Typist #1 - Working for the Billionaire Novelist (Erotic Romance) (5 page)

Smith took me for dinner at a cozy place, an old house that had been converted into a restaurant that defined the word
quaint
. The building was still divided into several rooms, each containing hints of the room's former life. The hostess tried to seat us in the nursery, but Smith wrinkled his nose and said it wasn't to his liking. She steered us all the way to the back of the place, to a former mudroom with big multi-paned windows overlooking the back yard.

“Perfect,” he said, grinning broadly. “My cousin Sandy and I will dine in the mudroom.”

We sat at the antique-looking table, and he pointed up to the ceiling, which was covered in silk flowers and feathers.

“Now that's just ridiculous,” I said, giggling. “I love it.”

The mudroom was decorated with a variety of footwear running up and down the walls, but with the evening sun filtering in through the wisteria vines covering the window panes, the place was as golden and romantic as anywhere I'd ever been.

He reached for my hand across the table and grasped my fingertips gently. “You look so beautiful tonight. The shirt matches your eyes, and your creamy skin is positively glowing.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling the flush of my cheeks turning red.

With my free hand, I rubbed the spot on my leg where he'd pinched me. It was up high enough that the skirt covered it, but I'd noticed a bruise forming when I was in the changing room.

Our waitress came in and rattled off a long list of things that sounded French. Smith nodded knowingly and asked a dozen questions about the wine list. It hit me: I was nervous because I was completely outclassed. He was a bestselling author, and if memory served me correctly, he'd already been wealthy from business endeavors even before he started writing.

And who was I? A barely-middle-class girl with freckles and a pile of student loan debt. I didn't know what all the various-sized forks laid out in front of me were for. I knew one was for salad, and one for the main course, but there were more than two.

Smith had let go of my hand when the waitress came in, and I was wringing a napkin nervously on my lap.

The waitress turned and asked me which wine I'd prefer.

“You decide,” I said, smiling at Smith. “I think sometimes you know what I want before even I do.”

The waitress grinned and said, “Have you two been dating long?” Apparently the hostess hadn't passed along Smith's fib that we were cousins.

“No,” I said. “We're not—”

“Less than a month,” he said, beaming. “We met scuba diving and she saved my life.”

The waitress tilted her head. “Aww!”

“Yes,” I said, kicking him under the table. “That was really … unbelievable. Like something out of a book.”

“Or a movie,” the waitress said. “I love the meet-cute.”

“He barfed,” I said.

“Sweetie!” He pretended to be shocked and embarrassed.

The waitress giggled, each little laugh making her look more stupid to me and more interesting to Smith.

Grinning, Smith took another look over the wine list and made his selection, then ordered food for both of us.

After the waitress left, I said, “Thank you for ordering for me. I had no idea what anything was.”

He laughed, tipping his head back and filling the mudroom with his booming laughter.

I kicked him again. “Don't laugh at me.”

He frowned. “You're being silly. Who cares what some waitress thinks? As long as she doesn't think you're rude, and stick her dirty thumb in your food, it doesn't matter.”

“I guess. Easy for you to say, with your big wallet full of cash and your … good looks.”

Looking smug, he turned to look out the window at the lush green garden. “My good looks, you say? Do go on.”

“You're not bad-looking, for an older guy.”

“Ouch.”

“Smith, can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask me two. Now go ahead with the second one.”

The waitress came by with our wine, so I waited until we were alone, and said, “Is this how you wrote all your novels?”

He swirled his wine and stared into his glass. “You mean did I have sex with my other typists? Come now, I didn't ask you for your sexual history.” He leaned across the table with his glass raised in a toast. “To fresh stories.”

“To fresh stories.”

Despite my toast, I wasn't satisfied with Smith's answer. In the olden days, pre-internet, a woman would have to wait for a man to divulge his secrets, but these were not the dark ages. I had my cell phone with me. After we ate dinner, I excused myself to the washroom, where I did some web searches on his name.

It took me ages to find anything that wasn't a book review or a fluffy interview. What little I did find was not exactly what I wanted, but still illuminating.

I discovered that he preferred to write first drafts in his cabin in Vermont, which meant the cabin wasn't a brand-new thing. One article said he spent months researching his stories ahead of time and outlining them. That part was news to me, as I hadn't seen any notes or outlines at the cabin. I read on, to a quote from him, where he said he put away all his research when it came time to write the first draft, and went on his memory alone. He said that if an element of the book didn't stick in his memory, then it wasn't important enough to have in the book.

I found scant information about his personal life, except for a brief mention of his divorce, two years ago. I found no mention of a new wife, which was a relief. The thought had crossed my mind that he could be married. I doubted any sane woman would send her husband off for two weeks in a cabin with a young secretary, but that didn't guarantee he wasn't doing it in secret.

