“Well, in your case, it’s kind of true. You wanted to be a writer when you were a kid, right?”
“Yes, but I also wanted to be a professional chocolate taster, Indiana Jones, and a kangaroo, so …”
She puts her hands on her hips. “So you’re telling me you don’t want to be a writer anymore? That you spent hundreds of hours working on your stories because … what? You needed to practice your handwriting?”
I grab my hand cream off the nightstand and squirt some into my palms. “I’m saying that I have about as much chance of becoming a successful author as I do of turning into an Australian marsupial. Now, you have a hot man waiting for you a few blocks away. Do you really want to waste more time dissecting my career choices?”
She pauses for a moment before leaning down and kissing the top of my head. “Okay, fine. I’m going. But you need to know that if and when you publish your own work, you’ll have at least one customer who will buy everything you write.”
I wave as she leaves, and while I finish rubbing cream into my hands, my gaze goes to my pile of notebooks. There was a time when I spent every spare moment writing. It was a form of therapy, exorcising all of my angst and frustration onto the crisp pages. I also have a few that Eden hasn’t seen. They’re my version of screaming when a train passes, and they helped me through some dark times. These days I’m too busy with my job to even consider indulging again.
I grab the notebooks and stack them back neatly in the top of my closet. It’s easier to ignore my creative urges when I put them out of sight.
I can’t be bothered drying my still-damp hair, so I strip out of my robe, grab my phone, and crawl into bed. In contrast with my hesitance to get naked with other people, I love sleeping in the nude, and I sigh in pleasure as I feel the cool sheets on my skin. When I’m comfortable, I go back to the Professor’s timeline, and lo and behold, there’s a new post.
I sit up in excitement. It’s a sweaty picture of him in a tank and shorts. His muscles are gleaming in the sultry black and white shot. I notice he uses black and white a lot. It makes everything seems shadowy and mysterious, and that only adds to his appeal.
I scroll down to read the caption.
I run to quiet my mind,
and as I force my feet one in front of the other, my dark thoughts trail behind me
like an oil leak.
I run to purge. To punish myself. To push thoughts away.
I run, because whenever I stand still,
the suffocating, life-ruining love I feel for you
catches up with me.
Yet again, a chill runs up my spine. Goddammit, I need to publish this man’s words. I have a burning desire to shape and frame them, and gift them to the world. It has to happen.
Even though I’ve just had a pretty decent orgasm, the Professor makes me feel like I could start in on round two.
I quickly type out a message. I don’t know if he’s even gotten my last note yet, but I want to strike while I know he’s online.
I hit send and then chew on my thumbnail. Come on, guy, reply. Read the message and reply. Now, please.
It’s nearly a minute later when I get his response.
I frown at the screen and tap out.
Okay. Unforeseen glitch.
Still nothing.
Okaaaaay.
I go back to chewing my nail while I wait. This time it’s five minutes before anything happens.
I let out a frustrated exhale. Damn, I knew he’d be used to receiving messages from crackpots, but this is getting ridiculous. How the hell do I convince him I’m me?
I get a flash of inspiration and go to his previous post, so I can take a screenshot of our brief, but seemingly meaningful interaction. Then, I post it in our chat.
Yet again, I press send and wait. Minutes pass.
Come onnnnnn.
When my phone eventually rings, it’s so loud I jump. It takes me a second to register he’s taking me up on my Facetime offer, and one more second to realize I’m still 100% naked.
“Shit!”
I jump out of bed and mutter, “Wait a second! Don’t hang up!” while yanking on my robe. “Almost there! Stay on the line. Don’t you dare hang up!”
The instant I get my robe tied, I sit on the bed, swipe my clammy hair away from my face, and jab the answer button.
“Professor? Is that you? It’s Asha Tate here.”
A tiny rectangle showing me appears in the corner of the screen, and I cringe that I look like I’ve been dragged backwards through a hedge in the rain. I haven’t even brushed my hair since washing it earlier, and it sits around my face in thick, damp curls. Not the first impression I would have chosen for myself.
I scan the screen for the professor, but it remains black.
“Hello?”
When I’m greeted with silence, I check to see if we’re still connected. “Professor?”
“Asha Tate.” His voice is deep, dark, and husky, and if I’m being honest, pretty freaking sexy. My skin prickles in response.
“Yes! Hello.” God, my voice is weird. I’m breathing so hard from my speed-record in gown donning, it sounds like I have asthma.
I swallow and try to regain some semblance of composure. I might be speaking to the man who has been the inspiration for several lengthy masturbation sessions, but that’s not relevant to this conversation. If only my galloping hormones understood that.
“So,” he says, “You’re Vintage Brooklyn Girl.”
“Yep,” I say, too brightly. “That’s me.”
