Wickedly Charming (16 page)

“I know how to write,” Charming said softly.

“Well, of course you do,” Mellie said. “We all know how to write. Literacy became a requirement, what, two hundred years ago?”

He picked up his own fork and picked at the cinnamon roll. His heart was pounding. He wasn't quite sure why. What was he risking here?

He wasn't sure he wanted to answer that question, even to himself.

“I mean,” he said softly. “I know how to write fiction.”

She dropped her bit of cinnamon roll. “How come you didn't tell me this before?”

He shrugged. He was about to make a blithe comment, then he stopped himself. Honesty. He needed to be honest with this woman.

“I figured you'd want to do it,” he said.

“I don't even like to read,” she said. “Why would I want to write?”

Good point. He hadn't thought about that part until just now. “I just figured, it's your story.”

“Like that has stopped people before,” she said.

His gaze met hers. She was so beautiful. He wasn't being entirely honest. He didn't want to write her story because he didn't want to do anything that would drive her away. And writing—that really was about honesty. The good and the bad.

“I probably couldn't write this book,” he said.

Her eyebrows curved into matching perfect Ns. “Why not?”

“Um, because I'm male?” he said.

“What?” she asked as if he were making a comment as offensive as Bourke's. “What does
that
mean?”

“Um,” Charming said, unable to find his verbal footing. “It means that this is a woman's book, for women, about women's issues. It's not really… cool… to have a man write it… um… because the woman… can't.”

He winced, and she glared at him. He'd really blown it now. He'd insulted her as badly as Bourke had.

Charming wanted to pick up his briefcase and leave. But he didn't dare. Not when she was staring at him so intently.

“I can't believe you just said that,” she said.

He held his breath, bracing for the worst.

Charming had a horrible look on his face, as if he expected her to slap him.

What kind of person did he think she was? If she were easily offended, she'd be hiding in a room in the Kingdoms, rather than making her way through the Greater World.

“Good heavens,” she said. “How ridiculous can you get?”

His beautiful blue eyes opened and he leaned away from the table, as if he expected a slap. He wasn't timid—if he were timid, he wouldn't have stood up to Bourke—but he was emotionally fragile.

Mellie didn't know if that was Ella's fault or the fault of Charming's father, and at the moment, she didn't care. She was more intrigued by Charming's reaction and his idea.

“You're being politically correct, aren't you?” Mellie asked.

“Um,” he said, gulping air as he spoke.

“That's a Greater World thing, isn't it?” she said.

“Um—”

“I mean, really, what am I supposed to do if I want to change the world and I need help doing it? Enlist only women because it's a women's cause?”

“It's been done before,” he said, then bit his lower lip. He looked very uncomfortable. And vulnerable.

And cute. She had never thought of him as cute before, but he was when he lost that cool façade, a façade that seemed more about hiding shyness than actually being cool.

She tried not to smile. She had riled him. She liked that. Beneath the cool exterior of this man was tamped down passion, passion he seemed afraid of.

“So who would I enlist?” Mellie asked. “Selda? She's already told me she hates writing. Lavinia? She knows nothing about the Greater World. Snow? She hates my guts. Ella? She—”

Mellie stopped herself before she said something she regretted. She always did that. She let down her guard and she said something stupid.

“It's okay,” Charming said in a flat tone. “She's not much of a mother, so how would she be a stepmother?”

His tone was so sad, so wistful, that Mellie reached across the table and caught his hand. She didn't say anything. After all, he had finished the very sentence that she had been about to say. He often said what was on her mind. He had with Bourke. And even if he didn't, she liked the way that Charming thought.

She liked him. She liked him so much.

“You said you can write fiction,” she said. “How do you know that?”

He shrugged one shoulder again.

“Charming,” she said. “You can't make a statement like that without backing it up.”

“I've… written a few things,” he said. But that sounded like a lie. Only “lie” was too harsh. It sounded more like a humble misdirection.

