh, and I moan. I can feel his hard everything against me

—his chest, his arms . . . “Stop me,” he rasps. I shake my head. I reach down and grip him. He stiffens. He pushes my wrist away, pulling back and breathing heavily. I hope I’m conveying my desire well enough. “I want this,” I whisper, moving my hand onto him again. He doesn’t relax, but he makes no further attempts to stop me either. I feel him up fully—his size surprising me. “Holy shit, Emerson.” He groans and thrusts against me. “I want this too, Finley. I just want to make that clear.” He presses his forehead onto mine and looks at me vulnerably. “You have me now.”

I move my hand up and down, and he quivers. He grips my thighs and slides his hand higher, higher, higher . . . I gasp and arch my back when he rubs me gently. “God, Finley,” he murmurs into my ear. I whimper and close my eyes. “Look at me,” he demands. My eyes pop open, and we look at each other as the pad of his fingers move quicker. He slips one, two inside me. I shut my eyes automatically. I can’t help it when I clench helplessly around him. “I’m close,” I whisper, my head lolling. I can feel my orgasm building. “Open your eyes.” He works his hand feverishly. I open them lazily and

look at him as the pressure builds and then slides down slowly. I cry out but I manage to keep my eyes open. “Come for me,” he whispers, his eyes frantic. His desire to give me pleasure sends me over the edge, and I shake as the last of it leaves my body. I’m still breathing heavily as he opens one of the bathroom drawers. He curses. “What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice dazed. “I thought I had . . .” He looks at me with a sad expression. “I don’t have any condoms.” I smirk. “You must’ve used them all on Sylvanna.”

I mean it as a joke, but his eyes darken and he walks over to me, spreading my legs roughly. “I don’t want to talk about her. I need you to tell me what we should do.” “Fuck me,” I whisper. He growls in response—actually growls. “I can’t,” he says, looking down. “I’m on the pill. And I’m clean. I promise you.” “I trust you. Do you trust me?” His eyes are frantic and earnest as he looks at me through his lashes. “Yes.” I don’t need to say anything else as he pushes forward and enters me. His hiss causes me to whimper, and he goes slowly at first. I close my eyes—

this is all starting to feel too intense. The intimacy with Emerson is too intense. It’s what I wanted, though. It’s the only other thing I’ve needed from him. I have my legs wrapped around his hips and we’re having sex. I feel his warm hand rest on my lower belly, and he begins to move his thumb rhythmically in soft, expertly paced circles. “Eyes open,” he mutters unsteadily. I obey his order. I see a bead of sweat break out on his forehead. His whole body is straining to give me satisfaction. He looks strong and powerful— animalistic. He shifts ever so slightly, angling himself in such a way to hit the very spot I need. It’s enough to send me

over the edge again. “Emerson,” I gasp. He pulls me close, off the counter, as I fall apart on top of him. I watch him the entire time, even though I instinctively want to close my eyes. The last of my orgasm leaves my body, but he stays inside me. He picks me up and carries me into the large, waterfall shower. It’s so steamed up I can barely see him. When did he turn that on? However, I can feel every part of him. We are connected everywhere. His mouth is on mine as he pushes me against the wall of the shower and thrusts into me slowly. I break away and pant loudly.

“Finley.” My eyes snap to his. The copper color is darker now—a chocolate brown—wild with desire. He moves quicker. I know he’s about to come, so I watch him avidly, wanting to see him come undone for me. His eyes lose focus as he cries out, and it’s beautiful. He shudders as the orgasm tears into him. His features soften with an unexpected vulnerability. I watch him the whole time. Afterward, he places his face on my neck, kissing me gently. We stay that way for a while, planting small kisses all over each other. I rub the back of his neck. He pulls out but we stay in position, my legs wrapped around his

hips. Truth be told, I don’t want to let go. “You are breathtaking, Finley Matthews,” he murmurs into my ear. “When can we do that again?” “Now?” I laugh. He smiles and then lifts me back onto him. I inhale sharply. I was joking. I guess he was serious. “Now is good. And then again, and again, and again . . .” he mutters, going slow as he enters me yet again. “Fuck. Never stayed this hard before. You feel too good.” I’ve completely lost myself to Emerson Whittaker, but sometimes it feels good to succumb.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Finley

I wake up in the middle of the night with Emerson’s limbs wrapped around me. I smile as I peel his arm and leg off me. He stirs but doesn’t wake up. I watch him sleep for a few minutes before throwing on one of his shirts and walking downstairs for some water. The oven clock says 4:50. I gulp down two full glasses of cold water. The house feels different. I feel different. Needless to say, everything changed tonight. All I want to do is call Hannah and

tell her everything. She won’t be awake for another six hours. I’m wide-awake so I start the coffee maker and begin to dig around the kitchen for organic creamer ingredients, but when I open the fridge, I spy a fresh batch. When did he make this? Again, another thing to add to Emerson’s mystery pile. Ralph and Waldo meow from their pen, so I feed them and play with them for a few minutes. By the time I’ve toasted some bread and poured myself some coffee, it’s past five. I run upstairs and grab my laptop, bringing it downstairs and plucking myself right in front of the window. I write for four hours straight while

Emerson sleeps. The words pour out from a place I’ve never tapped into before. Strange words—unfamiliar words. I don’t even know what I’m writing. I’m just the medium between my mind and the computer. I’m simply transcribing. I don’t look up once, so at nine as I stretch, I’m startled to see the sun shining brightly. I blink a few times. Closing my computer, I stand, stretching my legs. I feel creatively drained, but I’m on a high from so many things. My writing. Emerson. Hannah’s success. The fact that it’s a gorgeous day outside. “Hey.” Emerson pads into the kitchen and rubs his eyes. His eyes flick down my body to my exposed legs.

I hold my breath as he walks over to me. Last night was only twelve hours ago, yet it feels like a lifetime ago. I’m curious as to how he’ll act around me now that we’ve . . . He glides over to me and pulls me into a tight hug. He’s so warm—that warm, just out of bed warm. I want to stay wrapped in his arms all day. He’s so sexy my heart starts to beat erratically. His hands slip lower down my back and all I want is for him to find my naked butt. His hard body against my soft is just too tempting. I want to arch into him, rub myself against him shamefully, but perhaps he doesn’t want that from me right now.

I pour every ounce of emotion into him. I close my eyes and let myself be held by him. He pulls away and kisses my forehead. “Morning, beautiful,” he purrs. He reaches a hand out and brushes his thumb across my cheek. “How are you?” I’m overcome. “Really good.” I give him a genuine smile, and he grins back. We both start to laugh. “Really, really good,” I add to drive the point home. “Me too.” He bends down to kiss me chastely on the lips. “I thought I dreamt it all,” he says into my mouth. His hands reach around and pull my abdomen closer to him. “But it was very, very real.” I smile as we kiss. God, kissing

Emerson is my very favorite thing. Ever. He pulls away. “I’m going to make you breakfast before I get carried away inside of you again,” he rumbles, stepping away. I shrug. “I wouldn’t mind.” I bite my lip and watch him as his eyes sweep over me contemplatively. He makes some sort of manly, primal noise and leaps forward, crashing his lips on mine and pushing me backward against the floor-to-ceiling window. “What. Are. You. Doing. To. Me?” he growls as he quickly pulls his pants down and lifts my shirt up. He moves in a feverish rush, entering me quickly, as if we have an expiration date. He’s

soaking me up, taking me in—taking me as his for the time being. And I fucking love it. I cry out. He moves his thumb to my clit and I lose myself once again to Emerson Whittaker. I don’t want him to stop—ever. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop. I don’t think either of us will ever be able to stop.

CHAPTER TWENTYSEVEN Emerson

The rest of August and most of September pass in a blur of sex, kisses, and lazy mornings. I honestly couldn’t tell the days apart at one point—Finley became the only important thing in my world. Aside from a weekend in late August when she went home to help Hannah pack for San Francisco, we’ve spent most of every day together. I can’t get enough, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get my fill of Finley Matthews.

I know it’ll end soon. We may be fucking a lot, but we work hard on my book most days. She’s already on chapter twenty-one. We’ve developed a system—wake up, fuck, eat breakfast, work, lunch, work, fuck, dinner, bed, fuck. It’s like clockwork most days. Everything about her drives me crazy. I never want to give her up, but I know the time is coming. It’s like she’s a drug; I know I’ll have to quit cold turkey soon. In mid-October, Ralph and Waldo have to get fixed. The vet calls us good cat parents, and Finley beams. It hurts my heart to see her imagining our future. I know she won’t want anything to do with me soon. Maybe that’s why I’m so

frenzied around her—because she’ll be gone soon at my very own doing. “Because it’s a book that brought us together, and it’s a book that will tear us apart.” That’s what I told her that night we tattooed each other. I’ve come to realize it’s truer now that we’re fully immersed in each other. She may not admit it, but I can tell she’s falling in love with me. I want her to both fall hard and stop completely. I’ve never wanted two things simultaneously like that before. As for myself . . . I know I’m falling. Hard. I knew it before the night her parents stood her up. Hell, I knew it the day I met her

officially. She’s funny, sweet, fucking beautiful, and talented. I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. It didn’t happen slowly for me, but because I fought against it for so long, it’s coming out full force now. I want Finley, and I want her forever. More than I have ever wanted anyone before. Even . . . I don’t deserve forever love, but if I did, I would want it with Finley Matthews. She is everything. She is life. She is beauty. She is . . . I wish she could be mine, but I know I would never deserve her. By October 20th, the weather has cooled, and we’ve officially entered fall. Finley sublets her apartment back in

the city while Hannah is away. We make plans for Halloween. I swallow whenever she talks about our matching costumes—Nemo and Darla from Finding Nemo. Finley is extremely excited about donning fake headgear and slapping a fish head on me. By Halloween, we will be on chapter twenty-three. I consider deleting it all—making the story up for a couple chapters. It would be easy to do. She would never have to know. I study her on the eve of October 25th, as she painstakingly sews our costumes and continuously glances up at me to smile and blush, and I realize she deserves so much better than that. She

deserves the truth—no matter how much it’ll hurt her. No matter how much it’ll hurt me. I’m falling in love with her, and soon I’ll have to let her go. The realization hits me so hard I have to get up and pace around the kitchen for a few minutes. I play with the kittens, which are growing ferociously. I don’t want anything to change. I want Finley to stay. I want to continue our life here. I want to love her without boundaries—without the weight of my past on my shoulders every single damn day. “Hey, do you have a Sharpie? I just need to mark my place,” she says, a