“You live in Brooklyn?”
“Uh huh. Born and raised.”
“You’ve been following me for a while.” Every time he speaks, there’s a weird intimacy to it. I bet he’d be amazing at phone sex.
“Yes,” I say. “Nearly a month.” A month in which I’ve stalked you excessively.
“And? What do you think?”
I try to keep my face passive, even though his voice is affecting me in new and exciting ways.
“I think that you … uh … have a gift for marrying words and pictures … describing emotions. You always leave your audience wanting more.”
That last one is an understatement. If I wasn’t on camera right now, I might be thigh-hugging my Hemsworth-pillow’s face.
“You’re wet,” the professor says quietly, and I almost choke on my own tongue.
br /> “Uh …what? No. No, I’m ––”
“Your hair, Brooklyn. It’s wet.”
“Oh.” God, help me. “Yes. Sorry. Shower. I mean, I showered earlier. Hence, the … uh … wetness.”
“I’m happy for you.” Sarcasm. Also, weirdly attractive.
I laugh nervously, but there’s dead air all around me. I’m screwing this up, but I don’t have any clue how to stop.
“Uh, so anyway, it’s great to talk to you. Uh … just letting you know, I can’t see you.”
“My camera is off. The point of this chat is me seeing you, yes?”
“Right. Of course. And as you can see, I’m not J.”
“No. You’re not.”
“Who is that, by the way?”
There’s a beat. “Someone I’d rather not discuss.”
“Sure, yeah.” I clear my throat and tuck a thick curl behind my ear. “So, about this book proposal ––“
“I’m not an author.” His tone is short. Almost angry.
“Perhaps not, but you have an incredible way with words, and it wouldn’t take much to build up a narrative.”
He lets out a scoffing noise. “And you’d help me do that, would you, Asha Tate?”
There’s an edge to how he says my name. Something familiar that I can’t quite put my finger on.
“I’d like to, yes. Of course, it would be up to my bosses to make that call, but first I have to sell them on the idea. Just say yes, and I’ll take the concept to them first thing Monday. If they pass, you lose nothing. But if they say yes … well, it could open doors that might change your life.”
Another pause, this one longer. “What if I’m happy with my life?”
“Well, I’ve been reading your timeline, and that’s not the impression I’m getting. It’s more like you’re finding it hard to purge memories of a woman you can’t stop thinking about. Maybe this book could help you move forward. Or even help you get her back, if that’s something you’d be interested in.”
I stop breathing as I wait for his reply. My blood is pounding so hard in my ears, I feel like he can hear it.
When the silence stretches out to an uncomfortable degree, I lower my voice and say, “Look, Professor, from what I can tell, you’ve been on quite a journey over the past few years, and I think your words could really help others who are working through similar issues. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain, right?”
“And what would you gain?” he asks, his voice just as quiet as mine. “I doubt you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart.”
The edge of bitterness in his voice isn’t lost on me. Reformed asshole, indeed. This guy clearly still has some issues.
“If my bosses like the idea, well … I may get promoted. And if that happens, then I’d work my ass off to get this book onto as many bestseller lists as possible.”
“I see. So, when you say I could help people, what you mean is, I could help you.”
All of a sudden, I feel like I’m taking advantage of him, and I don’t know why.
“Professor, I’m not going to lie and say this wouldn’t be incredible for my career, because it would. But even if there was no promotion attached, I’d still believe this is a worthwhile project. Your words are just so … visceral. They’re full of passion, and longing, and pain, and how you write …” I shake my head in awe. “It affects people. And that’s what the best art should do. Art shouldn’t make us happy and comfortable. It should challenge us. Dare us to step outside our comfort zone for a while.” As I’m saying this, I realize I’ve never spoken about a project with such passion before, and I mean every word. “This book could be … well, it’s the kind of book that could inspire people to be more than they thought possible. Earlier, you told me to be brave and follow my passion. Well, I’m passionate about you and your words. Please let me share them with the world.”
When I finish, the line is silent, and I’m aware that the tension of this conversation is making my breathing too fast and my face too hot. I want this, and I’m a bit put off by the feeling the professor doesn’t.
I make an effort to slow my breathing, and that’s when I notice I can hear his exhales. They’re uneven; a little frustrated. Like I’m forcing him into a decision he doesn’t want to make. I wish his camera was on. I’d love to be able to see the expression on his face. It might help me read him better. Also, I’m dying to know what he looks like. I wonder if his face is as stunning as his body.
After what feels like an eternity, he says, “Brooklyn, while I appreciate you agreeing to Facetime to prove your identity, I’m sorry to say that ––”
“Wait, Professor, don’t say no.” I grip my phone tighter. “Just, please, don’t. I know this is probably out of your comfort zone, but it could be amazing. Even if you don’t believe in yourself, please know that I believe in you.”
