“You write, period. And sole cover credit for this type of work is nearly unheard of.”
“I’m not interested.”
“They asked for you specifically. And this job pays.” She named a figure that was more than double his salary and Emmaline’s combined. “Half the advance on signing. The rest on delivery. If it sells, royalties quarterly. Royalties. For ghostwriting.”
“Unheard of, I know.”
“It is.”
He thought about the windows. The baby. The unpaid maternity leave. And the health insurance that came with deductibles and co-pays that stretched their budget to the breaking point.
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch. The client wants to remain anonymous. You do the writing, you get the credit and the money. They get to see their story in print.”
“Why me?”
“Because you can write, Caleb. And because you need this.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“I’ll send you the contract and the outline tomorrow. Think it over.”
He ended the call. Emmaline still stood in the doorway, pregnancy test in hand, waiting.
He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her. “We’re having a baby.”
She laughed, a little breathless. “We’re having a baby.”
Now
“Caleb?”
He blinks. Emmaline is in the doorway again. Only this time, her belly is enormous and she clutches a fuzzy stuffed lamb instead of a positive pregnancy test.
“Sorry. Thinking.”
“About your Egyptian god book?”
He slides the bank statement back under the notebook. “Yeah.”
“Want to take a break? I just finished setting up the nursery.”
They converted their tiny bedroom closet into what had to be the world’s smallest nursery. They removed the door, installed a tension rod with a blackout curtain, and crammed in a secondhand bassinet and a small changing table.
He follows her down the narrow hallway and up the even narrower stairs to their bedroom. She pulls back the curtain with a flourish. The space glows with soft yellow light from a thrift-store lamp. Freshly washed tiny clothes—onesies, sleepers, impossibly small socks—are folded and stacked in a fabric bin. A mobile with pastel felt stars hangs above the bassinet.
“Em, it’s perfect.”
She places the lamb on the changing table with a gentle pat. “Maybe, if The Payback keeps doing so well, we can get a bigger place. One with a real room for the baby.”
“Maybe.” He kisses the top of her head, and she wraps her arms around him.
If he agrees to write the second book, he could tell Biz to negotiate an even more eye-popping advance this time around. And then they would be able to afford a bigger house.
He should write the book.
But he can’t stop thinking about Turkey, about the victims of the attack.