sewing needle in her teeth. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts and those goddamn lace shorts. Her costume is sprawled out in her lap. “I have a few in my office. Do you want me to grab one?” She shakes her head. “It’s okay. I’ll get it.” She sets the piece of fabric aside and jumps up. I admire her long, flowing hair. One of the things I love most about Finley is her hair. It’s so buttery soft, and so shiny. And it smells fucking delectable. I caved one day and asked her what kind of shampoo she uses. She just smiled coyly and pulled me into the shower with her to show me. Except we didn’t end up talking

about shampoo. Or talking at all. “Second drawer down on the right,” I yell as I flip through Finley’s manuscript. She’s been giving me weekly updates. I’m on chapter fifteen. She pads up the stairs, and I continue to circle and underline. Her book is brilliant—different than anything I’ve read in a long time. I never had any doubts about her talent—her unaccredited work sits on many bestseller lists—but even those wellknown books dull in comparison to hers. I’ve organized a meeting with my agent for the day after tomorrow. I’m going to surprise her. We have a date night in the city planned, and I want her

to know I believe in her. I can’t guarantee my agent will want to sign Finley, but my guess is she will. I want Finley’s work to be recognized—with her name on the cover. She deserves it more than anyone I know. Oh. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! The second drawer on the right. In my office. Finley can’t see what’s in there. Not yet, anyway. I’m not ready to lose her. Not tonight—not ever. I leap up. In those next harrowing seconds, I decide to cut chapters twenty-

three through twenty-five. It might be too late. The panic I’m feeling is not from Finley finding everything out. It’s from the prospect of losing her. “I’ll come help you,” I yell, taking the stairs two at a time. Dread begins to seep into every orifice. Unless she’s already seen it, I think. “Finley!” I know my voice is frantic. Please, please, please, I beg. Please don’t let her see it. When I throw the office door open, I know I’m too late. She’s sitting on the floor, picture in hand. Her face is wet. She looks up at me and holds the picture up. My eyes don’t leave her face—I

know what picture it is. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “Please,” I say, my voice breaking. “Let me explain.”

CHAPTER TWENTYEIGHT Emerson

DECEMBER 19, 2008 I check my watch—1:55 p.m. Five more minutes until this class ends. The students are quiet as they continue scratching out their finals in blue books. I pace the room. Over the course of the next five minutes, they all make their way up front to hand in their final assignment for the semester. It was an

easy prompt. I’d like to think it challenged them just enough to make them think, while still being doable in the forty-five minute timeframe. Write a thousand-word story from the perspective of someone you love. Topic can be anything. Make it unique! A few students stop and tell me how much they loved my class. I beam. I love my job, and the fact that my first book was published last week is gratifying. I feel like a real writer. As the last of them leave, I close the door and turn around to face her. She’s watching me with a knowing smirk. Her wild, blonde hair is pulled to one side, exposing one of her shoulders.

I don’t say anything as I lock the door and walk up the auditorium steps to her row. I sit down next to her. “Did I pass or fail, Professor Whittaker?” she asks, biting her pen seductively. I look down at her. She’s so fragile—the bags underneath her eyes have become so pronounced. “Does it even matter?” I ask quietly. The smile drops from her face. “It matters to me.” She looks away and sighs. I feel like an asshole. “I didn’t mean it that way,” I say slowly. “I know it matters to you.” We stay quiet for a while. I hear students shuffling outside my door. I have another final to administer in three

minutes. “I’ll meet you at our spot at three,” I say, standing. She stands too. She’s wearing an eclectic mix of fabrics— denim skirt, baggy blouse, pink tights, and black boots. Somehow, it looks good on her. Only Chloe Matthews could pull something like that off. She throws a fur coat over her shoulders. “I might be there,” she says, giving me a mysterious smile. Why does she have to be so damn convoluted? She leans over to kiss me gently on the lips. “Goodbye, Professor.” She unlocks the door and passes through the throng of students crowded near the front. I welcome the next class,

and as they settle in to take their final, I pull Chloe’s blue book from the pile. A Day in the Life of Finley Matthews By Chloe Matthews I smile and read on. As the class filters out slowly, I gather my things and pack up the blue books from my three classes today. There’s nothing from Chloe when I check my phone. Once everyone leaves, I shuffle out into the busy hallway with my messenger bag. It thumps against my leg as I throw my wool coat on and quickly walk to the

bench on the southeastern corner of Washington Square. It’s 3:12. When I round the corner, I see Chloe talking to a younger woman. I approach slowly. They’re laughing as if they know each other very well. When Chloe sees me, the girl nods shyly and, before turning to leave, the girl meets my eyes for a split second. In that second, my whole world shifts. What. The. Fuck? I have to stop and clear my throat. The girl looks down and walks away, waving at Chloe as I approach. “My sister,” Chloe explains as I walk up and hand her the blue book

containing her story. “She’s a freshman.” Naturally, my eyes wander over to the petite woman wearing a baggie beanie and bell-bottom jeans, “Does she go to NYU?” I ask, letting my curiosity get the best of me. Chloe nods. “Yep. She wants to be a writer.” I nod. “Cool. So, where do you want to go for . . .?” I trail off and shove my hands in my pockets. “It’s really fucking cold.” I laugh. She laughs too. I brush a piece of hair away from her face and take her hand. My troubled Chloe . . . “How about my place?” I ask gently. She smiles sadly. “I would love that.” She pulls her coat tighter.

* Eight hours later, long after Chloe has left, my phone rings. I reach across my desk to answer it. “Hello?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “Emerson?” Chloe’s sobs crack my heart in half. I jump up. “What’s wrong?” “I’m on top of our building. I need you to stop me.” She chokes on her words and sputters. Shit. “Chloe, did you take something?” I ask as I throw my jacket on and slip my feet into snow boots. It’s snowing now. “Did something happen?”

“I . . . I just can’t do this anymore.” “I’ll be right there,” I say quickly. “Stay on the line.” Ten minutes later, I’m on top of the dingy hotel on Houston St.—the place I take her sometimes. Well, except for today. Today I took her to my place for the first time ever. Perhaps I could sense her unhinged state. I’m such a dick. Fear rips through my body and the adrenaline pumps through my veins when I see her on the edge of the roof. The winter storm makes it hard to see, but I can just barely make out her shoulder-length hair and leopard-print fur coat. I quickly rush over to her, careful not to startle her. She’s wearing black stockings. The seam

snakes down the backs of her legs, and black stilettos cause her to teeter slightly. “Please,” I whisper gently. “Don’t do this.” My words startle her, and I grab her hand before she falls twenty stories. “I talked to them,” she sobs, and when she turns, my heart cracks in two. “They threatened to cut me off and kick me out if I didn’t graduate with a business degree. I’m stuck in a world I don’t want to be in, Emerson. It’s the worst kind of prison.” “Please,” I repeat, my voice breaking. I know Chloe has psychological issues. She’s alluded to

them before. I’ve insisted she see a psychologist, but she’s refused. God, it’s fucking cold up here. I eye her thin slip and practically bare legs. She must be freezing. “I get that you think this is the only way, but it’s not. There is so much to live for.” “You don’t understand. This is the only way.” “No!” I shout, spit flying out of my mouth. “For fuck’s sake, just come down from this roof. Let’s go get a coffee, calm down, talk . . . If you still feel the same urgency later, well . . .” The truth is, I haven’t thought that far in advance. I just want to get her down from here. I need to get her down from here. I’ll

figure out the rest later. She reaches into her pocket, producing a picture. She hands it to me, but I don’t look at it. I’m not taking my eyes off her when she’s three inches from death. “Please,” she cries, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Take care of her, okay?” Her voice is croaky and uneven. “What are you talking about? You’re not going anywhere.” I reach out again but she pulls her arm away. “Emerson,” she demands angrily, baring her teeth. “Listen to me. Take care of her,” she urges, derision dripping from her words. “I’m going now.”

In the two seconds I take to look down at the picture, she leaps forward and off the ledge of the roof. Instinctively, I reach out to catch her, but it’s too late. My hand only catches air. She’s gone. Flying . . . Flying . . . Gone.

CHAPTER TWENTYNINE Emerson

DECEMBER 21, 2008 I am numb. And it’s not from the subtwenty-degree temperature at the cemetery. It’s because the woman I loved, the woman I couldn’t save, is gone. I shove my hands into my wool coat and peek out from behind the tree. A mass of people, all in black, stand as they carry her coffin to its place in the ground. I feel hot tears burn my cold

cheeks. I look down at the red roses I bought from a bodega down the street. Chloe deserves better than bodega flowers. I’m not even sure she liked red roses. Something tells me she did, but in an ironic sort of way. Like the way she only drank Starbucks. “Might as well give in to societal inclinations,” she would say, grinning and sipping her raspberry mocha. Give in. Or give up? I angrily kick the snow underneath me. Fuck Chloe. Fuck her for leaving me. She was my solace. She understood me in ways that nobody else ever had. She pushed me to write Underground Love. That book was her doing. That

book was ALL HER. And now she’s gone—my muse is dead, cold in the ground. I slide onto the ground and watch the rest of the funeral. Everyone begins to leave, slowly trickling out. I wonder how many of them knew Chloe—really knew her. I wonder how many of them will think of her after today, next week, a year from now . . . And then I see her. Finley Matthews. Take care of her. Those four words have been on repeat every day since the day Chloe left me. Everyone is gone now, but she sits,

staring at the fresh dirt before her. I’m at least one hundred feet away, but I can see her shaking from the cold. My heart rips in half, and some sort of compulsory instinct takes over. I take the picture out of my pocket and look at it for the hundredth time. In the picture Chloe gave me, Finley is younger. Her face is open, free, youthful. I clutch it to my chest and stand. Take care of her. I slowly slide out of my jacket and move quietly toward her. She’s in some kind of weird trance. Her eyes are open, but she’s not watching anything. I carefully slide the jacket over her shoulders, and she doesn’t even flinch.

It’s mammoth on her tiny frame, but at least she won’t be cold now. I back away, hoping she doesn’t decide to turn around. She doesn’t. Take care of her. I rub my arms as I walk away. The chilly air permeates my thin wool sweater, but I don’t care. As long as Finley is warm, that’s all that matters to me. Chloe’s dying wish will be my new purpose. I hope it’ll save me as much as it’ll save her. Finley Matthews. Take care of her.

