Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
This book isn’t flowing like anything else that I’ve written. I’ve never had this problem before. Then again, I’ve never had things in my life be like this. I can’t focus enough to get on the right train, let alone fix a broken plot.
But that doesn’t mean that I should have a ghostwriter shoved on me. Michael should have asked me. We could have chosen one together. Not have a temptation wrapped in a cardigan that I’m going to have to interact with, knowing that she’s only writing for me for the money.
I pull my phone out to make sure that I haven’t gotten any messages. It’s like the nursing home needs me to move in at this point, the number of messages that I get. I’m exhausted, constantly anticipating the next time that I’ll get called in and have to get stabbed in the metaphorical heart all over again.
My father hasn’t really recognized me in over a year, and I thought that it would get easier over time, but it hasn’t. It may never get easier. Sometimes he’s lucid, but most of the time he’s not.
All the more reason I should do what Erin told me to do and get my head out of my ass. I can’t afford not to deliver this book. Full time care is expensive even for someone like me. I need that delivery payment. I can’t get dropped by my publisher or agent and expect to be able to take care of my dad. But while my head is so focused on how he’s doing, it’s kind of hard to work on making two characters fuck hard enough that they fall in love.
By the time I’m walking into the conference room, one of Michael’s assistants is already putting a tray of coffee down on the table. They don’t pull out the stops here. China cups and carafe, delicate dishes for cream and sugar. If there wasn’t a massive table and too many chairs, the coffee setting might be more fitting for the Plaza.
I settle into one of the chairs and wait.
If I’m lucky, Erin will have been so turned off by me that she quits on the spot, and I’ll dive down into my world so deep that I don’t come out until the book is finished. If I have to cut off the nursing home for three weeks, I will. It’s not what I want, but it would be better than losing the ability for him to be there all together.
And unfortunately, I don’t even think that my dad will realize that I’m gone.
The gaping hole of grief in my chest burns. It never seems to close lately. How can a book be more important than that?
I cut off the thoughts. Especially today in dealing with the girl, I can’t afford to go down the rabbit hole of my dad and how much I miss him. That trail of thoughts is already well-worn enough for me to stumble down it blindfolded.
Looking up, I catch sight of Erin coming down the hallway. She hasn’t seen me yet, and I take the time to study her. Short black high heels that aren’t quite high enough to scream ‘fuck me’ but make me wonder how she’d look in those kinds of shoes. Girl-next-door jeans that shape her ass.
A dark red button-down covered with a simple dark cardigan. I’d like to pop those buttons everywhere to find the curves that she’s hiding underneath. But that’s not what I need to do. What I need to do is find her weakness and make her quit.
Michael did me a favor. He lit a fire under my ass. I’ll get the book done. But I don’t want anyone writing my books for me. There’s nothing wrong with someone using a ghostwriter, I just love writing too much to do that.
Or I used to.
Her eyes lock on me, and fuck me if all of my blood doesn’t race south. I’m not going to be able to get through this meeting if I’m thinking with my second brain, but right now, it doesn’t seem like there’s any chance of me turning it off.
She looks at me. But she doesn’t come in. “Are you waiting for my permission?” I ask. Making a face, she marches in with gusto, then sits across from me and busies herself making a cup of coffee. No idea if she actually wants the coffee or if she’s just trying not to meet my eyes.
“So, Erin,” I say, “tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
I want to know what you taste like. That’s the first thought I have as I’m watching her take a sip of her coffee. Lush lips on bone china. If I let myself get this carried away, she might be a character in my next book. The one after this one. Would Michael let me write a barely-eighteen heroine? Would he find that hot or perverted if I paired her with an old dog like me?