Chapter 3
3
I wipe the tears defiantly from my face and turn to stare disdainfully at the man who, for all intents and purposes, broke my heart. It doesn’t help that my left ankle is somehow caught between the rough stones of the wall and yanking it free might send me tumbling to the ground.
“Leaving,” I inform him stiffly.
One dark eyebrow wings up. “Jenna…” Impatience colors his tone like I’m being deliberately obstinate.
“I want nothing to do with whatever sick game you and Diana cooked up.” I turn to yank on my ankle some more. It springs free and I have to catch myself abruptly before I slide off the wall entirely. Two hands grasp my waist and lift me up despite my startled squeak.
Max plops me down on the backseat of the car and returns to the driver’s seat. I hear the click of the locks engaging. “Hey! What are you doing? What about my suitcase?” I wail. I can’t afford to lose anything at this point.
“You aren’t leaving this car until we clear this up. Your suitcase is just fine where it is,” he growls.
I don’t believe him. I pull on the door handle to no avail, watching in panic as the gates slide open with just a touch of a remote control. They’re well oiled and silent, making a mockery of my earlier scrambles over the wall. A small feral growl of my own escapes. Max’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t say another word until he’s pulled up in front of the house and turned the engine off.
“Now, little Jenna, what games are you talking about? I didn’t invite you here, but now that you are here, I feel slightly… proprietary. Explain, please.”
“Diana said… she said…” I can’t bring myself to say it. It’s so crude and transactional and just plain cold.
“What did Diana say?” Max bites out, his hands remaining clenched on the steering wheel.
I sigh and say it all as fast as I can, so the taste of the words won’t linger in my mouth. “She said she expected me to offer sexual acts, and that you had… that she had done that in the past and if I don’t deliver the book, I’m out of a job.”
Max goes very still. Almost frozen. I try the door latch once more. Although honestly this far from town, I don’t see my chances of escape as being particularly high if he’s determined to catch me. I moan in distress. And Max moves.
He’s surprisingly fast and silent for such a big man. In no time, he’s out of the car and has swept me up in his arms and onto the front porch. He sits down on the glider, cradling me in his arms. It might look comforting, but I can’t break free. He smells of pine and warm man, like what you might imagine a Christmas movie tree farmer would smell like. Except it’s all clearly an illusion.
Max breathes into my hair for a minute and then he clears his throat. “If Diana didn’t exist and there was no book deadline, would you still want to leave?” he asks quietly.
I twist my neck in an attempt to see his face, but he’s too big. All I get is an eyeful of beard. My snarky sense of humor tends to come to the fore when I’m stressed. “If you shaved… then maybe,” I mumble, but only because it’s a hypothetical.
A rumble starts deep in his chest and works its way upward. “Noted. You aren’t a fan of the beard.” He chuckles again. “Diana came here once,” he muses almost absently, “much like you, but with a far sharper attitude. I did not offer her a room for the night, but then she arrived with a rental vehicle. And while she insinuated she’d be willing to do what you said, she never came out with anything specific enough to lodge a complaint. In a way, it worked because I was highly motivated to finish that book so I could insist on a new editor.”
I’m both relieved and fuming because Diana had flat out refused to let me rent a car for any length of time, saying the budget didn’t stretch for that kind of luxury. “So you got stuck with me?” I ask finally when Max doesn’t seem ready to offer up more information. My stomach is still churning, but somehow I believe that he never got naked with my boss.
He shakes his head. “No, that was the editor before you. I’m not sure what happened to her — she never came here and seemed to leave rather abruptly. All I know is that I made it very clear to the management that Diana was not someone I was willing to work with again.”
“Oh.” I feel deflated. Like maybe I let my imagination run away with me and I’ve been very silly. “But the book needs to be rewritten. And edited. In ten days.”
What little skin I can see above and below his beard turns pink. “That’s already done, baby girl.”
Max’s grip has loosened sufficiently for me to pull back and stare at him. I blink in consternation. Surely, I hadn’t heard that right? The bit about the book or… what he called me. I’m probably hallucinating due to the stress of the entire situation. It doesn’t help that he smells so good. It’s making me want to take deeper and deeper breaths in without exhaling.
“W-w-what?” I finally stutter.
He pulls me tight against his broad chest once again and holds me there while seeming to hesitate. My cheek is pressed tight against the soft wool of his sweater. “If you return to New York and Diana, she will attempt to traffic you to another author. I’m under no pretense that I’m somehow special in that regard.”
