Page 18 of Business or Pleasure

Strange that his manager would answer this instead of him. I glance over at Finn, waiting for him to add something, given this whole discussion hinges on a book that’s, well, about him.

But he just nods, finally seeming to give up on the juice stain and adding one last napkin to the pile to his left. “Joe pretty much covered it.”

Okay then.

Our food arrives, and I dig into my curried pumpkin soup like the lifeline it is, trying not to estimate the cost-per-spoonful. It doesn’t escape my attention that Finn does the same thing with the utensils that he did at the pizza place. He inspects them in this surreptitious way, as though he doesn’t want anyone to catch him doing it. Then he carefully saws off a hunk of bun and portobello with a knife and fork. Meanwhile, Joe grabs his burger and takes a huge bite, either used to Finn’s habits or unaware.

“Let’s talk logistics,” Joe says, dipping a sweet potato fry into eggless aioli. “We’ve made arrangements with the publisher to accommodate Finn’s schedule, so you’d be accompanying him around the country as he attends various conventions he’s already committed to.”

“Oh—I see. My agent didn’t mention that. I... haven’t really traveled much.” This seems like the most professional way of saying that I can’t afford it.

Joe waves this off. “The hotels, the flights—all of that’s covered, along with what I think you’ll find is a very reasonable per diem. And I spoke with your agent, and we’d be happy to negotiate a thirty percent increase on what you were paid for your last book.”

I choke on a pomegranate seed, trying and failing to act as though it’s normal to be receiving this kind of offer—if it’s even an offer. I hate how appealing it sounds after the shit show with Maddy. Even with personal trainer Bronson’s book, we were on such an accelerated schedule that our calls and meetings never left much room for the writing to breathe. I’ve never done anything like this: getting to know a subject on a level this deep before writing about them.

I try to imagine it, sitting in a corner with my notebook while people dressed as otherworldly creatures pose for photos with Finn.

Then I push it all out of my mind, out of the restaurant, into the compost bins outside. There’s just no way that my next project is writing a memoir for my failed one-night stand. I’d laugh if I weren’t thisclose to spontaneously combusting from the sheer embarrassment of it all.

“We expect the work to last up until the reunion,” Joe continues.

“Reunion?” I repeat, hoping I haven’t missed something else.

“For The Nocturnals,” Finn says. It’s the first time he’s spoken directly to me in at least ten minutes. At this mention of the show, he seems to come back to himself, straightening in his chair as he continues to slice off sections of his burger. “They haven’t officially announced it yet, but we’ve all signed on. A special to mark ten years since the finale aired. It’ll be taped at the beginning of December.”

“My cousin will be over the moon. She’s a huge fan.”

Joe smiles again. “And then you can finish writing on your own—of course, with Finn and the publisher’s input, but that part can be done primarily remotely. You’ll have all the access to him that you want.”

Oh, I’ve already had plenty.

My traitorous body heats up. All of this is too much, and Noemie’s business casual is nearly suffocating me. Death by ruffles. I tug at the collar of the blouse. Cross and uncross my legs, accidentally flashing my bruise.

“That looks painful,” Finn says, and I can see it in his eyes: the chance to gain control over the situation. “How’d you get that?”

I do my best to send him a glare as I sink my spoon into the soup bowl, bright orange sloshing over the side.

A phone rings, and Joe reaches to pull it out of his pocket. “Would you two excuse me? I have to take this. It’s Blake,” he says with a knowing roll of his eyes, and I mouth, Lively? to Finn, whose mouth only twitches in response.

Once Joe leaves, all the questions and confusion about Finn rise to the surface. My grip tightens on my spoon. Because I’m not just confused—I’m angry. Angry he lied to me, angry I’m sitting here like a fucking idiot with my delicious pumpkin soup while his manager taunts me with an amazing job I absolutely cannot take. My mind was made up as soon as I saw him sitting here.

“You gave me a fake name.” Somehow, this is the first thing that comes out.

Almost too calmly, Finn nudges a fry with his fork. “Typically not my opening line. ‘Nice to meet you, I was on a TV show about werewolves in the early to mid-aughts, some weather we’re having.’ ”

“You said you were here on ‘business’ ”—I make a show of the most obnoxious air quotes to ever air quote—“and that you work in tech sales!” When a woman at the table next to us glances over, I lower my voice. “I bet you aren’t even a Lord of the Rings fan.”

“That one is real. You heard me speak Quenya.” He crosses his arms over his chest, remembers the stain, and thinks better of it. “And I am here on business. I make money off sales of autographs and photos, so...” His gaze flicks around the room, and then, seeing everyone’s immersed in their meals and his manager is still outside: “Besides, if I recall correctly, you were the one who snuck out of my room this morning. If anyone has the right to be upset here, I think it’s me.”

And yet he’s so composed, so seemingly unbothered now that the initial shock has worn off, that it makes me even angrier.

“It doesn’t matter,” I hiss. I have no desire to litigate who has the right to be more offended, and definitely no desire to talk about why I left. “I’m not doing this.”

He blinks at me. A lock of hair has fallen over one eyebrow in a way I’m sure his mid-aughts fangirls, Noemie included, would lose their minds over. Too bad I can’t take him seriously when Bewitching Beet is spilled down the front of his shirt. “Just like that, huh? You’re not even going to consider it?”

“I’ve heard enough. It’s a conflict of interest.” I purse my lips, hoping I appear decisive. Resolute. “I realize that maybe you’re not used to not getting what you want, but there it is. You can find someone else to write what I’m sure is the riveting story of your life. Can’t wait to find it in a bargain bin at Goodwill in two years.”

The burn lands the way I want it to. Finn recoils for a moment, brows coming together to form an offended little wrinkle. I won’t allow myself to feel sorry for him. Maybe I didn’t watch his show, but I’m sure he makes enough on merchandising and reruns to fund a lifestyle that’s far more lavish than mine. And now he’s doing what every bored white guy of a certain age tries to do: write a book about himself.

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