"A little. Nothing worth talking about yet."
"Mom said her neighbor—you know, the one who wrote five best-sellers—she'd be willing to ghostwrite."
My jaw ticks. It's the second time he's floated this idea.
My writing career isn't about having a label stuck to my name—it's about stories that burn holes in my brain if I don't let them out.
"We can pay her whatever she—" He stops cold when he sees my face go nuclear. Hands up, mock surrender.
I brush past him, reach for a glass and drown it in water, letting it run longer than I have to because the sound calms me down—helps forget my husband doesn't believe in me.
Richard pulls me into a tight hug from behind, landing apologetic kisses on my cheek before he flips me over to him. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just trying to help you how I can."
A sigh. "I know." Richard's love language is gifts, so he probably does mean well.
He sets the cookie on the counter and pulls me even closer to give me the usual lip-to-lip peck on my lips he does when he's apologizing. Not the most sensual kiss, but it's kind of sweet.
Today, though, his hand slides down my back, and the kisslingers.
I let it happen before my body stiffens, my mind reminding me who just became my neighbor.
No. Not good, Emma.
Internally, I shake him off from my head and pull Richard closer. I love him, and want him. Of course, I want him. More, I need him. He's been very busy and we haven't done anything in a while. So I let him trail kisses along my jaw, my collarbone, then back on my mouth.
"You're so beautiful," Richard says, his hand gripping my waist as I wrap my leg around him. "Stunning. You're absolutely stunning."
His hips press me against the kitchen island and I lean in, losing myself in his hand tracing my dress, my fingers unbuttoning his pristine shirt, exposing his chest, then working his belt when suddenly—
The sharp ring of his phone cuts through the steam, right behind my ear.
I stop cold,giving him an annoyed look, and mutter, "Every damn time."
He freezes, and I think he's going to take it, like he always does, but then he doesn't.
Instead, he puts my hands back on his belt, wanting me to unfasten it.
I open the buckle, but the damn phone keeps ringing.
Grunting, Richard grabs it to silence it, but the second his eyes fall on the name, he winces.
"Damn it. I'm sorry, Em. I really have to take this one," hesays, and before I can protest, he's already picked up and I hear him say "Hello, this is Richard Lawson," in that professional tone that doesn't give away what he wanted to do to me just a second ago.
He turns in the living room, meeting my eyes with an apology, but I don't care.
I turn around, my face flat, and smooth down my clothes as he disappears into his office, into whatever calls him away.
An hour later, I'm in the kitchen, skimming some artsy magazine Lucy left behind, but I'm not really reading. My mind keeps wandering back to Ben.
He was the one who read my first pieces of writing. Came over to my ex's house and instead of joining the guys playing NBA he ended up in front of my laptop.
I don't even remember how we got to it and why I allowed him to read it. Maybe I wanted him to know that some things were inspired by us—the quiet pull between my two characters, and even some things he's literally told me, since he was randomly philosophical and obviously very smart.
So he read it—didn't skim—read every line and then asked if I thought they were soulmates.
Which made me want to shut the screen, tell him to forget it. But instead I stuttered, "Yes, maybe?" and he hummed thoughtfully, and asked why I didn't send it out, that their story deserved to make it.
I told him I was scared. What if nobody wants to read it? Or worse, they do and realize how screwed up I am?
