Typist #2 - Spanking the Billionaire Novelist (8 page)

I spat on the ground, my mouth still tasting of bile. “Oh goody. Another surprise.”

He looked down at the ground between us, his expression forlorn. “I didn't want you to know how silly I was, and now you think I'm … a stalker.”

“The word I'm thinking of is psychopath.”

“When the employment agency sent me a short list of names, yours seemed familiar, so I checked my email.”

I looked at him sideways as the picture in my head shifted.

“So … are you saying it's a
coincidence
I'm here?”

“Not exactly. The other candidates were more qualified than you, and had done similar work in the past. I think the employment agency sent me your name just to flesh out the list. I should have picked the fifty-year-old lesbian. I would be much further along with my work.”

My eyebrows shot up. “I'm sorry, what? I'm slowing your work down? Oh, that takes the cake.”

I turned around and started jogging down the trail again.

He ran after me noisily, saying, “Ow, ow, ow!”

He caught up to me and grabbed my arm, which, of course, I violently pulled away from him in indignation.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he said, running alongside me.

I looked down to see he wasn't wearing any shoes.

He kept running, over the exposed tree roots and stones on the path.

My ice started to melt. The idea that he'd come after me with no shoes … it did something to me. His bare feet softened my heart.

I stopped and faced him, my hands on my hips.

“Now what?” I said.

“Will you go for dinner with me? That's what the surprise is. It's not at the cabin.”

“I need you to be honest with me. You recognized my name and then you emailed my mother and asked her about me?”

“No. I had a few emails with your mother back in January. She was feeling lonely after the holidays, and I could relate. I was in a dark place, and her messages were a welcome distraction.”

“No shit. My mom's awesome.”

His face relaxed as he laughed. “She is,” he said, nodding.

“Best mom in the world,” I said.

“Is that what it says on her favorite mug?”

“Stop talking about my mother. It's weird.”

He shrugged. “Life's weird. So, are you going to stay for dinner? I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I was afraid you'd react just like this.”

I looked up at the blue sky and the treetops. “How many times have I run away from you now? I swear, if you weren't such a Grade A Dillhole, I wouldn't get any exercise at all.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a hopeless romantic.”

“More like
hapless
romantic.”

He chuckled at my joke and winced as he picked a twig out from between his bare toes. He had a few cuts on his soles that were bleeding.

“Maybe this is our
thing
,” I said. “I run away and you chase me. It almost makes me wonder if you aren't pushing me away on purpose. Testing me or something.”

He said, “I don't know. I don't understand the things I do. Can I offer you a ride back to the cabin?”

“I guess so.” I started walking toward the four-wheeler.

He said, “I should still write for a few hours, but I can hunt-and-peck at the keyboard on my own for a bit, if you're not up to it.”

“So we're back to our regular schedule? Just like that? Typing, and then dinner?”

“A very special dinner. We'll probably leave at two o'clock so we can get there in time, so just a half-day of work. That is, if your migraine isn't coming on.”

He caught my hand in his and pulled me to face him.

We stared into each other's eyes, and the whole world shifted around me again, like giant building blocks falling into place. Smith Wittingham could date anyone, and he'd chosen me, from a photograph and an email from my mother. Anger and fear ran through me like noisy twins, rattling my nerves and making my heart beat faster.

But I was also flattered. I'd never had someone fall in love with my photo. Was it really that much different from someone spotting you from across a crowded bar and making his way over to buy you a drink? Granted, people didn't usually ship their crushes to Vermont to play games and write novels, but Smith wasn't a regular sort of guy. He was brilliant, handsome, and devious. He was also the most infuriating, fascinating person I'd ever met.

My voice trembled as I said, “Are we dating, or is this just more games?”

“It's a date, I guess. Does your generation actually date? I thought it was all hook-ups and friends-with-benefits.”

“You're not
that
much older than me.”

He squeezed my hand. “Thank you for saying that. Turning forty was difficult, and forty-one was worse, but you've made me feel like a new man.” He pulled me in for a hug. “Oh, Tori.”

“You make me feel different, too.”

He moved his hands to the sides of my face and held them there, gazing down into my eyes.

His voice husky and soft, he said, “Do I make you feel beautiful?”

“All over.”

He leaned in to kiss me, but I pushed him away, covering my mouth.

“I need to brush my teeth,” I said.

“I can never wait to kiss you,” he said, and he held me tight as he pressed his closed lips down on mine.

We kissed for a moment, then he disentangled himself from my arms and said, “As much as I could kiss you forever, we should get some work done before our ride gets here.”

“Our ride? Tell me more.”

“I arranged everything earlier while you were sleeping in.”

“Sounds exciting. Is it horses?”

He climbed onto the quad and patted the seat behind him. “Can't say. Surprise.”

I growled. “Surprises make me crazy. This had better be the good kind of surprise, not the I-stalked-you-through-your-mother type of surprise.”

“Pack an overnight bag.”

I growled again. “So mysterious!”

We drove the quad back to the cabin, and as I hugged my arms around Smith and rested my cheek against his back, I felt foolish for running away earlier. If you looked at my behavior objectively, I had done the sensible thing, of course, so I knew not to feel bad, but I still did. Every emotion within me had a dark twin.

At the cabin, we went upstairs and got some good work done on the manuscript. As usual, I lost myself in the story, barely aware of my fingers moving as the story flowed from Smith, through me, to the screen. In the story, Detective Dunham and his client, Sheri, had a terrible fight in which he insulted her manicure, saying that the unusual colors were “trashy.” She then chewed him out over his worn-down shoes and the dog hair affixed to his trench coat. They got so worked up arguing that they settled things by having sex in an alley, she with her back against a brick wall and her feet braced on another.

“You're squirming,” Smith said.

I typed in his words, but he wrapped his arms around me and pulled my hands away from the keyboard. “I meant you, Tori.”

“Was I?”

He reached a hand down and massaged my crotch, through my shorts.

He growled near my ear, “Did that scene get you all worked up?”

“No,” I lied.

He moaned and started kissing my earlobe. I turned around to meet his lips, but paused when I heard a noise. Something was happening outside, like a loud engine approaching.

I said, “Is that our ride? For dinner?”

Smith glanced over to the window. “I don't know. Does it sound like a helicopter?”

The sound got louder. I stared up at the ceiling of the cabin. “Is it going to land on the roof?”

He laughed. “The cabin's made of logs. It's not a concrete bunker. The helicopter will land in the back yard.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course. Helicopters always land in the back yard. Silly me.” I pretended to shoot myself in the temple. “
Poor people brains
,” I said.

He rolled my chair back and twirled me to face the door. “Race you to the helicopter,” he said. “Last one there has to fly the 'copter.”

“WHAT?”

He laughed and grabbed a small suitcase that was sitting at the foot of his bed, ready to go.

“It's just like a video game,” he joked.

I squealed as I jumped out of the chair. “I've never been in a helicopter.”

Smith winked at me. “Don't say I never take you out.”

I tore down the stairs and grabbed my backpack, already packed with things for overnight, and raced to meet Smith at the front door. The whole cabin shook as the helicopter landed. Or perhaps it was just my legs.

* the end of Typist #2 *

* to be continued ... *

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