“Why would she do that?” I mumble into his chest, since once again I’m not allowed to lift my head.
“Because you’re sweet and passionate and a little na?ve. Catnip for an insecure author who needs his ego firmly stroked.”
This is the funny and slightly cynical man I got to know over the phone. So I reply in kind, “Do you need your ego stroked, Max?”
He growls and lightly pinches the skin just above the waistband of my jeans. “No. But I… I need to know that you aren’t being taken advantage of when I’m not around to look out for you. This book ends my contract with Rudnam. I won’t be renewing.”
Oh. This is big news. I wonder if Diana knows that? Is she hoping I’ll get him to sign a new contract, too? Or was that going to be her next demand in order for me to keep my job? Questions and general anxiety swirl in an endless melee through my head.
“Max?”
“Hmmm?” His attention has apparently drifted off. One large hand is idly stroking the skin exposed by my shirt riding up. His touch is gentle but firm and it’s giving me inappropriate ideas. Plus, I like it a little too much.
“I don’t understand. If you’ve already rewritten the book and you want to wash your hands of Rudnam, why am I here? You could have simply sent the book in and called it a day.”
“But then I wouldn’t have met you, little one.” His voice is gentle, almost embarrassed. I push back firmly with both palms until I can see his eyes. They’re a pale blue, startling in the middle of all that dark hair and they look intelligent and… tentative.
I smile into them, raising one hand to touch his cheek. All of this is so inappropriate and yet I can’t resist. “You could have come to New York.”
He shakes his head swiftly. “No. I don’t travel.”
I frown again in confusion. He’s clearly not housebound. He has a car. “I don’t understand,” I finally confess.
“I know. I… I’m not ready to explain, sweetness. Stay and edit the book. We’ll talk again when that’s done.”
Abruptly, he picks me up and deposits me on my feet. His hand seems to linger for a minute on my waist, but then it, too, is gone. He leads me inside and down another side passage. A narrow door opens to a small room with an aged brown easy chair and a lamp. Heavy curtains obscure the window, but a cozy fireplace dominates the opposite wall. A stack of yellow legal pads sits on a small side table. Max picks them up and separates the top ten or so, then hands them to me. “Here. Get started with this and then we’ll talk about the ending when you’ve finished this section.”
I gape at him. “But this is all handwritten!”
He shrugs with a hint of arrogance. “The story demanded it.”
I blink at him, then stare down at the top of the first pad. Half of it is crossed out with broad slashes and there are little cramped scribbles in the margins. “But this will take forever!”
His beard splits again. “Then I guess you’d better get started. You can use the desk in the office you snooped in earlier. I won’t be needing it until you’re done.”
I groan, but my attention has already been caught by the first paragraph. This is good. Really good. I turn and exit the small room, still reading, only to realize I’m completely lost.
“Where is the office again?”
Max smirks. “Follow me.”
As soon as I sit down in his over-sized leather office chair, I’m lost in the story. I type and edit at the same time. I’ll need to do another couple of passes later, but this first round will be the most time consuming simply because I have to attempt to follow his almost three-dimensional layout. However, the words grip me and before I realize it, the room is dark, lit only by the eery light of the computer screen. I can no longer make out the scribbled words on the pad. And it’s long past Max’s six o’clock deadline.
On the other hand, there’s no way I can finish this in less than ten days without working around the clock. Surely he understands that? I get up to turn on the overhead light. My stomach seizes the opportunity to rumble loudly, reminding me that I haven’t eaten all day. Sighing, I leave the office and quietly navigate towards the kitchen. The house is silent once again. There’s no sign of Max. Did he go to bed? I’ve actually no idea what time it is.
Just after eight, the clock on the stove informs me when I make it safely to the kitchen. I wonder if my suitcase is still out by the road? I’m certainly not going to go out to fetch it now. I open the fridge door with another sigh, only to stand back in surprise. A tray sits there, with carefully wrapped dishes and a sticky note bearing my name. It’s both sweet and, well, weird. Why not bring me the tray if he was going to the bother of fixing me a meal?