There’s another beat of silence, and then he says, “While I’m giddy with excitement that you believe in me, I wasn’t saying no to the book. I was going to tell you that your robe has fallen open, and I can see your breasts.”
A white-hot blush hits my face as I gasp and look down. Sure enough, my nervous squirming has loosened my robe enough that it’s gaping open, exposing the majority of my breasts and just a touch of nipple.
Shitballs!
My image was so small on the tiny screen, I didn’t notice. Quick as a flash, I grip the edges of the silky fabric together and hold the camera closer to my face.
“Oh, God. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”
“Are you? Or was this some sort of sexual enticement to work with you? A taste of things to come?”
Just when I thought I couldn’t get more embarrassed. “No! God, no!”
“It wouldn’t be the first time a woman has claimed to want to help me, only to pursue a sexual relationship. Is that what’s going on here? You’re trying to seduce me?”
I’m nearly apoplectic with embarrassment. “No! Professor, I assure you, I hold myself to the highest professional standards. I would never do that! I’m mortified this has happened, but please … it was an accident. I sincerely apologize and ––”
“Relax, Brooklyn,” he says, and I’m not sure, but I think I hear a hint of a smile. “I was joking. I believe your wardrobe malfunction was unintentional.”
“Oh.” I laugh weakly. “Good.” I take a deep breath and push through my savage blush. “This project is incredibly important. Not important enough for me to flash you, but still …”
I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, there’s another pause.
“So, if this happens,” he says, “we’d be working together?”
“Yes, that’s the idea. I’d be your editor. I’d help you shape the direction of the book, suggest changes, and liaise with you about the cover and marketing. I’d expect the whole process to take at least nine months. Maybe more.”
“That’s a long time. What if it turns out I’m an insufferable asshole you can’t stand to be around?”
I smile. “I doubt that’s going to happen.”
“It might. After all, you don’t know me. You haven’t even asked if I’m the guy in the pictures. For all you know, I’m a sixty-five-year-old retiree with a beer gut and male-pattern baldness.”
Damn, he’s right. I’ve been so focused on proving who I was, I didn’t even think to ask him to do the same.
“Well, are you the guy in the pictures?” I ask, nervous about his answer.
“Does it matter? You want me for my words, right?”
Here’s a snag I hadn’t thought of. Part of my confidence about the potential popularity of this book, hangs on the extreme physical attributes of the professor. If that’s not his hot musculature in the pictures, then … well, I’d have to find a different way to sell it.
“Listen, professor, I won’t lie and say that your … uh … physical appeal wasn’t a factor in what drew me in, but it’s certainly not the main reason. Still, before we go any further, I should
know exactly what I’m dealing with. If that’s not you in the pictures, that’s fine. Just let me know. It won’t make me back away from this project, I can assure you.”
Yet again, there’s a long pause, and the only sound is his breathing. Then I hear muffled noises, and within a few seconds, the screen comes to life. I see muscular, tattooed arms and wide, hard pecs. I see abdominals for days, and a square, scruff-lined jaw above a strong neck. No face, though. As usual.
“This is me,” he says. “Proof enough for you?”
I swallow and nod. “Ah, yes. That’s … fine.” God, so very fine. I have a real concern I’ll be able to work with him every day without devolving into a horny, blithering mess. Right now, saliva is pooling in my mouth faster than I can swallow it. This is a new and disturbing twist to how he affects me.
I swallow twice more before finding my voice. “So, uh … you don’t want to show me your face while we’re exposing ourselves?” I realize the bad wording as soon as I’ve said it, but what the hell. He knows what I mean.
“Not tonight, Brooklyn,” he says, and I get a glimpse of his bottom lip as he talks. “I like my anonymity. Ironic, really, considering I might soon lose it.” He sighs, and I swallow again when his bicep bulges as he runs a hand across his cheek.
“If everything goes well,” I say, “you’ll be a household name before you know it.”
“Great.” Sarcasm again. “What I’ve always wanted.” Something beeps, and his posture changes. “So, that’s it, then. You have my blessing to pitch your book, for whatever it’s worth. I have to go.”
Before I have time to say goodbye, the line goes dead. I look at my phone for a second, and despite the shock of the nip-slip and his distinct lack of enthusiasm, I stretch out on my bed and flop around like an excited fish. I don’t even care that my boobs both pop out and jiggle around.
Goddamn freaking hell yessssss!
This is going to work. I just know it.
My phone buzzes. When I check the screen, I find a text from Joanna.
I shoot off a reply to confirm that I’ll be including her projected sales spreadsheet in my pitch on Monday, and then I start work on what I expect will be the greatest book proposal in the history of publishing.