Between the Pages: A Novel (5 page)

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.