CHAPTER THIRTY Emerson

JANUARY 14, 2009 I sit down in front of the dean of the NYU Stern School of Business. I’ve only ever met with the dean of the Tisch School of Arts. I let out a tight breath— the one that’s been building ever since I received an email from him ten hours ago. I clasp my hands together and vow to tell the truth. Maybe the truth will save my job—maybe not. But I can’t pretend it didn’t happen anymore.

“Emerson,” he says, his voice rich and concerned. “Sir,” I reply seriously. “I’m going to ask you once and only once. Were you involved in the death of Chloe Matthews?” I look down. “I was present when she . . .” I look up, and I can feel my eyes narrow. “If that’s what you mean.” Professor Cooley sighs. “The statement you gave the police states you were having an ongoing affair with Ms. Matthews. Is that true?” I nod and sit up straight. “That’s true.” He sighs and runs a hand across his bald scalp. “This is a problem for us.

Do you see that?” “Yes,” I whisper. My heart is beating a thousand beats per second. I’m going to lose my job. What does that matter? I have already lost my life. My love. “A senior with a promising future commits suicide down the street, and you’re purported to have been there and to have been having relations with her. Even if you had nothing to do with her death—” “I had nothing to do with her death. I tried to stop her. I loved her.” I hiss the last sentence, and spit flies out of my mouth. I’ve startled Professor Cooley. He’s watching me with raised eyebrows.

“However it unfolded, this is a PR disaster for the university.” I start to shake. “I’m being fired, aren’t I?” I look at him defiantly. He nods. “We have to let you go, Emerson. It’s against policy to have relations with a student. Too many people know what happened between the two of you. Turns out, you weren’t very discrete. We’ve had multiple people come forward. I’m working with Mr. Martins at Tisch to cover this whole thing up. Ms. Matthews’s parents have agreed to look the other way. Now it’s time for you to move on.” Look the other way? Are they fucking insane?

Their daughter killed herself. They know she was involved with me. They. Should. Be. Screaming. For. The. Loss. Of. Their. Daughter. Looking the other way? I’m speechless. I’m in agony missing Chloe so much. I feel like an empty shell. They’re looking the other way. Fuck, Chloe. You deserved so much more. I stand and shake his hand. “I’ll go pack up my office.” * The next day, I direct the moving van to an open parking spot outside of my new building in the East Village. The air

has gone from blustery and cloudy to cool and sunny. My breath comes out in puffs before me. I direct the movers to the fifth floor, sighing in relief when they’re done. I shake their hands and tip them well, sending them on their way. I look up and down Third Street. A fresh start. A new apartment. A new job. Well, a new-ish job as a full-time writer. I’m finally taking the plunge. It’s time to keep my word to Chloe. I lean against a tree and pull my cap lower as two women walk past me to their apartment one block away. The taller one with brown hair has her arm

around the smaller one. I smile when I realize she’s still wearing my jacket. I look up at the sky. Take care of her. Am I doing a good job? I ask Chloe. Fresh tears find there way down my face, and I rub them away as I jog up the steps and into my new building. I won’t fail you.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Emerson

JUNE 26, 2015 I stare at my computer for over an hour. I tried to get my own words down on the computer—really, really tried this time around. I go to my kitchen and grab a beer. I check the clock—9:04 p.m. It’s Friday night. Ace Bar it is. I change into a grey T-shirt, black jeans, and Vans, throwing a baseball cap

over my messy hair. I grab my wallet, keys, and phone and head out. Just as I close my door, I hear giggles from the bottom of my stoop. I turn to face the door, pretending to lock up—I know whose laugh that is. Once they pass, I slowly walk down the sidewalk. I’m about fifty feet behind them. I pull my hat lower and follow them, because I know we’re going to the same place. That is a coincidence. Finley and I happen to like the same bar. We both frequent the place. It’s convenient for me —it allows me to keep tabs on her without actively following her. The fact that I know she’ll be at the bar at the same time as me every couple months is

a huge comfort. I follow them the block north up Avenue A, past St. Mark’s bookshop. I casually glance at them. Finley’s friend —I never could figure out her name—is wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Finley’s hair is long and loose, hanging behind her. She’s wearing some sort of denim thing. I like it. I shove the thought to the back of my head. The girls enter the dive before I do, and once inside, I quickly take a seat at the bar. My job is done now—for the time being, anyway. Finley seems happy and healthy. I order a martini and begin to relax once the alcohol hits my

bloodstream. Maybe that’s why I don’t notice Finley walk right next to me until she begins to speak. “Two Old Fashioneds, please,” she says, her voice light and tinkling. I spin around and watch her from behind my drink, hoping I’m not too obvious. I’ve never heard her speak before. I look down at my gin martini. Out of my peripheral, I see her produce a card. I quickly glance up, and she’s biting her lip nervously and watching the bartender raptly. No. She’s watching her card raptly. “Declined. Do you have another card I can try?” the bartender asks. I see her visibly deflate. My chest

begins to tighten. Is she struggling for cash? I know she does ghostwriting on the side—I’ve heard about her from other authors. I reach around to my back pocket, producing a twenty-dollar bill. Finley hands the next card to the bartender. “Umm, try this one,” she asks uncertainly. Declined. She closes her eyes and sighs. “Okay, umm, never mind about the drinks then.” I don’t have time to think—I swivel to face her, instantly getting her attention. “I’ll buy them,” I blurt. She squints at me, a look of passive

gratuity passing over her face. It’s the first time I’ve looked into her eyes. For a panicked second, I think she might recognize me, but she doesn’t. Her eyes sweep over my face, but there is no recognition. I hand the bartender the twenty—enough for the drinks and the tip. I don’t break eye contact—I can’t. Her eyes have me mesmerized. What am I doing? “Thank you,” she says quietly. “My card must be broken.” She blushes and I want to reach out and move the crazy, stray hairs out of her face. “It’s no problem at all,” I answer, trying not to smile. Take care of her.

“Well, thank you again,” she squeaks, taking her drinks and leaving. I’m left wanting more. I pay for my drink and quickly leave before Finley and her friend notice I’m gone. I jog home, and once inside, I open my laptop and look her up on Facebook. In all the years I’ve been keeping an eye on her, I never once checked her Facebook. Why tonight? I sigh. Does this make me a stalker? I’m not sure. The horrifying news: her profile is set to public. She needs to lock that shit down. I make a mental note to tell her the next time I see her. If there’s a next time. I read through her status updates for

the last year. One from last week in particular catches my eye. Hannah and I will henceforth be accepting donations of the following kind: wine, Chinese food, chocolate (not the bitter kind), and Netflix passwords. Kthx. I read through the comments. Most people comment “LOL” but a few people ask if she’s okay. Her response: We’ll survive, but money is tight. :) Just trying to make light of a tough situation.

I scroll farther. This girl will check herself in everywhere. The doctor’s office, the gym (two years ago, I laugh at that), St. Mark’s Bookstore, Diptyque, the bodega down the street. She really should make her page private. I don’t like that any crazy psycho has access to her locations in real time. Also, I’m disgusted I’m even looking. Why am I looking? Her profile picture is of her and Chloe from when they were younger, for God’s sake. I’m pretty sure when Chloe said to take care of her, she didn’t mean stalk her on Facebook for two hours. I shut my computer and lay my head down on my crossed arms.

When I wake up ten hours later, my head snaps up and I look around, confused. How much did I drink last night? I open my computer. The first thing that comes up is Finley’s Facebook page. I refresh it like a fucktwat, and right before my eyes is a new check-in. Remedy Diner. She’s been there before according to Facebook. Forty-seven times. I look at the timestamp. She checked in an hour ago. If I’m going to do this, I have to do it now. I quickly brush my teeth and throw on the only shirt I can find—a black button-up. I swipe on some deodorant and run my fingers through my hair. I

grab my wallet, keys, and phone. At the last second, I comb through my filing cabinet for an old contract. I take the stairs two at a time. I’ve barely formed a plan in my mind when I see her. The truth is Finley Matthews has a reputation in the ghostwriting community. Authors covet her. I know this, as does every other author looking for a bit of help. They call her the bestseller maker. I’ve worked with Madeleine Martel before. I know she used to represent Finley. I can use that as my connection—Finley doesn’t have to know it’s not true. And the contract? I look down and skim the terms. It’s fairly standard, though I do

pay my writers about twice as much as the going rate. After all, it’s their words on the page, not mine. They deserve to be fairly compensated. When I get to the diner, I see her sitting in a booth against the window. She’s eating her French fries quickly and staring at the computer screen. I see her down her coffee even quicker, and I have to keep myself from smiling. I walk in, my game face on. Here goes nothing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Finley

Present “Where did you get this picture?” I ask, my voice shaky. I stand slowly, the shock wearing off. I just wanted a fucking Sharpie. Everything was fucking roses and gold until now. I’ve been so happy with Emerson. He’s caring, smart, and has a dirty mouth in bed—the perfect combination. He’s literally the perfect specimen of man. So imagine my surprise when I pull the drawer open to

find a picture of me from when I was younger—a picture Chloe kept above her bed growing up. Emerson blanches. His eyes give him away, and I know in an instant that whatever he’s about to say will ruin us forever. “Chloe gave it to me.” I recoil from him, backing up against the wall of the office. Everything is beginning to spin. Chloe gave it to him? I can’t even fathom the possibility of that. I’m trying to take it all in when he rushes forward. I hold my hand up to stop him. “You knew my sister?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

“Very well,” he says slowly. I can tell he’s trying to figure out the best way to explain. “I met her when she audited my advanced creative writing course.” I shake my head. “She was a business major.” I begin to cry. “She studied business.” This can’t be true. Chloe? In an advanced writing class? He must be mistaken. Then again, she was always going against the norm. When I think about it—when I really think about it, it actually sounds exactly like something she would do. I look up at Emerson. Why does he look so guilty? Did Chloe know the girl he had an affair with? Realization hits me full force. I cup

my hand to my mouth. “Oh my God,” I whisper, pointing a finger at him. My brain feels like it’s on fire. My heart feels like it’s going to explode. “Chloe was your student who died.” My voice breaks on the last word. Emerson looks down, shame written all over his pretty fucking face. “Yes.” I slide down against the wall and begin to cry into my hands. Emerson continues. “I saw you in Washington Square Park the day she jumped. Briefly. Do you remember me?” My body is shaking—from crying or from shock, I’m not exactly sure. “I don’t remember. That day was such a blur,” I say, my voice numb. I’ve spent so long

trying to forget that day. Now I wish I could remember everything. We met for breakfast. I went to an art history class. I had lunch with Hannah. I went to another class—Africana studies. I met up with Chloe for a quick hello. That was the last time I saw her. She was meeting up with a man. Emerson? And Emerson saw me? I feel tear after tear slide down my cheeks. I’m still processing everything. Nothing makes sense. My head shoots up. There’s only one question I really

need answered to move forward—to solidify whether or not I’m leaving him. “Did you sleep with her?” I ask softly. Emerson looks away and thumbs his nose. Over the last few months, I’ve gotten to know Emerson very well. He eats his food cold when he can—even supper. He prefers comfort over practicality when dressing. He loves to get the last word in. He likes beer, tolerates wine, and hates tequila. He cries out for his mother in his sleep. And he thumbs his nose when he’s guilty or lying. His eyes find mine, and they’re swimming with tears. “Yes.”

