“I want to know why you’re here.”
She meets my eyes now. A clear, crystal blue. And right now, they’re filled with rage. “I was here for a meeting with Michael, and he offered me this job about five minutes before you came walking through the door. So, you can spare me your righteous tone. I didn’t come in here planning to steal your career.”
Leaning forward, I fix her in my gaze. “But you still said yes, didn’t you? Just a baby writer that Michael took a chance on with no true ambition or ideals. A sell-out here for the money and nothing more.”
Her cheeks turn pink. That’s a weakness. She does have ambition, and she doesn’t like being called a baby or a sell-out.
She mutters something under her breath.
“What was that?”
“I said you’re a fucking asshole.” That was at full volume. “You would be amazing on Broadway with the way you’ve created an act that makes you seem kind and genuine. If I’d known this was what you were really like, I would have said no.”
That makes me smile. At least she has a little spirit. “You could walk away.”
“Me walking away doesn’t change the situation. And since Michael is determined for you to have a ghostwriter, then yes, if you must know, the money is good.”
“So you admit that you’re doing this for the money?”
She rolls her eyes and takes a deep sip of her coffee. “We’re not all Malik Ellis rolling around in seven figure book deals and Central Park West penthouses.”
I don’t let my face react. It’s true that I have a really nice apartment. But it’s lucky that I already own it, given my current financial situation. Instead, I decide to poke her a little more. “How does it feel to be a mercenary?”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. It’s not my intention. Michael expects you to take whatever I give you and make it yours, so it’s not really like I’m writing it at all. Just helping jumpstart your muse.”
She was jumpstarting something that I was glad was hidden beneath the table. “Well,” I say, “since it seems like I’m not easily going to be rid of you, I guess we should talk about the book.”
3
Erin
I dig in my bag for a notebook and pen. I’m going to need to take notes for this part.
“I don’t know,” Malik says. His eyes take me in like they did in the office, carefully looking me up and down and making sure to touch every part of me. I desperately try to ignore the heat. “Dressed like that, I’m not sure that you’re equipped to handle my books.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I snap.
This outfit is cute. My friends from high school helped pick it out. And I’m not going to let some entitled asshole tell me how to dress.
A devastating smirk plays on his lips. “It means that I think you might be a bit…tame.”
I grind my teeth together. Don’t react, Erin. Don’t do it. He’s just trying to get under your skin.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “Because if you’re inexperienced, then writing some of the scenes in this book is an issue.”
Clearing my throat, I give him a professional smile. “Much like you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, Mr. Ellis, you shouldn’t take all of your cues from someone’s clothing. Setting aside the fact that you shouldn’t be commenting on my clothing at all.”
“Still,” he says, “I just get a kind of innocent vibe from you. Perfect schoolgirl with the straight A’s? Naive, prudish?”
“I’m not,” I say through gritted teeth.
He grins wide. “Prove it.”
I slam my notebook down on the table. “I have read every single one of your books.” The words fly out of me. “I don’t know if that proves I’m not a prude, but even if I were, I think knowing your catalog so well puts me in a unique position to help you.”
His smirk turns into a surprised smile. “All of them?”
“Yes,” I say, fully exasperated. “All of them.”
“Did you like them?”
It's an honest question. So honest it throws me off guard. I can’t stop the blush that paints my cheeks. Malik’s books are known for being dirty. Scratch that. They’re downright filthy. And I’ve loved every second of them. But admitting it to the author is a very different thing. It’s like getting up in a crowd of people and announcing that you masturbate.
But these are his books, and we have to work together. I clear my throat. “Yes, I did.”
“Tell me a favorite.”
This is a dangerous conversation. Very dangerous. Cause no matter how much of an ass he’s being, he’s still the painfully gorgeous silver-fox Malik Ellis. “I like them all.”
“Don’t lie. You have a favorite. I can see it on your face.”
I go to take a sip of my coffee and realize that there’s none left. Fuck. “Vicious Surrender,” I say, not looking at him.