Wife or no wife, was I still his secret? Was that why he introduced me to that woman as his niece, and then asked to sit at the very back of the restaurant?

My mind flitted around all the possibilities as I went to the sink and tidied up my hair. I appraised myself in the mirror. The blue blouse was flattering, and the clothes had that crisp look only brand-new things have. My skin really was glowing, and except for my sneakers, I looked like someone who mattered.

I calmly told myself, “It's just two weeks. Have some fun, earn some money, and make a few great memories. That's it. Two weeks.”

I freshened my lipstick, gave myself a winning smile, and left the washroom.

When I got back to the table, Smith was frowning at his cell phone. He held out his empty palm and said, “Dead battery already. Let me use yours.”

I handed him my phone from my purse and sat down, looking around at the wild décor. The sun was getting low on the horizon, making all the shadows long.

“I trust you found what you were looking for,” Smith said, and then he read out a few lines from the newspaper article I'd been reading about him.

“How dare you!”

I grabbed for my phone, but he pulled it out of reach. “Naughty girl. I'm confiscating this.”

“It's my damn phone, I'll look up whatever I want.”

He dropped my phone into a full glass of drinking water, spilling water over the edges of the glass.

I swore and grabbed it from the water.

“I'll buy you a new one,” he said. “I'll add the equivalent to your check. No, I'll double the replacement value, so you can't complain.”

I practically growled at him. “That was my phone. How dare you?”

Nonchalantly, he said, “It's in the contract. No accessing the internet for the duration of the contract. For my privacy and protection. It's a standard typist thing.”

“More like a power trip thing.” I shook the excess water out of the phone, wrapped it in my cloth napkin, and stuck the bundle in my purse. The poor thing seemed to be fried, but perhaps it would turn on once it dried out, or so I hoped.

“You agreed to the contract,” he said.

“You're an asshole.”

He shrugged. “That's like calling a woman a bitch. It's meaningless. Yes, I'm a man. I do man things. Does that make me an asshole, just because I'm not a woman?”

“Unbelievable.” I pushed back my chair. What could I do? Storm out? And then what? Sleep in the bus station that night until I could find a way out of town? No. Sleeping on a bench would only be punishing myself.

I'd return to the cabin that night and leave first thing in the morning.

Smith stood and walked out, not even waiting for me. I had to scurry to catch up with him.

Smith Fucking Wittingham, Asshole Novelist, kept up the brisk pace all the way back to the cabin. The sun was setting, and the last half mile was difficult to traverse in the dark. I kept stumbling, but refused to take his hand when offered.

“Fine, be that way,” he said with a chuckle.

Those were the only words exchanged the whole walk.

Back in the cabin, he put on water for tea and made himself comfortable on one of the three ample sofas in front of the large television. He started watching a new James Bond movie, and I was interested in watching the film, but couldn't bear sitting in the same room as Smith.

I went to my room, turned on my small television, and watched the cooking channel as I fumed.

In the morning, my rage had dissipated to a dull ache, like the lingering emotional hangover of a bad dream.

I accepted what I'd known subconsciously the night before: I would not forfeit my pay for the work I'd already done, not by leaving now.

I would stay the full two weeks and collect my pay. I would type the words, I would kill him with kindness, and I would not allow any further access to my body.

The day was gorgeous and sunny, just like the previous day. The air was moist, as though it had rained overnight. It was a fresh, new day, just waiting to be ruined.

Smith sat outside on the veranda, at a table set up with a generous breakfast for two, including the thick slices of ham I'd smelled as I was taking my shower.

I sat on the Adirondack chair adjacent to Smith and gave him my most sugary smile. “This is lovely,” I said through clenched teeth. “With all this wonderful food, we'll have a very productive day.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Decided the money was too good to pass up, did you?”

I poured a cup of tea from the teapot. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Just surprised you're still around.”

“Someone has to type your novel. Apparently, you're deficient in some way and cannot type it yourself.”

He laughed. “Deficient! That's a good one, Sheri.”

“Tori. My name is Tori.”

“Whatever.” He scratched his neck and gazed out at the small, tidy lawn and the trees beyond. He hadn't shaved since the first day, and the blond stubble gave him a disheveled, surly look.

He said, “You know what I'd really like? A Border Collie. They're smart and tenacious.”

“Do you have any pets back home?”

“I have no home.” He scratched his neck again. “I'd like a nice little bitch who comes when I call her.”

I nearly choked on the tea I was sipping. I set down the cup and filled my plate with scrambled eggs and toast, not commenting.

He continued, “A nice, submissive bitch. She'd roll on her back and show me her tummy like a good girl.”

“Sounds about your speed,” I said. “It would make you feel like such a big man to be around someone you're smarter than.”