I stand quickly, trying to hold on to something sturdy. Everything is spinning. He hasn’t written anything without a ghostwriter since then. Only one book without one. Was she . . . Was she . . . I can’t ask him, but I need to ask him. Need to know. “Did you love her?” His eyes find mine, and they’re turbulently sorrowful. “Yes.” His affirmation sends me reeling. I can’t breathe. I push past him and into my bedroom. Rage fills me to the brim. Just five minutes ago I was sewing our Halloween costumes. Now I’m about to leave the man who fucked both of the

Matthew sisters. No. I can’t believe I ever I trusted him. I haphazardly begin to throw things together on the bed—my laptop, my purse, my chargers. I leave most of my clothes. I only need the necessities. By the printer lies Emerson’s book—or what I’ve written so far. Seventy thousand words of bullshit. I pack everything up, slip on my sandals, and throw the bedroom door open. He’s waiting for me in the living room, so I walk downstairs with my bag and his stupid book. His eyes are rimmed with red, and his cheeks are wet. It startles me, and for

a split second, affection overcomes me. I want to run over and comfort him—I want to make his tears vanish. “Please don’t go,” he begs, dropping to his knees. The gesture breaks me, and I begin to shake with sobs. I almost consider his request, but then I imagine him with Chloe. I feel like I’m going to be sick. And then I think of the picture Emerson kept hidden from me for five months—and the secret he kept to himself. All the things I told him about Chloe—he knew. And when he met me at the diner? Was it all some kind of ruse? Jesus fucking Christ. He knew I was her sister. He

must’ve. He’s known all along. That’s what all of the cryptic statements were about. Because it’s a book that brought us together, and it’s a book that will tear us apart. All will be revealed. Don’t run too far when it is. Okay? Emerson was trying to tell me all along. Too bad he didn’t have the courage to tell me before I found out on my own. I throw the pages of his book at him, and they scatter all around us. “Fuck you, Emerson.” I reach for the door handle, but he jumps up and steps in front of me. “I

can’t let you leave without explaining.” I shake my head, tears flying. “It’s all pretty clear to me,” I say slowly, burning him with my disgusted stare. “Was it always a goal of yours to fuck both of us? Do you have a sister fetish?” He starts to cry; a choking, desolate sound. Again, the forsaken sound coming from him is almost enough to break me. Almost. “Finley, please,” he chokes. I swipe my wet cheeks with my fingers and cross my arms. “You have ten seconds to explain.” Emerson sighs, relieved. “I met her in August 2008. It was instant—our attraction. Yes, we slept together. Yes, I

loved her, and I’d like to believe that she loved me too. But she was troubled. She . . . had issues.” I guffaw. “No shit.” “That day I saw you with her at NYU . . . we made love, and she left to go home.” I wince at his honest declaration. “She called me from the roof.” I gasp. “You were there?” Rumor has it he was somehow involved in her death. Hannah’s words. He nods solemnly. “I tried to stop her, Finley.” I bite my lower lip as another tear escapes, crawling down my cheek. “You know . . . I didn’t even know she was a writer,” I utter, my lips quivering.

He laughs, a small, sad laugh. “She wrote a story about you for her final. The day she killed herself. Do you want to hear what it was about?” I’m sobbing now, and I shake my head. “I don’t think I could handle it.” I look down. Betrayal hits me hard, and I start to cry harder. Emerson takes a step toward me, but I flinch. The trust is gone. “At the bar . . . were you watching me? And at the diner?” I have so many questions. He nods slowly. “Her last words were take care of her. I felt responsible for you.” Responsible. For. Me. Not love. Responsible.

A sob escapes my lips. I clamp a hand over my mouth and open the door. “How long have you been watching me?” I ask through clenched teeth. God, this hurts. This all hurts so much. “The whole time,” he says simply. He moves forward, reaching out for my hand. I pull away. “So, all of this was just you fulfilling my sister’s wishes?” I cry. “This is so fucking twisted and sick. And now we . . .” I trail off as the tears slide down my cheeks. He takes a step closer to me, but I narrow my eyes and hold my hand out. “Don’t you dare touch me. Ever again.” “Please . . .” he begs, inching closer. “I didn’t expect to fall in love with you,

Finley.” His words shock me, and a stabbing pain erupts in my chest. “What?” We haven’t said the L-word yet. And now is the time he chooses to bombard me with it? “You heard me. I. Love. You.” He comes closer. I back away. “And I know you love me too.” “I do,” I say quietly. For the first time since this whole fucking thing exploded between us, I feel clarity. He loves me, but he loved her first. He. Loved. Her. First. I pull out my wallet, reaching in for the quote from Underground Love that I’d taped up on my wall in my apartment

in the city. “I do love you, Emerson,” I say sadly. “But I don’t think it’s healthy to love someone who writes this about someone else. Especially when it’s your dead sister.” I fling the small scrap of paper at him and just as I walk out the front door, I see him crumble to the floor. You are a driving downpour of all my forbidden desires.

CHAPTER THIRTYTHREE Finley

Three Months Later “Hello, welcome to Diptyque,” I say sweetly. “No, try it this way,” Samantha retorts, sighing heavily. “Hello,” she says breezily. “Welcome to Diptyque.” I can literally tell zero difference between her version and mine, but she’s the boss so I nod and mimic her. “Hello, welcome to Diptyque.” I grin

saccharinely. “Good. Now can you please arrange the candles in the showroom? They look a bit messy to me.” She walks away. My eyes flick to the showroom. The candles look evenly spaced and formally placed. I roll my eyes. I spend the next hour “re-arranging” the candles, but really I’m just picking them up and setting them back down. Samantha walks in and claps her hands. “Oh, wonderful. They look so much better.” I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying something extremely snarky. I leave a couple hours later, pulling my jacket tight as the cold wind howls around me. It’s late January, and like

every other New Yorker, I am so over the cold right now. I call Hannah as I walk home. She picks up on the first ring. “Hey,” she chirps. I can hear music and people in the background. “How are you?” I grimace. “I’m okay. How’s San Francisco?” “Oh my God, you have to come visit,” she squeals. “It’s eighty degrees out. In January.” I look at everyone around me in hats, scarves, and gloves. “Maybe soon.” She’s quiet on the other end. “I still think you should’ve kept the money.” My breathing halts. She knows I

don’t like to talk about Emerson. “I didn’t want his money,” I say briskly. After I left, I returned all of his money, minus about a thousand dollars I’d spent on various things over the course of the five months I was there. I’m slowly repaying him, but my checks go uncashed. I ended up back at Diptyque the week after I left Emerson, much to Samantha’s smug vexation. Randy is my temporary roommate until Hannah comes back from her theatrical tour in February. She’s doing exceedingly well on the West Coast, and even better without Geoff. In fact, she’s been on a couple dates with some hot actor.

“Have you . . .?” I know what she’s going to ask. “No.” I walk quicker to stay warm. “You know I don’t really want to talk about it, Han.” We catch up for a few more minutes as I walk. Once I get inside, we hang up with a promise to talk tomorrow. I take my coat off and walk to my room, slipping into a pair of sweats and a wool sweater. The truth is, I think about Emerson every single day. Every second of every day. When I’m at work. When I’m trying to fall asleep. When I walk to work.

When I walk home. It’s distracting. He never called or tried to reach out to me, and I think that’s the hardest part —knowing it was so easy for him to let me go. I never intended to take him back, but at least I would feel justified if he tried to fight me on it. Maybe I’m not the sister he wanted to fight for. I pick my phone up and draft a text to him. I just want you to know, it’s taken everything in me not to call you. I wish I could see you. I hope you know that every time I don’t call, I almost do.

The cursor blinks ominously at the end of the sentence. I debate sending it. I almost want to send it. The silence and un-cashed checks are concerning. Maybe I should see if he’s all right. I sigh and lie down on my bed, holding my phone against my chest. My eyes wander to the picture of Chloe. My heart hurts for her. I should’ve been there. I should’ve noticed the signs. I now remember that day clearly. Now that I’ve had time to process everything, I think I even remember seeing Emerson. At first I didn’t—when he told me about it, I thought he was lying. But since then, the faded memory has resurfaced. I remember the light in

the park, and the way Chloe’s hair shone in the brisk sun. I could tell he meant a lot to Chloe—that’s all I remember. And I’ve tried clawing that memory out every day since, to no avail. Just to remember him. Just to remember how he was with her. The whole day was pretty standard. Class, lunch, class, and then back to my apartment—the very same one I’m in now. Hannah and I found it a month after high school graduation. My parents weren’t around that week, and I stayed holed up in my room studying for finals. Chloe still lived with my parents. They’d somehow had some sort of spell

over her. She never could defy them the way she should’ve—the way I did. I’d fallen asleep with my Africana studies book on my chest. It wasn’t until a couple hours later when the police came knocking on my door that I found out. I remember the way the book thudded to the ground as I rushed to answer the door. I remember the way Hannah came running out of her room, and how she caught me as I collapsed. I never knew about Emerson’s involvement with her suicide. My parents and the university covered it up nicely. I assume he was telling the truth —that he tried to stop her.

But it doesn’t change anything. He still lied. Or better yet, he withheld the truth. He loved her. I turn over and grab my copy of Underground Love. I’ve reread it twice since I left. I’m a sicko. I don’t know how I didn’t see it. The dedication says, For C. I should’ve caught the clues. The book is all Chloe. Maybe that’s why it’s my favorite. I clutch it to my chest as I fall asleep. Again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR Finley

I have the next day off, so I wake up before seven as per usual and change into something warm. Randy is awake, sipping coffee at the dining room table that we bought to replace Geoff’s ugly coffee table. I know Hannah is appreciative that we’ve scrubbed the place of that scumbag. “Morning, tootsie,” he chirps. I skulk away and pour myself some coffee. Randy is much too chipper in the morning. Once my mug is filled with

coffee and lots of creamer, I sit down across from him and stare out into the grey morning. “Why are you so morose? Life is beautiful.” He smiles at me. “Please don’t throw that yoga bullshit at me this early in the morning.” He laughs. “Come with me tonight. I’m meeting a guy, and I need reinforcements.” I shake my head. “We’ll see. I have a lot of writing to do.” He sips his coffee slowly. His tanned skin and dark lashes are very enchanting. His large, almond-brown eyes are also very convincing when they become all puppy-dog-like. Actors.

