Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
“I’m not an editor yet,” I say.
He smirks. “Don’t play coy with me. I saw you light up just now. You can’t fake passion like that.”
“Passion doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll be any good.”
I take a bite of panini. Jamie looks at me, his eyes playful, then takes an even bigger bite of his. He chews with exaggerated slowness, his eyes on me all the while.
“That’s one hell of a defense mechanism,” he says after swallowing. “Chew, chew, chew.”
“I’m that transparent, am I?”
He chuckles. “No comment.”
“But it’s true,” I go on. “Passion doesn’t equal skill.”
“Maybe I should hire you to edit my book, then. We can put your skills to the test.”
A moment later, he frowns, looking down at his food. I know what’s running through his head. He’s thinking about the fact he can’t hire me because he doesn’t have the cash. I wish he’d stop putting himself down, even mentally to himself.
“We could work out a deal,” I reply. “A percentage of your sales. When you’re a worldwide bestseller, I can leech off you.”
“Do people do that?” he asks.
“Not usually, but I think we can agree that these are very, very, very unusual circumstances.”
He laughs gruffly. “You can say that again. Okay, let’s do it. A fifty-fifty split.”
I roll my eyes. “Fifty-fifty is a little much for editing, and you don’t even know if I’m any good.”
Jamie offers me his hand, seeming completely serious. He has an intense look in his eyes, not quite as intense as when he stared with glazed-over eyes last night, but pretty close. It’s as if he’s working himself up to a murder or a scam. I need to get these thoughts out of my head. Or maybe, someday, I’ll wish I had listened to them all along.
“I trust you.”
I take his hand and shake it, not sure if this is for real.
“What if they become bestsellers? You’ll sacrifice half your income.”
“If that happens, you’ll have earned your fee.”
“I better get started soon, then.”
He grins. “Does that mean more face stuffing?”
It’s surreal but heartwarming as we stuff panini into our mouths, maintaining eye contact almost the whole time. It’s as if we’re both teenagers, acting like fools, silliness prevailing. We’re having a great time without worrying about the rest of the world, the rest of our lives, and the things he did I should hate him for. It all fades away as we eat together.
“Do they really speak like this?” I murmur, leaning over the laptop.
I’m sitting on the couch. Jamie sits on the armchair, resting his forearms on his knees, his arms so tempting I have to focus so I don’t toss the laptop aside and leap across the room. If his writing wasn’t so enthralling, I might.
I’m ten pages in without realizing it, captivated by the opening scene in which a new prisoner attempts to eat his lunch without another inmate stealing it. Now, I move on to a section where two inmates talk in a cell. They’re discussing virginity and their past sexual escapades.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Jamie says. “I heard a lot in there. The walls are thin. Some prisoners talk extremely loudly. It all makes for excellent material.”
The characters are talking about how inexperienced virgins are. It’s not the central part of the story, just some dialogue to give the scene color, but I fixate on it, staring at the words.
“Are these quotes?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “Direct quotes I overheard while in my cell. I don’t necessarily agree with them.”
His blue eyes are looking into me, not at me, exactly.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I say, a challenge in my voice.
“Like what?” he counters with faux innocence.
I half close the laptop. “Like you’ve guessed something. Like you know why I’m lingering on this section.”
He moves from his chair, sitting beside me, placing his hand on my leg. Shivers instantly dance up my thigh.
“If that’s true, you need to know I’d never judge you. In fact, maybe I’d like it.”
I push the laptop onto the couch cushion, turn, and stare at him. His jaw is tight, his temples pulsing, everything looking as though he’s barely holding back a storm of emotion and desire.
“L-like it?” I murmur.
“If you’re hinting at what I think you are, I can share the new experience with you. It means I get to be the one to claim your perfect, young, curvy body. Your release. Your lust. Your everything.”
He leans down, bringing his lips to mine, but he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he stays close, letting me feel his breath shivering over my cheeks.
“Say it,” he urges huskily.
“There isn’t even necessarily something to tell,” I murmur, turning my face away.
I know I’m being coy. I know I’m maybe even being flirtatious, something I’ve always found difficult because I was the loner—the orphan whose dad was killed so brutally.