“How few?” she asked.

That shoulder went up and down again.

“Charming…”

He sighed. “I don't know. I wrote a lot when I first came to the Greater World.”

“And put it all in a drawer?” she asked.

“Noooo,” he said.

“What did you do with it?” she asked.

“Sold it,” he whispered.

“To…?”

“Magazines,” he said. “They're called little magazines. And literary magazines. And some digests.”

“Under what name?” she asked.

“Names,” he whispered.

She rolled her eyes. “Is any of your writing here?” she asked, putting her hand on one of the pile of books.

“No,” he said. Then he leaned forward. “I can understand why you'd want to see my writing first—”

“Hell, no,” she said. “I'm just relieved you've done a lot of it. If you were to ghost my novel, how would it work?”

He looked at her as if she had grown another head. She almost touched her neck to make sure she hadn't.

“I don't know,” he said. “I mean, you'd have to tell me what you want.”

“You're the guy with the vision,” she said.

“But it would be your book,” he said.

“If I could write the damn book, I would,” she said. “So how would this work?”

“We'd come up with a story together,” he said, “and then I'd write it. And we'd put your name on it.”

“Which name?” she asked. “The Evil Stepmother?”

“Um, no. We'd use your Greater World name.”

He was being serious and she had been snide. He had caught her off guard again, and when she was off guard, she was snide. It was a defense, and not an attractive one.

She didn't know how to be attractive to this man, a man every woman watched: from the business women in the coffee shop to the Goth barista behind the counter.

Her hand still held his, and he hadn't tried to move away. But maybe that wasn't because he liked touching her. Maybe that was because he was still talking.

She had to focus on what he was saying.

“…and we should probably have another story lined up, because it might take a book or two before we get it right.”

“By right, you mean without rants,” she said.

“Oh, no,” he said. “We'll put your rants in. If we do it right, they'll be one of the most memorable parts of the story.”

Then he blinked at her, his eyes widening. She was beginning to realize that was his look of dismay.

“I mean, you know, your opinions. It's not fair to call them rants.”

“It is too,” she said. “I like to rant. I'm good at it.”

He nodded, then winced again. Poor man. How many people had yelled at him for his opinion?

“Do I pay you?” she asked. “Is that how this works?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then frowned. Then opened his mouth again and closed it again.

“I don't need money,” he said after a moment.

“You told me at that book fair that ghosts got paid,” she said.

“I did,” he said.

“So if you do this as a favor, neither of us will be happy,” she said. “We need to keep it strictly business.”

He looked down. She had a sense that he was disappointed, but at what, she wasn't sure.

“Yeah, you're right,” he said after a moment.

“So how do I pay you?”

“If it sells,” he said, “fifty-fifty split?”

“When you're doing all the work?”

“You'll do all the publicity,” he said.

She caught her breath. Then she shook her head. “No,” she said. “You're the charming one.”

“You're the one with opinions,” he said.

“You're the one who can sway people to your point of view,” she said.

“You're the person with the agenda,” he said.

“I'm the person people don't like,” she said.

“But you're
interesting
,” he said.

“And you're not?” she asked.

“No,” he said softly. “Not really.”

She stared at him for a long moment, this handsome, charming man with two daughters and a long life, a man who liked to read and knew about all kinds of things, a man who cared deeply about things. This man thought himself uninteresting.

In fact, he didn't think himself uninteresting. He seemed convinced of it.

She knew from long experience that telling him he was interesting wouldn't help him. She would have to show him.

“Fifty-fifty,” she said.

He nodded.

“You write, I promote,” she said.

He nodded again.

“Not every book gets promoted, though,” she said. “I mean I've never heard of half these books.”

She waved her hands at the books on the table.

“If your book is one of those that gets no promotion,” he said, “you can do it yourself. It'll be your excuse to call radio stations and do online chats.”

“It didn't work for PETA,” she said.

He blinked at her. Apparently he'd forgotten the acronym.