“Fine,” I groan. “But only if it’s Ace.” “Oh God, no. That place is a dump. I was thinking that cute, trendy place on Sixth?” I groan louder. “Sure. Fine.” Suddenly, he leaps up. “Can I make you over? Please?” I want to groan again, but I know it would be rude. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want to me.” I wiggle my eyebrows and he giggles. “It’s a good thing I’m gay, or I might take you up on that offer.” He smiles and walks away, shaking his toned booty. I stare out of the window until I finish my coffee.

When I’m done making breakfast, I get dressed and head to Remedy Diner. Randy isn’t working, but I find the noise helps me concentrate. I always thought it was the opposite. Go figure. Walking into the diner, I sit down and connect to the Wi-Fi on my phone. I check myself in and then open Instagram —anything to put off my impending writer’s block. I haven’t written a single word since leaving the beach house. As I scroll through, my heart stops when I get to a picture Isaac posted about an hour ago. My eyes brim with tears when I see the image of Ralph and Waldo sitting in

what I can only presume is Emerson’s apartment here in the city. Isaac tagged himself as “in NYC.” I completely forgot I was following Isaac, but then the hazy memory comes back. Isaac had begged me to follow him on Instagram, so I did—just to piss Emerson off. And then Emerson and I shared one of the best kisses of my life. Isaac must not post often, because this is the first glimpse I’ve had of the cats. My cats. I miss them so fucking much. But I miss their dad even more. I open my laptop and begin to draft an angry letter to Emerson. It’s very therapeutic, and by the time I’ve finished the fifteen-page saga, three hours have

passed. My eyes automatically scan the diner. I know it’s irrational, but I check myself into places on purpose. I want to give Emerson an opportunity to run into me if he so pleases. Turns out, he doesn’t care nor does he want to, because my life has been one hundred percent Emerson-free since our blowup. And more lonely than I ever thought possible. I stand to go, packing up my things. I pay the bill with the only money I have —a crumpled twenty I found in an old pair of jeans. I wait for my change, and then go home to watch reruns of Friends.

Perhaps by the time Randy and I go out, I will be out of this stupid funk. * Oh my God, I look like a prostitute. Randy’s hands fly all over my face as he touches up my makeup. I smile politely as he stands back, surveying me. “More blush,” he declares, and I have to jump back. It causes me to teeter on the stripper heels he’s put me in. I steady myself on the doorframe. “No more,” I beg. I look at myself once again. “I look like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Except with more makeup and way less class.” I pull at the

hem of my too-short dress. It’s a tight, red number with cutouts on either side of my ribs. My hair is straight and sleek, and . . . I don’t even remotely resemble myself. “This is too much,” I whine, feeling very exposed. I wave my hands around nervously. Not to mention it’s like ten degrees out. I just want to scrub all of this shit off and climb into my beloved sweatpants. “Please? For me?” he begs. I sigh. “Can you at least tame the eyes? They’re too raccoon-y.” Ten minutes later, we’re talking down Third to Avenue A. I am freezing my fucking face (and ass) off. When we get to the overly crowded club, we have

to stand in line for twenty minutes. Luckily, they busted out the space heaters, and I’m only mildly cold rather than hypothermic. Once in, Randy drags me to a spot with a few other flamboyantly gay men. The thumping beat of the bass is grating, and I want to go home instantly. We all make introductions, and a few shots get passed around. I don’t know where they come from, but free booze is always welcome. I begin to feel better. A few minutes later when I’m thoroughly buzzed, I offer to buy the first round for Randy and me. I tell him that it has to be beer, because beer is cheap. He gives me attitude, telling me we shouldn’t mix

beer and liquor, but I ignore him and make my way to the bar. I push past the many sweaty bodies and find an opening. I order two Budweisers. The total is ten dollars. While the bartender is opening the bottles, I connect to the club’s Wi-Fi and check my account balance. My eyes go wide at the number. Twenty-five thousand and two dollars? I know for sure those two dollars are mine. But the twenty-five thousand? “Ten dollars, please.” The bartender looks at me expectantly. My mouth hangs open. I could just pay—I technically do have the money. But I don’t want to spend a single cent of Emerson’s pity money.

“I’m sorry. I can’t find my card,” I lie. “Let me get my friend.” I walk back toward Randy. “I forgot my debit card at home. I need to use the restroom. Will you please get our beers? I’ll pay you back,” I slur. I’m not even sure if he hears me, but he nods, and I walk to the front door. The bouncer lets me out and I instantly go from hot to cold. My fingers shake as they dial Emerson’s number. This is not a good idea, I think. You’re drunk. Also, it’s almost midnight. He’s probably not even awake. The first ring sends me into a tailspin. I can feel myself start to cry, and he hasn’t even picked up. I walk

away from the crowds, down the street. It rings a second time, and then right after the third ring, he picks up. “Finley?” He sounds surprised. I guess that’s a good thing. “I don’t want your money,” I murmur. My tongue is beginning to go numb. “Take it out of my account right now.” He sighs loudly. “It’s your money, Finley.” “Fuck your money,” I slur. “I don’t need it. I told you before, I don’t need it, or you, so why can’t you understand that?” I stumble and almost fall, but I catch myself on a tree. Where did that tree come from anyway? I glare at it. Emerson is quiet

on the other end. “Are you drunk?” he asks, his voice worried. “None of your business,” I say glumly. “Where are you?” “I’m fine. I’m just calling to ask you to leave me alone. No need to come stalk me again,” I retort, giggling at my drunken wit. “Are you alone?” His voice is frantic. “Finley?” I let out a loud breath. “Yes. I’m fine. I’m going back to the club now. Goodbye, ’merson.” I end the call and steady myself on the damn tree. How did I get so drunk? I

feel like I can’t even walk. I slowly push forward, looking around. I must’ve walked farther than I thought because I don’t recognize the street, but I know I must be close since I can hear the gaggle of voices waiting outside. It’s dark, and I’m worried about tripping and breaking my neck in these damn stilettos, so I take two uneasy steps forward. Just then, I feel cold metal at my temple and the presence of someone behind me. Goosebumps erupt on my skin. I stiffen, turning slowly. A young guy has a gun to my head—to my head! I gasp. “Wait,” I mutter, my eyesight fuzzy. “Are you mugging me?” I squint.

The guy is young, wearing all black, and he looks absolutely terrified. “Give me your purse,” he whispers frantically. I laugh. I realize it’s a stupid response, but the alcohol is making me unjustifiably brave. “Yeah, okay.” I begin to walk away. He cocks the gun. I begin to sweat. I don’t want to die because I’m being argumentative. I know that. “I’ll fucking shoot you.” His voice is like ice. Just as I’m about to hand him my purse, he lunges forward and tackles me. I hit the ground full-force, and he kicks me once, hard, in the ribs before snatching my purse and running away. Everything hurts. I hit the ground hard,

and though I might be numb, I know I’ll feel it tomorrow. The last things I see before passing out are his sneakers, running, running, running . . . And warm arms picking me up.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Emerson

I don’t sleep at all. Instead, I make myself a pot of coffee and watch Finley sleep. I still feel sick from the way I found her on the ground—still, drunk, beaten. I carried her back to my apartment and sent Hannah a message on Facebook, letting her know that Finley was with me. I’m not sure which friend she was with, but I’m hoping Hannah will pass the message along. I left the part about the mugging out. I didn’t want to worry anyone unnecessarily.

Finley’s breathing is even, and she looks so peaceful when she sleeps. Her makeup is smeared, and her dress is much too revealing, but she still looks beautiful. I tuck her into my bed fully, ensuring she’s warm enough. She was like ice when I found her. I finish my book—my book that I wrote. After Finley left, I felt helpless and broken. I fueled that energy into writing, and for the last two months, I’ve been writing like a madman. Tonight I wrote the final two words. The End. They’re my words; for the first time since Underground Love, I wrote my own book all by myself. Finley may have

been gone, but her presence in my house, in my heart, fueled some faith into my blood. Into my mind. It was all her. And this book is definitely all her. I lean back and study the document before me. I’m proud of myself for the first time in a long time. The loathing I felt those first few weeks alone were difficult, but right here, right now, I am proud of myself. A little past six, Finley stirs. I’m staring at the wall behind her with a cup of fresh coffee in my hand. She looks around, not noticing me at first. When she does, I can see the hurt behind her eyes. I betrayed her.

I know that. I know I messed up. I might not ever get her back—the best thing that ever happened to me. I’ve had a lot of time to reflect over the last two months. I didn’t reach out to her, because it wasn’t my place. I figured she would call if she wanted to talk to me. I tore up all her checks. She was paying back the $1000 slowly with a $75 check here, a $65 check there . . . I couldn’t do it. I wanted her to keep that money. She needed it. And I never told her that the $24,000 she sent me went into a separate account. For her. Yesterday, I decided to send it back. I guess it was too soon. “Finley,” I say, watching as she stirs.

“My ribs,” she winces, clutching her side. I nod. “You got mugged. Thank God you’re okay. They’re just bruised. I had you checked.” It’s true. My neighbor is a doctor, and I woke him up last night to check her out. She was asleep, but I wanted to make sure she was okay. Everything was fine. She just needed rest and lots of water. She shakes her head. “I don’t see how this involves you.” She begins to stand slowly. Her words cut me, but I press on without involving my emotions. “Were you watching me?” She stands unsteadily, grabbing her shoes and looking around for her purse. “Oh, right.

