Chapter 25
By the time I get back to Ryan’s later that morning, I don’t want to think anymore.
I’ve been given the power to control the future happiness of two people.
I told Eddie I don’t want the responsibility and they should do whatever they want since they’re both adults.
He insisted I think about it and they will accept whatever my answer is.
Can I just say? The pressure is enormous.
I appreciate the vote of confidence and clear concern for my well-being.
But a person who romanticizes everything isn’t going to tell two people who long to be together that they can’t because I think it’s cringy.
At Ryan’s, I have someone who manages to make me feel good about myself. All I want is to fall into this world of make believe we’ve created where books and words rule the day.
I’m not going to think about last night’s kiss or how it made me feel. We’re co-workers and co-writers.
“How’s the writing going?”
It’s the first thing I ask him when I walk in because he’s sitting on the sofa, wearing his glasses, scribbling on a notepad. This is a good sign. He looks up at me, one corner of his lip quirked up in a half smile and takes off his glasses.
He holds up his yellow legal pad. “I’ve got the plot.”
“I thought you already had the plot.”
“Not for my spy novel. For the sequel to the book.”
“You have the entire plot?”
I’ve only been gone a few hours. He might be some kind of plotting savant.
“Of course, there is room for changes and flexibility. But this is an outline you can use that would at least help you get started.” He hands me the pad.
I sit beside him. These are hieroglyphics I can now read due to experience. I flip through them quickly.
This is something I can do. It’s not all that different from my ghostwriting gig, being given the plot, but this time it’s skeletal.
This time, I’ll be the one to give it flesh and breathe life into it with more of my own ideas.
It will be my face on this work. This time it’s forward facing.
Ryan is no longer the ghostwriter of the book.
I’m no longer a ghostwriter. Take out the ghost, enter the writer.
“You can make whatever changes you want. It’s not set in stone. Remember, this is your book.”
He’s not wrong to call it my book. I have the passion for this project he lacks.
“I’ll get to work on this right away.”
“There’s one thing.” He lightly touches my arm and probably because of last night, a tingle flows through me. “Write this with your own style. Your voice. I don’t care if it’s different. Make the book, and the story, your own.”
“It’s Lula’s point of view, so maybe it’s okay the voices are different,” I muse. “They’re bound to be.”
He splays his hands behind his neck. “I’m so relieved we’re going to make everyone happy. There will be a sequel and I don’t have to write it.”
I chuckle at his honesty. “What does Kate think?”
“Kate is nothing less than ecstatic there will be another book, so thank you. Again.”
“She’s excited even if I’m writing? How does she know how I write?” I stand. “Wait. How do you know?”
Ryan palms a hand down his face. “Not long ago we both read the latest Desdemona book. The e-book was priced at 99 cents which is honestly too low of a price for such great work.”
I wish he’d said something sooner because I could have made a rec.
That particular book is replete with open-door love scenes between Desdemona and her longtime lover, Ezekiel.
It’s what they’d asked for in the book. Their specific instructions were: Don’t hold back; we’ll tell you if it’s too much.
Last year was the twenty-five-year anniversary of her long-running vampire series and they wanted scorching hot scenes to celebrate and acknowledge the fact Desdemona, when alive, was a trendsetter.
And so…I didn’t hold back. I hold up a palm, clutching the pad to my chest. “I can explain—”
“What’s there to explain? The writing is strong. Your voice is irreverent and funny. And that’s how I wrote Lula.”
I’m now wondering if he skipped over the love scenes in the book or actually read them. He’s not giving me any weird looks so I’m hoping for the former.
“I’m guessing the heat level should stay the same as with the book?”
I refuse to look at Ryan when I ask this question. There were a few scenes in Soulmates between Lula and Grayson that almost set fire to my e-reader.
“Yes, that would work. Might be best.”
“Okay.” I swallow hard.
“Kate is running the idea by the publisher, but she fully expects the sales from the book to mean they’ll send over a deal memo in record time. You’ll also need to sign an agency agreement with Kate so that she can officially represent you.”
“She’s offering me representation?”
My voice is a squeak. Kate is one of the best in the industry, and even I know this. She’s closed to queries and has a stable of impressive household names. I never dreamed she’d represent me. Apparently this is one area in which I didn’t dream big enough.
