Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
He texted me that evening. It’s done.
I know… I’m reading it now.
Let me know what you think about the ending.
I’m sure I’ll love it…because I’m biased.
You don’t have to like it just because you work for me.
That’s not why I’m biased. I was biased because I thought he was the greatest writer of our generation. He could shift from sci-fi to the most erotic stories I’d ever read, ones that made me hot under the collar and wet between the legs. I set down the phone and continued to read through his pages.
He texted me again a few minutes later. Why are you biased?
I turned back to the phone, wondering if he’d been waiting for an elaboration that entire time. Because I’m your biggest fan. I meant that when I said it.
He didn’t say anything else.
I finished the story, and when I did, I released a sigh of satisfaction because it was a good ending. There were a lot of loose ends that made me want to read more, but there was also enough satisfaction from the character progression that I was satisfied. I loved it.
But you’re biased, right?
I love your stories, so I know exactly what I want to read…and this is it.
I texted him before I left my apartment. Do you mind if I stop by?
Instead of questioning my visit, he was fine with it. No.
I’ll be there in ten minutes.
Alright.
I rode the elevator to his floor then walked down the hallway until I knocked on the door.
Instead of yelling across the room to tell me to come in, he personally opened the door. He was in a t-shirt and sweatpants, both black, going with the color of his hair, his shadowed jawline. It looked like he’d showered recently because his hair was a little messy. He stared at me for a heartbeat before he stepped aside and let me in.
I carried my purse into the penthouse and headed to the table, feeling that same energy like the last time I was here with him. We’d sat on the couch together, and I felt as if a magnet were pulling me to him, like our bodies could collide at any second. And then he’d hugged me…and it felt like home.
He followed me to the dining table and still didn’t ask why I was there. He wasn’t disgruntled by my unexpected visit. He stared at me with an intense gaze that was also slightly subdued, like I had every right to be there and he had no reason to question it. He used to be indifferent to me, but now all of his attention was focused on me nearly all the time, unless he was working.
I sat down and looked through my purse.
He sat at the head of the table, his eyes still glued to me.
“I sent off the edited book to Mark. They’re really happy it’s completed.” I pulled out the stack of hardbacks I’d brought from my apartment.
He watched my movements.
I pushed my purse away and laid out the books so they were visible.
He stared at them for a while, recognizing his covers, and then flicked up his gaze to look at me.
“I wanted to ask you to sign them when we first met, but…we didn’t get along that well…”
He dropped his gaze, as if he was ashamed of that.
“But now that we’ve finished the next installment, and you so generously allowed me to be a part of it, and we’re so close now…I thought it would be the best time to ask you for a favor…if you would sign my books.”
His chest rose and fell at a quicker pace as he lifted his gaze to look at me. He stared endlessly, the seconds trickling by until an entire minute had passed. Without blinking, he held my gaze, his emotional response so slight but so powerful at the same time. Once his breathing had quickened, it started to slow again…returning back to his state of calm.
It was one of the rare times when I couldn’t read him, when his complex thoughts and emotions were impossible for me to decipher. I slid the first book across the table toward him then grabbed a permanent marker and some pens for him to choose from.
He dropped his gaze and looked at the first hardback for a while before he brought it closer. He opened the first page and looked at the publishing information, reacting slightly when he realized it was a first edition, that I’d bought it years ago.
I noticed he didn’t have copies of his own novels in his penthouse, not on display or in his bedroom, unless they were in one of the drawers of his dresser. He wasn’t an egotistical person who overemphasized his accomplishments, so perhaps that was why they weren’t on display.
He grabbed a pen then brought the book closer, turning it sideways so he could write on the page nearly upside down.