I got mugged. No purse. I assume you let Hannah know.” She watches me with dark, pained eyes. It’s only now I can see how much I hurt her. She looks thinner somehow. More fragile. The bags under her eyes aren’t hidden by makeup. And the way she’s looking at me right now—with uninhibited disdain—tells me everything. She doesn’t trust me anymore. “Hannah knows. I told her to tell the friends you were with that you’re safe. That you just drank too much.” I run my hand through my hair and then place my hands in my pockets. I have the relentless urge to reach out and comfort

her, but something tells me she would not appreciate physical contact right now. “You didn’t answer my question,” she says through bared teeth. “How did you find me?” I shuffle my feet and look down. “You’ve got to stop fucking checking yourself into Facebook.” She laughs and throws her hands up in the air. “I’ve never had any issues. I think you’re my only real stalker, Emerson.” She grabs her jacket, ready to leave in a huff. Just then, Ralph and Waldo come waltzing into the room, no doubt roused awake by her voice. Finley’s

face turns angry at first, and she glares at me with wide eyes. Then her face crumples, and she drops to her knees. Both kittens jump into her lap. She’s laughing and crying at the same time, and she closes her eyes as they love on her and nuzzle her arm, chin, and nose. Ralph purrs loudly. He always did love her more than me. “They miss you,” I say carefully. “Ralph meows at the door every day. I think he can still smell you.” I look down sheepishly. “I still have your clothes, so he recognizes your scent.” She stands up and glowers at me. “Take care of them,” she sniffs. That’s all she says. She gathers her

things again. In those four words, I know everything. Finley is not going to forgive me today. Maybe ever. “Finley.” My voice breaks. She backs away from me. I can see the broken mess I’ve created in her slumped shoulders and desolate eyes that fill with tears. “Please,” I beg, reaching out for her hand. “I miss you. I miss your laugh. I miss your smile. I miss the way you disgustingly eat out of the yogurt container and drink milk straight from the carton. I miss the way your hair smells like coconut. I miss your lips.” I’m watching her as I say these things. I know it’s not fair to do this, but I’m desperate.

“Don’t,” she whispers, her voice feeble and cracked. I continue. “I miss the beach. I miss that house. I haven’t been back since you left. It’s not the same. I miss making your coffee creamer every morning. I miss making love to you. I miss the way you taste—everywhere.” I growl the last part, and I can see her eyes dilate in pleasure. Maybe this will work. “I miss making love to you all over the house. I miss waking up naked with you. I miss the thing you do with your tongue,” I add boldly. She giggles, and for one single second, I think victory. But then her smile disappears. It’s almost as if her

heart wants to forgive me, but her brain is telling her not to. “No,” she whispers, reaching out for my door handle. “Don’t,” I say loudly. My voice is a low rumble. “I can’t watch you walk away twice.” The tears start to stream down her face. “I miss you, Emerson. Every second of every day. But you betrayed me. It’s as simple as that. How am I supposed to trust you? You kept this massive secret from me for five months. You loved her, and now you say you love me? How do you think it feels for me to compete against my dead sister? There is no contest there. It’s the most

degrading feeling ever.” She turns the handle and opens the door. “She’s gone, and I will always be your second choice.” And with that, she leaves my apartment. I stare at the closed door for what feels like hours. I refuse to believe we’re over. I refuse to let her go. I’ve had a lot of time to think since she left. Not only have I been writing her, I now know that although Chloe’s love was real, it was never and will never be as completing as Finley’s love. In Finley, I see my true soul mate. She completes me in ways Chloe never could. The longer Finley and I spent together, the more I became convinced

she was the woman meant for me. And had Chloe still been alive, I wouldn’t feel any differently. Chloe and I were the big dipper. Finley and I are the entire solar system. I sit down and draft an email to my agent and my publisher. The subject? April 11th release date? If anything is going to win her back, it’s this book. It may take three more months of waiting, but Finley is worth it. Anything worth winning is won slowly, deliberately. There are skills involved. It’s like baseball. One game doesn’t win the series. But a methodical game plan just might get them into a position to

win. This is my deliberate attempt to win back her love.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX Finley

Three Months Later New York City and my heart have one major thing in common: we’re both starting to thaw out from the frost. For the first time in a long time, I feel inspired to write. I cut down my hours at Diptyque and hole up for most of February and March. By April, I have a real, live manuscript. Ninety thousand words of angst, unrequited love, and torture.

One delightfully sunny afternoon, I’m walking home from work when I pass St. Mark’s. I haven’t been inside for a while, but that’s not what catches my eye. Instead, I’m captivated by the new release sitting in the front window. My eyes pop out of my head a bit when I see his name on one of the books in the window. I can feel myself rush inside, but nothing registers until I’m standing before the New Releases table and picking up a hardcover copy of Between the Pages, by Emerson fucking Whittaker. The breath catches in my throat as my eyes adjust to the darkness of the bookshop. The cover is stunning

and unlike all of his other books. It’s a smattering of red, black, and white. A large, paint-smeared red and orange heart filled with hand-written notes takes up most of the front cover, along with the bold font. I flip it over and my eyes skim the synopsis. Love of my life . . . Writing . . . Sorrow . . . I close my eyes and hug the book to my chest. Looking around, I furtively walk to the register to pay for the damn book. It costs $24.99. That’s almost my weekly grocery bill. I reach down to pet Teddy quickly as Emily finishes up my sale. It isn’t often that I actually buy books in here, given my lack of cash and all, but Emily has

never complained. Perhaps she likes that I adore Teddy. “I love his books,” she says. I stare at her for a beat before responding. “Uh, yeah. Me too.” Teddy meows at my feet, and a stabbing pain fills my chest when I think of Ralph and Waldo. Honestly, the thing that hurts the most about this whole ordeal is that I can’t see them. They weren’t just my cats; they were our cats. “This was a special release. None of the shops knew about it. Usually we get press releases from the publisher months in advance. Nuh-uh, not with this one. It’s so different than his last three books. It reminds me of Underground Love.”

She smiles. “Would you like a bag?” she adds, her voice perky. She has a funny smile on her face today. Odd. My mouth is hanging open. “No, thanks.” I try to smile back, but I have a feeling it’s more like a grimace. I take the book and walk out in a daze. The sun beats down on me, and I slowly walk home. A special release? What does that mean? Also, how does this book even exist if I never finished writing it for him? The questions swirl around in my head until I’m opening my front door and stumbling in. Hannah, back from San Francisco, is watching TV on the couch. She turns to look at me and instantly turns the sound

off. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re about to hurl.” I don’t look at her as I go sit down on the other couch. “I feel like I’m going to hurl,” I say quietly. I hold the book up, and Hannah’s eyes go wide as she takes in the cover. “Oh, Jesus,” she moans. She gestures for me to hand it over, so I do. She takes it and slowly flips through it. “I can’t read it,” I state, but it comes out more like a question. She’s quiet as she skims the interior. “My God,” she breathes. My curiosity is piqued. “What? What is it?”

Her head snaps up, and her eyes are watery. “It’s about you.” The room begins to spin. Confusion fills my mind. Me? She opens the flap and begins to read the author bio. “Emerson Whittaker lives in New York City and South Hampton. He lives with his girlfriend who was the inspiration for this book and their two cats.” She closes the book. “Whoa.” I snort. “Well, that’s presumptuous.” I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat and blink back the tears threatening to pour down my face. I don’t want Hannah to know how much his words are already staring to affect me. Hannah knows better, because she

raises her eyebrows and watches me with a disbelieving expression. I shake my head and reach for the book. I quickly open it, reading the dedication. For F—You’re in my bones and my blood and my heart. I’d have to tear myself open to ever let you go. So I’ll continue trying to win you back with books. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll move on to movies. I will never stop loving you. I stare at Hannah before eyeing the first few sentences of chapter one. It’s not my writing.

“He wrote it,” I confirm, closing the book. “Well, no shit,” she sighs. She watches me carefully before continuing. “The guy wrote a fucking book for you, Finn. I think you should call him.” I take in her words as I fidget with the zipper on my jacket. “It still hurts,” I whisper. When I look up at her, a tear trickles down my face. I think back to the morning after I was mugged. “I miss you. I miss your laugh. I miss your smile. I miss the way your hair smells like coconut. I miss your lips. I miss that house. I haven’t been back since you left. It’s not the same. I miss making your coffee creamer every

morning. I miss making love to you. I miss the way you taste—everywhere.” And the look on his face when I asked him to stop. As I walked away. Again. “I can’t watch you walk away twice.” It just fucking hurts so much. “I know.” She gets up and comes over to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “But only he can erase the hurt. He’s still in love with you.” I nod and sniff. “I don’t doubt that he loves me. I just don’t know if I can trust him again.” She sighs and runs her hand through her hair. “I didn’t want to say anything before, but I think you should know how I really feel about all of this.” She looks

at me square in the eye. “You’re being an idiot.” A laugh bubbles out of my throat. “What?” I croak. She laughs and shakes her head. “I’d never seen you so happy. He was unlike any other guy you’d ever dated. You could talk to him about things you couldn’t even talk to me about, and you knew as well as I that he would never judge you. He got you to go in the fucking ocean,” she exclaims. I cry and laugh at the same time. “He’s your soul mate, Finley. And I don’t think you should let him go so easily.” Her eyes are insistent and kind, all at the same time.

“When did you get so wise?” I ask, swatting her arm and then pulling her into a tight hug. “I dunno. I guess it just takes meeting the right person to realize why it never worked out with all of the others.” She gives me a coy smile. I stare at her. “Is this about Theo?” Hannah and Theo met in San Francisco. They went on a few dates, but Hannah has been pretty mum on the subject. Needless to say, they’re constantly texting, and she definitely has a new spring in her step. “Maybe.” She smiles. “I’ll tell you everything another time. Back to what I was saying . . . please don’t let him go.

He’s obviously sorry. This is the best kind of love letter. You get an entire book of love.” She nods to the book in my lap. I wipe the tears off my cheeks. “I know. But I can’t help but wonder—” “Wonder what?” Hannah asks incredulously. “He loves you. It’s simple. He’s waiting for you to make the next move.” I open my mouth to retort but I come up short. “Read the book. Take in his wordy message. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She pushes up off the couch. “Where are you going?” I whine. “I’m meeting someone.” She winks and retreats to her bedroom. Who is she meeting?

“Is it Theo?” I yell, smiling. Silence greets me from the hallway. And then a timid response. “Maybe.” Well, at least one of us seems to be on the right path to a successful relationship. I grab a glass of wine and head into my bedroom, Emerson’s book in hand. I get through the first two paragraphs before I come back out into the kitchen for the whole bottle.

Between the Pages By Emerson Whittaker Chapter One It started with a story. Four bluebook pages had me hooked from the get go. I won’t go into specifics, because that’s not what this book is about, but let’s just say I knew her before I ever really knew her. I can’t say for sure when it happened. I can’t explain how every time I put my arms around her, I felt like I was home. Or how I struggle to breathe when she’s not around. That’s

a true fact, by the way. I breathe easier when she’s around. I guess we should go back to day one. It started on a sunny, December day back in 2008. I think a part of me knew—a deep, hidden part inside me felt pulled to her. And when she walked away, I didn’t want her to leave. Although a horrible thing happened later that day, I’ve never been able to forget the way my body reacted to her when I spotted her from afar. My life changed forever that day, and I didn’t know at the time that my destiny lay with her. Because, dear readers, she is the very reason you

are reading these words.