The kitchen is large, dark, and silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator. It’s too big a space to eat in peacefully at this time of night, so I take the tray and grab some cutlery before retreating to my room. My suitcase is lying on the bed, none the worse for wear. I curl up by the headboard and dive into the quiche and salad Max left for me. It’s delicious and makes me even more curious about him. Why does he hide himself away out here? I understand wanting to live far away from people, the peace and tranquility of the deep woods, but to never take a trip to the city? Not even one closer than New York, like Boston? It makes no sense.
Nor does his gentle touch or those endearments he murmured earlier on the porch. He did call me baby, right? That wasn’t just my imagination? If Max is convinced he has feelings for me, romantic or otherwise, why would he not act on them? At least to the point of having a personal conversation or something.
I move the tray to the dresser and tug my small suitcase off the bed before curling up under the covers. I’m too tired to do more than brush my teeth before bed. I fall asleep to the tactile memory of Max’s fingers skating over my skin.
The morning light wakes me to the point where I can’t ignore the sunshine any longer. I groan as I roll out of bed, still dressed in yesterday’s outfit. I need a shower, stat.
The warm water helps revive me, but I remain fuzzy-headed as I stumble towards the kitchen and coffee.
Max is already there, hunched over a steaming mug at the table. His watery eyes assess me and then he sneezes. Uh oh.
“You sick?” I ask quietly.
His expression indicates he’s ready to argue, but eventually he sighs and shrugs. “Probably picked up a bug in town yesterday. Another good reason to avoid people,” he mutters.
I nod and look in the fridge for something I know how to cook. Toast. I can manage that.
I pop a few slices of whole wheat bread in the toaster. “Maybe you should spend the day in bed, see if you can knock it out of your system,” I suggest. Max’s eye roll is such a typical male response I can’t hold back a small smile.
I slide the finished toast in front of him before adding more bread to the toaster. “Do you need more than that? I’m never very hungry when I’m sick.”
Max shakes his head and proceeds to eat the toast. Without butter and jam. Which disturbs me on some level. “Did you want honey instead?”
He seems surprised by my question. Glancing first at me, then down to his toast. “No, this is fine.”
I shake my head in bewilderment and sit down next to him at the table. Smearing generous amounts of butter and apricot jam on my own toast makes my mouth water in anticipation.
“I’ll be busy in the office. Will you call me if you need anything?” I ask softly.
Max looks surprised again, but then abruptly nods. He stands and slides his plate in the dishwasher before refilling his coffee cup and disappearing.
A few minutes later, when I follow on my way to the office and his messy manuscript, I notice that the door to the stairwell is firmly shut. And I’m not sure how I feel about that. Slightly offended? Because it implies I might make noise… Or maybe this is hurt, that he’s literally shutting me out. I wince and continue on my way. If I don’t see or hear from him by dinnertime, I’ll go check. But the anxious feeling stays with me despite my attempts to banish it.
I make it through several chapters before coming up for air. This is a completely different story. And it’s both disturbing and intriguing on so many levels. A young boy forced to hide from government authorities because of genetics they manipulated, grows up to face the ultimate conflict of revenge versus avoidance. But, at least so far, he’s always alone. There are people around him, but they’re shadowy figures, not really touching the core of the hero. Or maybe he’s an antihero. It’s really hard to tell at this point. That’s a part of what makes Max such a good writer, his characters are fully sketched out and relatable, even if it’s to parts of ourselves we’d rather not acknowledge.
Around two, I stop for lunch when my stomach keeps interrupting my brain and I find myself retyping the same sentence. There is no sign of Max in the kitchen, which makes me frown. The lack of mess isn’t surprising, but there are no additional dishes in the dishwasher either. I fix myself a ham and cheese sandwich and retreat to the front porch to eat it. It’s chilly but I won’t be out here long and the fresh air feels good. There’s a rainstorm beginning to blow in, with thick gray clouds gathering on the horizon and the scent of moisture hangs heavy in the air. But I can’t afford for the power to go out. Not on this kind of schedule. And I’m also worried about Max.
I manage to wrap up three more chapters in the afternoon, but it’s a struggle. My mind keeps shifting to the closed door and the absent author behind it. At half-past five, I give up. It’s beginning to get dark outside and I’m genuinely worried about him. I tour the downstairs but there’s still no sign of Max.
Back in the main hallway, I freeze in place and stare at the closed door. The man clearly values his privacy. But he was also really sick this morning. Without further hesitation, I reach out and twist the doorknob. It turns in my hand, but the door doesn’t open. I can’t believe it. He’s locked me out.