Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I’m standing here, looking a bit schleppy in a loose sweatshirt and jeans, and my new boss is a literal literary legend with biceps that should require a license.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, trying not to sound breathless. “Camille didn’t say who— I mean, she just said, you know, ‘the client.’ She said your name was Sam Smith.”
He smirks, and for a moment, I see a glimmer of something boyish in the ice. “Camille likes her secrets, and yeah, the Sam Smith thing is just a decoy. Otherwise, everyone would know who I am and where I’m hiding.”
I laugh, a high, awkward sound. My heart is thumping so hard it might register on the Richter scale.
Talon glances at my bag, then at my hair, and his mouth twitches at one corner. “She also said you’d had some recent changes.”
“Yeah,” I say, running a self-conscious hand through my golden mane. “Apparently, pink wasn’t part of the aesthetic.”
He just shrugs, unfazed. “I like it.” His gaze lingers a second longer than it should on my breasts, and it’s all I can do not to combust on the spot.
“Come on inside,” he says, turning on his heel. “It’s chilly today, and you look like you could use coffee.”
I follow, feeling the heat in my face and chest, trying not to trip on my own shoes. If this is a dream, it’s the kind where you know you’re out of your league, but you’re too hungry for it to wake up.
The sound of the axe still echoes in my bones. The forest is silent again, but I can’t shake the feeling that somehow I just landed in hot water … with my sexy boss about to join me.
Mr. McKnight holds the door for me, and I catch a flash of his bare forearm before I register what’s happening. The hairs stand up on my nape—this is not the way you meet a celebrity, or even a boss. This is the way you meet the very specific man your mother warned you about, the kind who will ruin you for everyone else, then walk away with zero emotional hangover.
I step into the cabin’s entryway and immediately lose my balance—not from the threshold, but from the assault of woodsmoke, lemon cleaner, and hot, living body. There’s a fire burning somewhere, its heat suffusing the place in a slow, even glow. The floor is a herringbone of old pine, so clean I could eat off it. On the walls, there are framed first editions, each with a custom nameplate: Hemingway, Chandler, Highsmith, LeGuin. The air in here is alive, vibrating with the words of people who made a living off their obsessions. I suppose it makes sense, seeing that my new employer also makes an excellent living writing novels.
He gestures to a bench where I can leave my suitcase, then disappears into the kitchen without another word. I stand in the entry, suddenly aware of how sweaty my own hands are, and try to recall the last time I ate anything that wasn’t sugar and caffeine.
In the next room, I hear the thud of a fridge, then the clink of a mug on granite. A moment later, Mr. McKnight returns, shirtless, wiping his hands on a towel. My eyes can’t help themselves—they track the deep V of his torso, the way his jeans ride low enough to show the shadow of his abs and the dark line of hair running beneath the waistband. There’s a splay of old scars on his ribs, jagged and pale against the tan. His right bicep is inked with a sleeve of black and blue, an intricate tangle of birds and barbed wire. I want to touch it. I want to lick it, and immediately catch myself. You can’t be having these thoughts about your new boss, the voice in my head screams. He’s not paying you money to ogle him.
Yet why did Mr. McKnight take off his shirt then? I still don’t get it but put it out of my head because I need to keep my wits about me at the moment.
He hands me a mug. “I didn’t know if you wanted cream or not.”
“Black is perfect,” I manage, and clutch the mug with both hands, hoping it will keep them from shaking.
He leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, and just stares. Not rude, not even curious—just watching, like he’s waiting for me to crack first. The silence stretches, thick and pulsing.
“So, you’re the writer,” I blurt, voice a wreck. “I mean, the writer I’m supposed to assist.”
He smirks. “Unless there’s another writer with my name scribbling in the woods, yeah. That’s me.”
I laugh, because the alternative is to faint. “I read, like, all your books in high school. My friends and I used to sneak them into AP Lit class and trade them when the teacher wasn’t looking.”