I don’t make it past the first chapter before I’m gathering my purse and rushing out of the door. I text Hannah quickly so she doesn’t worry. Me: Gone. Making the next move. Hannah: Yay! Go, go, go! Wear a condom. ;) I laugh as I round the corner to his apartment. I can’t believe he’s lived here all along. Hannah and I have passed this building hundreds of times. In fact, Hannah used to sit on his stoop and drink beer in college—the tree out front hid us from the street and potential police

intervention well. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t pass it more often since learning where he lives. I make every excuse to go west on 3rd whenever the chance arises. I buzz apartment 512. Whittaker. No one answers. I buzz again. Silence. I sigh and look around. And then I pull my phone out because the answer is fairly obvious. I walk to the coffee shop on the corner and connect to Wi-Fi. I open the Facebook app and of course, there it is: a friend request from Emerson. I smile as I click over to his profile. Emerson Whittaker checked into

Ace Bar at 12:47 p.m. Someone named Fran commented. I wonder if it’s the Fran who raised him— his foster mother? Since when do you check yourself into places? His response? So if anyone wanted to find me, they could. Except stalkers. I will only tolerate lightweight stalking. I smile as I jog the two blocks north to Ace Bar. It’s 5:14 p.m., so if he’s still here, he’s been here for over four hours. I enter the bar quickly, ducking into the near-dark dive. My eyes scan the patrons. It’s unusually busy for a Thursday afternoon. I don’t see Emerson, so I walk up to

the bartender. “Hi,” I say sweetly. “Have you seen a man around here? Brown hair, brown eyes, probably brooding and drinking a gin martini?” The bartender’s eyes light up. “Oh, yeah. He actually just left.” I curse under my breath. “Okay, thank you.” I connect to Wi-Fi and check his Facebook again. Emerson Whittaker checked into Remedy Diner at 5:22 p.m. Fran comments again. Wow, two in one day?

He comments back: ;) I hightail it to Remedy. When I get there, Randy quickly walks up to me. He’s since moved out but lives nearby, and we’re still really close. “You just missed him,” he says glumly. “He wasn’t here for long.” I groan. “He’s making me chase him all over East Village.” I look outside. “It’s getting dark, and I’m cold.” Randy purses his lips. “Girl, the man wrote a book for you. You can borrow my coat. Or really, it’s your coat. I stole it from you when we lived together.” Of course he knows Emerson wrote a book for me. He skips into the back room and comes out with the wool jacket I’ve had

for years. “Hey,” I say accusingly. I tug it on one arm at a time. It’s huge on me. “I love this coat. I did not give you permission to steal it.” He smirks. “It fits me perfectly. And it’s Burberry.” I roll my eyes and whip my phone out. “It’s my dad’s. I think.” “Mmm. Papa Matthews has good style.” I laugh but don’t look up. I check Facebook. Emerson Whittaker checked into Washington Square Park at 5:47 p.m.

I laugh when I see Fran’s comment. Are you planning on getting mugged? It’s almost dark! His reply pops up right underneath hers in live time. She’s worth it. My heart stops, and I can’t wipe the smile off. “You’re so smitten,” Randy squeals. “I’ll call a cab for you.” He produces a twenty and ushers me outside, where he proceeds to whistle the loudest whistle I’ve ever heard. “I’m not taking your money,” I say, shoving his hand away. “You think this is my money?” He laughs like a hyena. “He wanted to make sure you didn’t miss him.”

I’m stunned. A yellow cab pulls up. He knows I don’t have Wi-Fi, so I can’t request an Uber. How is it possible that one person can be so thoughtful? Only Emerson would think of something like that. “Go get him,” Randy whispers into my ear as he helps me in. I give the cabbie the location and cut across Manhattan in record time. I could’ve walked the eleven or so blocks, but I can’t chance missing him again. The cab lets me out across the street from the park near the red, main NYU building. I hand him the twenty and slam the door, running across the street and

almost dying in the process—two cars narrowly miss hitting me. I glance at the bench Chloe and I used to meet at—the one at the edge of the square. I suck in a breath when I see him sitting with one leg crossed over the other. His socks are highlighter green, and the Vans he’s wearing are old and dingy. As I get closer, I take in more of his appearance all thanks to the lamp overhead. He’s grown his beard out since the last time I saw him in January, and his hair is a disheveled mess. I love that he made so much effort to get my attention, but he couldn’t run a comb through his hair. I love him just the way he is, though

—rumpled hair and all. I walk up slowly, and he doesn’t notice me at first. And then he does. The effect I have on him is evident in the way his eyes go wide and the way he inhales a sharp breath. He squints and doesn’t remove his gaze from me; he scans me up and down slowly, drinking me in. My pulse quickens. Neither of us says anything. We just watch each other. The moment is overwhelming. “You’re wearing my jacket,” he says matter-of-factly. I look down. “No. This is my dad’s,” I say, uncertain. I slide the jacket off. “Burberry. See?” He smirks. “I bought the coat in

London in 2007.” He reaches out for it. “It looks better on you.” I shake my head and stare at him. “How could this possibly be your coat?” He steps forward and eases it back onto my shoulders. “I was at Chloe’s funeral. You were there after everyone else left. You looked cold, so I put my jacket over your shoulders. You must’ve thought your dad did it, because you didn’t turn around.” My stupid heart lurches against my chest. Emerson extends his hand and places his thumb on my cheek. “I missed you,” he whispers. I close my eyes. The words and the contact are too much after so much time apart.

“Why did you want to meet here?” I ask, looking around. “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s where I first saw you? Because of Chloe?” He shrugs. The last part stings. “Because of Chloe?” I elaborate. He nods slowly. “Yeah. Even though it’s painful to think about, I’m forever grateful to Chloe. She’s the reason we’re here now. It all happened for a reason. Don’t you think?” His words are soft and tender. My eyes water. “I do. She’s watching out for me.” I choke back the last word as it disappears into a sob. Emerson steps closer and grabs me,

pulling me into him gently. I inhale his cologne and close my eyes as the firm warmth underneath his jacket envelops me. “I know we both wish she was still here, for different reasons. I’m not going to lie to you and say that her love didn’t matter, because it did. It shaped me into the person I am today. And I’d like to believe she helped shape you too. She brought us together. I think I began falling in love with you while I read your story in her words. I don’t think I watched after you simply because she asked me to. Please don’t let her be the reason we get pulled apart. Perhaps she was my beacon that led me to you.”

I look up at him. There are so many words to process in what he’s just said, but at this point, my heart has already decided I love him too much to consider their merit or their flaws. He stayed. He pursued me. He pursued me for me. He. Turned. Up. He wrote his story and deliberately chose me to be a part of it, as if he truly did need me. But not just for writing. For me. His copper eyes are watery and intense, and he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek nervously. It accentuates his stubble. “You wrote a book,” I say proudly, gripping the back of his flannel. “I was inspired.” He gives me his

famous lopsided smile. I feel a blush creep up my neck. “I only read the first chapter,” I admit sheepishly. “The first chapter is the best part,” he says, smiling. His eyes are vivacious and blazing. “You’ll probably want to read the last chapter though,” he says quietly. I laugh. “What’s the last chapter?” He shakes his head. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

EPILOGUE, PART ONE Chloe

July 14, 2002 “Come on, Finley. It was probably just a jellyfish.” I put my hands on my hips and squint, watching as she trudges through the sand toward the back of the house. She’s already sunburned. We’ve only been out for two hours. I sigh and gather the boogie boards. “I’m never going in the water again,” she shrieks. I have to hide the smile that creeps up on my face. She’s so dramatic.

All the time. “I’m sure you will. Next summer we can try again.” I walk up to her and put my arm around her skinny shoulders. “There won’t be a next time.” She glares at the water and then turns to me. “I’m serious, Chloe. It was a great white shark.” I laugh and throw my hands up in the air. Children. After we both change for lunch, Hannah joins us in the living room as we all read quietly. I have no idea what Hannah was up to all morning, but if the play in her hand is any indication, I’d bet she was running lines with Beatrice,

Hannah’s mom and our nanny. Though, at seventeen, it’s a bit offensive that my parents still think I need a nanny. “Chloe?” Hannah asks from her position on the carpet. She’s on her stomach and swinging her legs back and forth. “What colleges are you applying to?” I sit up. My legs are numb from the way I was traipsed on the couch, legs crossed. “Just NYU. I’ll probably end up living at home to save money.” Finley looks at me and gives me a small smile. Her braces are coming off next week, and a small part of me feels sad that I only have one year left in high school to protect her.

“That’s cool,” Hannah says, looking at Finley. “Finley and I want to go to NYU too.” I laugh. “Really? That’s great. What do you want to major in?” Hannah sits up and grins. “Theatre, of course,” she says dramatically. “I want to be an actress.” I nod. “What about you, Finn?” She watches me skeptically and shrugs. “I like writing.” I swallow. “Me too. Maybe we can both be writers.” Her face lights up. “I’d like that.” I smile and stand up, stretching for a second before walking toward the back door. “I’m going outside to lay out. Be

good.” I scan the bottom portion of the house for Beatrice, but she’s probably out grocery shopping. I slide the back door open and sit down in one of the deck chairs on our small patio. A few minutes later, Finley joins me. “Where’s Hannah?” I ask, my eyes not leaving the page I’m on. “No idea. She went upstairs.” I wait for her to say something else, but she just crosses her arms and watches me. I look up. “What’s wrong?” She shrugs. “I was just thinking about earlier. In the ocean. If something happened to me, would you be sad?” I close my book gently and take her

hands. She’s getting so big—at thirteen, I barely recognize her anymore. “I wouldn’t be able to live without you,” I whisper. She looks down and shuffles her feet. “I just keep thinking about how sad you would be if I died.” I giggle. Even for almost fourteen, she still has a childlike essence about her. I hope she never loses it. “I would be very sad,” I say, biting my lip. “Would you be sad if I died?” She nods. “I wouldn’t be able to live without you,” she says, repeating my words. My chest begins to ache. She is too young to see the pain and conflict in my

heart. She will never know the many ways I have envisioned killing myself, or that she is the only reason I decide to stay. My parents aggressively disagree with every dream I have, dispelling the myth that parents are there to be supportive and to give a shit. She can’t fathom the darkness that pulls at my soul, tempting me to yield to its depraved and wicked murmurings, telling me everyone would be better off if I was dead. She can’t ever know that because in Finley is life. Light. Vitality. Joy. So, I hide my darkness, and wrest control of that ache inside me. “Yes, you would.” I stand and pull her into a hug. She’s almost as tall as

me. “You would live without me. You’d have a great life.” She pulls away and scrutinizes me. “I wouldn’t.” I look at her stoically. “I’m not going anywhere, Finley.” She looks unconvinced, so I continue. I hate that we’re having this conversation, but someone has to talk to her about death. Lord knows our parents won’t. “But, for argument’s sake, let’s say I did die sooner than later. You would be sad for a while, but you would get through it. You’d go to college and become a writer. You’d publish beautiful books that everyone would want to read. You’d marry a nice man, and have a couple of

pretty babies. You’d miss me, but you would live.” The man she marries will be the luckiest man in the world. She nods once. “Yeah.” Her blue eyes find mine and she smiles. “I love you.” The heavy feeling in my chest intensifies. “I love you too, Finley.” “I’m still never going in the ocean ever again,” she says as she walks away. “I mean it.” I chuckle, opening my book to where I left off. “We’ll see about that.”

