“Mr. Parish—”
“Forget it. I haven’t needed assistance in that department. Yet.”
Elliot pressed his lips in a thin line and pulled his card from his alligator-skin wallet. “I’ll be frank with you, Holden. I think your writing is astonishing. And I know every editor at every major publishing house agrees. If you could produce a full-length novel—a memoir, perhaps—”
“I’m not writing a memoir. I write fiction.”
“Autobiographical fiction?” Elliot suggested and pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “Truthfully, you could write a grocery list and I’d have ten houses lined up to buy it. You’re a hot commodity right now.”
“Gordon Charles is a hot commodity. I’m nobody.”
As far as most of the world knew, Holden Parish didn’t exist. And I wanted to keep it that way. But that Elliot was a persistent little fucker.
“Do you know how rare it is to be published in both theReviewandThe New Yorkerat the same time with two different stories? At twenty years old?”
“Nineteen.” I smirked and took a pull from my champagne. “Do you like my work, Mr. Lash, or do you like that little novelty? Because I’m drowning in my own bullshit already. I don’t need you to shovel more in my lap.”
“Sometimes a writer is the next ‘hottest thing,’ and sometimes he or she is truly something special,” Elliot said. “You happen to be both. And I wouldn’t be a good agent if I didn’t do everything in my power to make sure the world knew it.”
I toyed with my glass, swirling the golden liquid around and around. “I’ll think about it.”
“Please do. I think you’re ready for the next step. And it will be a big one.”
He finished his glass of beer and reluctantly left as if afraid he’d never see me again once he walked out the door.
Given my track record, he was probably right.
Stay…
I banished River’s pained voice from my memory for a solid ten seconds as I pondered Elliot Lash’s offer. Butugh, a whole book? A book took long hours of plotting and research and rewrites and editing. A book was a lot of fucking work.
“I hate work,” I muttered.
But instead of tossing Elliot’s card in the candle centerpiece and watching it burn, I shoved it in my pocket, downed the rest of my drink, and strode across the room to Jean-Baptiste Moreau.
“Well?” I demanded.
He smirked, amused, but his dark eyes raked me up and down. “Can I help you?” His voice was low and smoky and tinged with a thick accent.
“I hope so.”Help me, JB. Help me forget him.“I’m Holden Parish.”
“I know who you are,” he said. “I’m Jean-Baptiste Moreau.”
His hand closed around mine, and the deal was sealed right then and there.
“I have a question for you, JB.”
“No one calls me that.”
“But you make an exception for me.”
“I suppose I do.” His gaze roamed my face, lingering on my mouth and then my hair. “Silver. I like it.”
My one cheat against anonymity.River could find me in a crowd.
“My question is,” I said, “we’ve been in the same room for the last hundred hours. Why are we just now meeting?”
JB laughed, showing beautiful white teeth in a face of perfect dark skin. “Perhaps I’m shy?”
