Between the Pages: A Novel (9 page)

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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 B-cup-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 better-defined 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.