“People—”

“I know,” he said, and she realized then that he wasn't blinking oddly because he had forgotten the acronym, but because he was being polite. “It's not the same.”

“I can rant when I have a book, but not when I have a cause?” she asked, feeling confused.

“Do you watch television?” he asked. “Listen to talk radio?”

“Not really,” she said. “I mean, I watch TV shows. With plots. But not that talky stuff. It has nothing to do with me.”

He nodded. “It will now.”

She picked up her fork and finally ate that bite of cinnamon roll. It tasted good. Her coffee was cold, but she didn't care. She was using the time to think as much as to refresh herself.

“You really don't mind writing this?” she asked.

“It will be fun,” he said.

“But you have your daughters, your bookstore—”

“My bookstore is in the Kingdoms,” he said. “I'm not going there for a while.”

“You said you were going to open one here,” she said.

“The last thing LA needs is another bookstore,” he said.

She frowned. She wasn't sure she agreed with that.

“Besides,” he said. “I can look for suitable property while I'm writing the book.”

“Will you have time?” she asked.

“Writing would keep me at home with the girls,” he said. “And they need me right now.”

Writing would keep him home. He wouldn't have time to see Mellie. But they could stay in contact. And that would be good, right? And when the book was done, maybe he would think favorably of her. Maybe he would be comfortable enough to introduce her to his girls.

Maybe they could spend some real time together, not talking about books or fairy tales or evil stepmothers.

She took a deep breath. “What about me?” she asked. “How would I be involved?”

“After we do the planning?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“I'd write it, and then you'd read it.”

“But the rants,” she said. “Would I get to write those?”

“When we get to rant time,” he said, “I'll call you and ask for one.”

Not visit her, not meet her in the coffee shop. Call her. She took a deep breath. “So,” she said, “a collaboration wouldn't mean working together every day?”

“No,” he said.

“But Dave said that he has to write in this room with other writers—”

“That's television,” Charming said. “We're doing a novel. Novels are solitary activities.”

“Even with two authors?”

He looked at her. Her cheeks heated. “I mean one author and one… ranter?”

He smiled. It was a warm smile. She really liked all his smile variations. “Even with two authors,” he said. “One cover name and one ghost.”

She took another bite of the cinnamon roll, trying to figure out how to ask the next question. “What if I don't like what you've done?”

“Then we don't submit it to publishers,” he said.

“You wouldn't mind?” she asked.

“I'd mind,” he said. “Didn't you mind when I was less than enthusiastic about your pages?”

“Less than enthusiastic,” she said. He
was
good with words. Because that was an understatement.

“We'll need something in writing,” he said. “Some kind of agreement. Something simple. And we can meet to talk about this, and plan it, but not here.”

“Why not here?” she asked.

He looked pointedly at the guy in the baseball cap who had interrupted their fight with Bourke. Then Charming looked at the barista.

“You want to talk about the Kingdoms here?” he asked softly.

“Point taken,” Mellie said.

“Besides,” the baseball cap guy said, “someone might steal your ideas.”

“And write an unproducible screenplay,” Mellie snapped.

Charming chuckled. To her surprise, so did the baseball cap guy. He got up, grabbed his laptop and his briefcase, and came over to their table.

“You two are entertaining,” he said. “You finish your little project, whatever it is, and call me. I'll help you promote it.”

He dropped a business card on the table and then, without a word, left the shop. Mellie picked up the card. The man's name was emblazoned across it, with a company logo below, and the word Publicist in big letters.

She handed it to Charming. “Do you know what that is?” she asked.

“Twenty thousand dollars a month that we don't need to spend,” Charming said.

She looked at the door. “He makes twenty thousand a month?”

“If he works in this town, he does,” Charming said. “But he is spending his afternoons here, so he's probably just getting started.”

Mellie took the card back. “So are we,” she said.

“It's a deal, then?” Charming asked.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “It's a deal.”