EPILOGUE, PART TWO Emerson

Eighteen Months Later I wring my hands together as the shower turns off in our hotel room. I hear Finley curse as she bangs some body part against the shower wall. I smile. There’s a minute or two of silence as she dries off and brushes her hair. The lack of noise is maddening. I pace around the carpeted floor. I don’t hear or see Finley until she speaks. “What are you doing?” She smiles

and drops her towel seductively. “Do we have time for—” “No,” I shout, a little too loudly. It startles her. “I just mean, if we’re going to make it in time, we should leave now.” She glares at me before she reaches down and grabs her towel, returning to the bathroom. Not before saying, “’K,” a little too snippily. I cover my mouth to silence my laugh. So dramatic. Ten minutes later her hair is dried, and she’s wearing light makeup. “Let me just change.” I nod and continue to pace. “Are you okay? My head shoots up. “Yeah. Why?”

She drops her towel again and I stare at her wonderful naked body. I love it when she’s naked. She looks incredible, always. “You’re acting weird.” She pulls on a light-pink thong. I bite my fist. “Later,” I growl, eyeing her breasts. She giggles. “Whatever you say.” She reaches down to her suitcase and pulls on a matching pink bra and a dark blue tank top. She finishes the look off with tight jeans. “Okay. Ready.” She smiles as she slips into Birkenstocks. God, I love how low-maintenance she is. And the best part? She has no idea how effortlessly gorgeous she is. I hand

her purse to her, and we leave. Once we get down to the cobblestone street, I take her hand instinctively. “It’s gorgeous here,” she coos, looking around. “London is by far my favorite city. Ever.” I laugh. “It’s pretty great.” She nudges me. “Hey, you know what? You never told me about the woman you dated when you lived here. The royal family member?” I walk slower. We’re going to be early, and they’re still setting up the lights, according to my watch. “Uh, yeah. She was a distant cousin or something.” I brush it off, and she makes a noise of assent, changing the subject to the Tower

of London. Little does she know, I’ve pulled some strings with this infamous royal family member. Finley has no idea what’s in store for her. I put my hand out and whistle for a black cab. “Why are you calling a taxi?” she asks, watching me with narrowed eyes. “I thought the pub was right down the street.” I shrug. “I lied.” A black cab pulls up and I gesture for her to get in. She hesitates. “Trust me,” I say, sighing. It’s a long drive—almost an hour— and Finley is quiet the whole time. I’m grateful it’s warm, because neither of us have a jacket.

“This is seriously suspicious,” she says, eyeing me. “Where are we going?” I laugh. “You’ll see.” She leans back into her seat and harrumphs. Patience has never been one of her strong suits. As we get closer, my palms begin to sweat. Finley doesn’t say anything else, which means she’s either pissed or she suspects something. I’m guessing it’s the former because of the small scowl on her face. I reach out and rub her leg. The contact shocks her, and her face softens as she looks at me. “I’m sorry. I’m just hungry,” she mumbles. “There will be food.” Five minutes later, the black cab is

pulling up to the old palace. It’s dark now, but the lavish building is well lit with back lighting. It’s stunning. “What is this place?” she asks, getting out as I pay the driver. Her eyes are wide, and she’s watching me raptly. “Hampton Court Palace. It was my favorite spot when I lived here.” “It looks—” “Closed?” I finish. She nods. “It is. But remember that royal family member? The one I dated? She did me a favor. She owed me anyway. I saved her from an international drug scandal.” Finley’s mouth drops open. “Will I ever stop learning crazy things about you?”

I chuckle. “I hope not.” I take her hand and guide her down the long driveway toward Hampton Court. The palace is opulent and ornate—a Tudor palace through and through. I check my phone. We’re still early, but I can take her to the gardens first. Actually, this works out perfectly. I won’t be able to get through our meal with the way my nerves are short-circuiting. I don’t let her stop to look at anything until we’re through the main courtyard. I pull her quickly to the back of the palace where the large garden beckons. Large, triangle trees, trimmed hedges, and ornamental grass circles greet us, but I lead her toward the rose

garden first. She looks around confused. “It’s dark,” she says, eyeing me. Just then, with perfect timing, thousands of small lights pop on. She gasps. It illuminates the roses perfectly. “Oh my God,” she says slowly. “This is gorgeous.” I smile and lead her to the bench on the far side of the garden. I’m beginning to shake. I need to get my nerves in check. When we get to the small wooden bench, she stops. “Is that—” She looks at me for reassurance. “Yep. Go ahead.” Finley takes a few steps forward and reaches down to pick up a copy of

Between the Pages. Her blonde hair falls across her face as she opens it and then looks up at me, confused. “Are we having an English lesson?” she asks, smiling slyly. I nod to the book. “Notice anything different?” She leafs through the pages slowly. Her eyes travel across my words quickly. You see, the thing is, I never had the final chapter published. I wanted to wait until the time was right. So two years ago, when she first read the book, I told her to read the last chapter. It was fairly standard, and I’d taken many liberties. In that chapter she’d moved in with me, and we were both successful

writers. Oh man, did she love that. Anyway, that actually wasn’t the last chapter. There was an epilogue, but I didn’t publish it in that version. It had to wait. Until today. When she gets to the last chapter, she almost closes the book. “Emerson, what are you doing?” she asks, watching me uncertainly. I take a deep breath. “There’s an epilogue, Finley.” She doesn’t even look. She’s that stubborn. “No. It ends on chapter thirtyfive.” I take a step forward. “Can you

check? Please?” I hope the intensity in my eyes is enough to convey my insistence. It is. Slowly, she turns the page. Within seconds, her eyes fill with tears. “What is this?” I give myself a mental high five. “Finley Matthews,” I start, reaching into my pocket for the ring box. When she sees it, she drops the book and physically crumbles. I have to get through this. I bend down onto one knee. She covers her mouth with her hand. “Yes,” she says quickly, her cheeks wet.

I laugh in between sobs. “Wait. Let me finish,” I say, my voice hoarse. She nods vigorously. “In you, I’ve found the love of my life and my closest friend. If I did anything right in my life, it was when I gave you my heart.” She crouches down to her knees, stunned. I reach out for her hands. I continue. “I will never have enough of you. Never,” I say. She just watches me and cries. Now I’m really crying. Fuck. “Ours was the story I never knew how to write, until you convinced me that I could. This story is the one I’ve always wanted to tell.”

She leans into me, and I pull her into a tight hug. “Emerson,” she whispers. “So,” I say, pulling away and looking at her, “will you marry me?” “Yes.” She nods exuberantly as her lips meet mine. I place my hands on either side of her face, even before I place the ring on her delicate finger. I kiss her with abandon, without even actively deciding to do it, but simply because I can’t think of anything else to do in this moment. Because she just makes sense, and she always has. The happiness I feel in this moment is insurmountable. Someone I once loved gave me

everything by giving me a mission. Take care of her. It took me years to figure out how to do that best. Now she’s mine. My everything. And she’s mine forever.

THE END

If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a spoiler-free review! Even just a sentence of two helps. It means the world to indie authors like me. :) Thank you!

Acknowledgements To my readers… *sigh*… you are the best. This book was hard to write. I’d written half of two other books (yes, that’s right) after The Realm of You. I wanted the next one to be perfect. I agonized everyday. Were these stories good enough for you guys? I didn’t know. But your kind words kept me motivated when I wanted to quit. I’d just gotten married and I experienced the world’s worst writer’s block. When I posted something on my Facebook about that, you all came together and

encouraged me. I received messages and emails. You poured your optimism into me. Your words lifted me. And immediately after, this book was born. So thank you. Marion, you were the breath of fresh air that this book needed. Thank you, a thousand times over, for your insightful editing and your invaluable suggestions. You saw the book that I wanted this to be, and you helped me get there. This book is so much better because of you. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Karen, thank you for the proofreading. Your eagle eyes caught things I would’ve

missed, and your suggestions were spot on. Thank you for helping me perfect the words I love so much! Becky and Stephanie, thank you for reading this book way back in its first form. I will be forever grateful for your suggestions, tips, and advice. You feedback was excellent. To my parents… your endless support is everything I need to keep moving forward. And to my in-laws, THANK YOU for being the best in-laws ever. And my new sisters! I love you all so much.

And lastly, to my husband, who always reads the shitty first draft without complaint. Who not only gets excited to read the early versions of my books, but who does so with valuable feedback and tell-it-like-it-is advice. Peter, I love you so much. This is the first book I’ve published since we were married, and I can honestly say, marrying you was the best thing I ever did. “You’re in my bones and my blood and my heart. I’d have to tear myself open to ever let you go.” Yes, I totally just used a quote from the book. ;)

About the Author Amanda Richardson is an awardwinning travel writer turned indie author living in Los Angeles with her husband and two cats. When she’s not writing or reading (which, let’s be honest, accounts for 95% of her free time), she can be found Googling cheap flights to places she’s never been, talking to her cats, or obsessing over the British Royal Family. Fun fact: her first novel is about the Tudors. One day maybe, after a lot of wine, she might find the courage within her to publish it!

You can visit her website here: http://www.amandarichardsonauthor.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/amandawritesb For news and updates, please sign up for my newsletter here!

*If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a spoiler-free review!

Also By Amanda Richardson And Then You: A Novel The Realm of You The Year We Met (coming 2016)