“You could seek your own representation if you’d prefer that. We don’t need to have the same agency but the publisher does have first right of refusal for any sequels.”
I drop the pad and spin around in place. “Of course I want Kate! I want it all! I can’t believe I’m finally, after all these years, going to have an agent!”
He chuckles. “Good, because Kate would have probably had a stroke if you went anywhere else.”
Anywhere else wouldn’t be like having Kate and the same agency who’s represented multiple bestselling books and many of my literary heroes. This time I don’t warn Ryan a hug is incoming. Instead, I jump into his arms and he catches me.
“I can’t thank you enough. You’ve made all of my dreams come true.”
Neither one of us shies away from the embrace, which is tight, and might last a little too long for workplace hours.
My face is nestled into his neck, which is so warm, my arms around his strong shoulders.
His hands are hovering around my behind.
Then I remember to be a professional and am the first to pull away.
I want to know that Ryan is working with me because he likes my writing and not because he thinks I’m sexy and wants to sleep with me.
Even so, I see the desire in his shimmering eyes. He’s given me everything I ever wanted but there’s one thing he can’t give me. Back when I dated nothing but selfish losers who put their own needs before my own, I would have loved to meet someone like Ryan.
I stay at Ryan’s later than I normally would because working here is easy and inspiring despite the distraction of the hunk in the room.
I’ve been writing in my shed for the past few months, but it’s comfortable working beside Ryan as we both write.
His face is almost comical. It’s one of utter concentration, but every once in a while he gets up, runs a hand through his hair and mutters, “This is hopeless. Maybe it’s time for me to quit. ”
“Are you serious?”
“I had a good run.” He sighs and shakes his head.
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “Take a break and come back.”
He’s a rather dramatic writer. I can’t imagine what revisions must be like.
It’s almost dinner time when I get home and I know I’m going to eat dinner with Eddie and my mother.
It’s normally not an issue and we’ve been managing since she arrived.
But in light of recent developments, I expect a lot of awkward pauses in conversation.
When I walk inside, the succulent smells of arroz con pollo fill Abuelita’s kitchen.
She’s also fried plantains, one of my favorites, which she only makes every few months.
I’m beginning to wonder if they’re all trying to butter me up.
I suppose it makes sense for Abuelita to want to keep us all close and in the family.
Eddie would legally be my stepfather, which while strange, fits right into the family dynamic.
And she wouldn’t worry about Eddie being alone after she’s gone.
“Mmm,” my mother says. “No one makes rice and chicken like you do, Mami.”
“Muy delicioso.” Eddie nods.
“You should eat more, Geneva,” Abuelita says. “You’re too skinny.”
“Yes, I will,” my mother says, shocking all of us, I’m sure, but mostly me.
For the next few interminable minutes, we all talk about food as if we’ve never had it before. As if we’ve just discovered Abuelita can cook. The salt is particularly salty and the rice is so fluffy. It’s ridiculous.
“It looks like I’m going to get a contract for a new book,” I announce, mostly to change the subject from food.
“Of course you are,” Mami says. “You’re a New York Times bestselling author. It’s not time to stop writing now!”
“Yes, but I didn’t write that book,” I say and then conversation stops. Just grinds to halt as Eddie stares at me bug-eyed.
I throw a hand over my mouth. The secret I fought so hard to keep is out. It slipped out. I have just violated my NDA.
“What do you mean you didn’t write the book?” Mami says, glancing from Eddie to me, back to Eddie again. “You always write the book. If you didn’t, who did?”
Eddie stares straight ahead and Abuelita hasn’t even looked up from her plate.
It’s too late now, so I just go for it.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you, but I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. And now you all are sworn to secrecy unless you want me to be sued.”
I explain I’ve violated my non-disclosure agreement and if they love me, they will pretend they didn’t hear any of this. All these years they all knew I was a ghostwriter but not for who or which books I wrote. It didn’t matter to them as long as I was happy and getting paid to do the work I loved.
Eddie and Abuelita seem to accept my slip just fine, nodding their agreement. But my mother’s forehead is crinkly and for the first time I notice she’s no longer using Botox. Maybe Eddie is right and she has changed.
Mami sets down her fork and crosses her arms. “So, this man has used you.”