Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
I stared at her, accepting her observations as facts rather than compliments.
“That’s where I come in. I can help you tap into that creative side.”
She felt like a coach or something.
“We’ve got this, Mr. Hamilton.” She rose to her feet and started to remove the whiteboard, as if she was taking it with her.
“You can leave that.”
“You’re sure?” She returned it to the easel.
“Yeah. You don’t need to carry that home and back again every time.”
“It’s kinda an eyesore if you have company.”
“I never have company.” I met my friends at bars and clubs, so they rarely ever came over. The people who did were my lovers—and I didn’t care about their opinions at all.
She packed her things into her bag. “Do you have a maid?”
“Yes.”
She halted and looked at me. “Really? It just doesn’t seem like it…”
I didn’t take offense to it. “She comes once in a while, when it really needs a deep clean.”
“Why don’t you get a housecleaner?” she asked. “I mean, you obviously can afford it.”
“I don’t want someone going through my shit.” I didn’t trust anyone. I wasn’t concerned about my wallet being stolen, but I was concerned someone would take pictures of my paperwork and send it to the wrong person.
She nodded slightly. “You don’t have a personal assistant?”
“No.”
She grabbed her purse and rose to her feet. “Because you don’t want someone going through your shit?”
“Yes.” I left the chair and walked to the front door to let her out.
“I’m understanding a little more why you’re so overwhelmed.”
She sounded like my mom.
She stopped in front of the door and gave me a slight smile, like this evening had actually been pleasant for her even though I was a very unpleasant person. “Let me know about tomorrow.”
“Let’s do Monday.”
She didn’t fight it. “Alright. See you then.” She let herself out and shut the door behind her.
Six
Emerson
Now that I’d successfully helped him get some words onto the page, his attitude toward me improved. He wasn’t so hostile. He wasn’t so difficult.
And when I texted, he texted back.
What time do you want me to come by tonight?
The three dots appeared instantly. Seven.
It was difficult for me to get away at that time, but since he was busy for most of the working day, I didn’t have a choice. I grabbed dinner on the way there and brought some office supplies to organize his things.
The man was brilliant…but a hot mess.
I arrived at his door and knocked.
“It’s open.” His deep voice was audible from inside.
I let myself in and saw him sitting at the dining table, his laptop closed and off to the side. He held a pencil to a piece of paper, and his hand wrote quickly, getting down whatever was in his head.
Instead of cooking dinner, I’d just picked up something on my way. While I preferred a burger or something substantial, I could tell by his physique he didn’t eat like that. So, I got something healthy, salmon fillets with broccoli florets. If we continued to work together, he was going to make me drop full pounds, which wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
I carried the food to the kitchen counter and plated everything.
He didn’t turn to look at me.
He wasn’t social and didn’t possess manners, wanting to get straight to the point. He seemed to be worse when he worked on left-brain stuff. But once he started to write and get invested in his story, he was a lot softer.
I could see the difference in real time.
I carried the plates to the dining table.
His pencil worked furiously, scribbling an alien language onto the paper—formulas, mathematical equations, symbols I’d never seen before in my life.
I stayed quiet and waited for him to finish.
He dropped his pencil and studied his work, his eyes quickly scanning over everything before he turned the page over and checked the rest of it. When he set it down, it seemed like it was finished. He grabbed the plate and placed it in front of him. He picked up a fork and started to eat, ignoring me.
I didn’t take it personally. “What are you working on?”
“The key to my exam.” He pushed it toward me.
I studied it. “What the hell is this?”
“Physics.”
Jesus. “Um…”
“Their final answer is what matters. Not the work. I don’t give partial credit.” He kept eating.
I grabbed the stacks of papers and brought them to my seat. When I found the papers that matched the title he’d put on the key, I organized them and pulled out a red pen. “You want me to enter their grade straight into a spreadsheet—”
“Let’s see if you can handle this first. If you fuck it up, we’ll just stick to your cooking.”
My anger flared at the cold way he’d dismissed me, the way he’d interrupted me like he didn’t respect me at all. But I tried to remember that he was callous because he was straightforward, and while that left brain was activated, he had no idea how to talk to people. There was no reason to take it personally because I saw the way he treated his girlfriend, and it was exactly the same.