Page 19 of Business or Pleasure

Even as I say it, I think about my bank account and how my most recent advance barely paid off one of my credit cards. How I love living with Noemie but how incredible it would be to have a place of my own. Joe indicated I’d be paid far more generously than I have in the past. That kind of money would give me space to decide what’s next. Freedom to figure out what, exactly, I’m meant to spend my life doing.

Although—oh god—I told Finn that my career was a mistake. If he remembers, he must not care to bring it up.

Then something else occurs to me. “You didn’t know who I was when I sat down out at the bar, did you? You thought you could seek me out and—” Seduce me is how I was going to finish the sentence, but the horrified look on Finn’s face stops me.

“No,” he says firmly. “We read all the samples and résumés blind to avoid bias. I read some of that Bachelor book and a couple chapters of Maddy DeMarco’s book earlier this week. I had no idea who you were.”

Marginally reassuring.

I let out a groan, dragging my spoon through what remains of the soup. “I can’t believe this is happening. We weren’t supposed to see each other again.”

Then his voice turns gentle, as though he’s realized I really am opposed to taking the job. Or maybe it’s genuine—I wouldn’t know. “Can you at least hear me out?”

The look on his face is so pained, I give in. “Fine. Go ahead. Plead your case. Tell me why this book is so important.”

Finn sets aside his silverware, clasping his hands together as he waits to come up with the right words. He did this yesterday, too, gave his mouth time to catch up to his brain. “Cons— conventions. That’s the majority of what I do these days. I sit at a table so people can pay two hundred dollars for an autograph and photo. I sit on panels talking about this thing I starred in nearly fifteen years ago, as though nothing I’ve done since can even remotely measure up. Because it hasn’t. And I love the fans of the show, I really do—but this isn’t what I thought I’d be doing with my career when I was just starting out.”

I can’t deny that sounds a little familiar.

“I can’t keep doing the con circuit forever,” he continues. “Hollywood still thinks I’m that lovesick guy pining for his werewolf girlfriend. I want this book to mean something—for it to be even a fraction as meaningful as The Nocturnals was for some of our fans. I really think it could do that. If it has the right author.” I don’t bother pointing out that Finn is technically the author. I’d just be the one holding the pen. “There are things I want in the book that I’ve never really talked about before. And I just... I’d love for this book to be able to help someone, if they’re in a similar place.” He gives me a sheepish shrug. “Sorry—you can understand why I can’t discuss the details without an NDA.”

The vagueness is mildly intriguing, but...

“I feel for you. I do.” If I can’t convince him with the sheer awkwardness of the two of us working together, I’ll use logic. “But I haven’t seen a single episode. Which is probably pretty obvious, since I didn’t recognize you.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’d research. And... I like that.” His gaze settles on me with a renewed determination, his voice even softer now. “I like that you’re not going in with some preconceived notions of who I am.”

When he leans forward, I have to fight the urge to hold a hand to my heart to keep it from speeding up. There’s a seriousness to him, one that seemed attractive yesterday and almost intimidating now. Twenty-four hours ago, we were strangers. Now, if Finn is to be believed, I might have the power to alter the trajectory of his career.

And he might be able to do the same with mine.

“I don’t want to grovel. But I will if I have to, Chandler.” The way he says my name—I try to ignore how it feels. How it reminds me of his voice wrapped about it last night. He does this professionally. Everything is an act, and there’s a distinct possibility all of this is a performance. I can’t let myself get steamrolled just because he’s reading from a please-pity-me script. “I didn’t want this process to be such a headache for everyone. I’d write the book myself, but all my attempts at even a paragraph are complete shit. We’ve had a few other phone calls, other meetings. Other writers. No one’s been the right fit. What Joe said earlier—we’ve turned people down. And others, well...” He grits his teeth, glances down at the table. “I may not have been the easiest person to work with. On occasion.”

“Shocker.”

“The publisher isn’t exactly thrilled about it.”

I bark out a laugh. “So I’m your last choice, is what you’re saying.”

“Absolutely not.” His voice is solid. “From the beginning, you were on our short list. The publisher just wanted to try some bigger names first.”

“Bigger names in the ghostwriting industry.”

He allows a half smile at this, as though realizing the irony. “People who’d written more books,” he clarifies. “So, no. You’re not my last choice, Chandler. But you might be my last hope.”

Oh.

Turns out, I don’t hate seeing a man grovel.

When I got the call from Stella, I assumed he was a C-lister desperate to extend his fifteen minutes of fame. And yet that’s not the vibe I’m getting at all.

Somehow, I’m starting to believe that he might actually be genuine.

“And what about the king-sized elephant in the room?”

His expression remains serene. “I can forget about it if you can.”

This hovers between us for a moment, until I’m the first to break eye contact. Forget about it. He makes it sound so easy, like I’m just one in a long line of women who’ve shared his bed and left unsatisfied.

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