Page 49 of Business or Pleasure

I push my phone away from the pool—but not too far. “Anyway, you don’t need a whole history about my parents.”

“What if I want to hear about Mr. and Mrs. Cohen?” He maneuvers into a back float, flashing me a Cheshire cat grin. “It’s going to get pretty boring if I’m the only one who has to talk. I want to know things about you, too.”

And then he swims off, sending a splash in my direction.

chapter

thirteen

MEMPHIS, TN

Memphis is an easy city to fall in love with, which I do almost instantly. It’s rich with history and culture, alive. The sun seems to follow us down streets of brick buildings, warming our necks and washing the whole place in amber hues.

We take a tour of Sun Studio, where Finn insists on snapping a photo of me holding the microphone Elvis supposedly used to record his first song. I roll my eyes when he shows it to me. I’m glaring at the camera, looking altogether too serious: shoulders hitched, jaw set, my free hand in a tight fist at my hip. “Future album art for your solo riot grrrl revival act,” he says, grinning at it.

Then we go to the Civil Rights Museum and stroll along Beale Street, which strikes me as a bit of a tourist trap with its flashing neon signs and endless souvenir shops—but then again, that’s exactly what we are. By the time we sit down for authentic Memphis barbecue—jackfruit for Finn—he’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. His freckles are sun-warmed, eyes bright, and he’s casual in worn jeans and a T-shirt that says Mordor Fun Run, and in small letters beneath it: One Does Not Simply Walk.

The restaurant is cozy, wooden tables and walls covered with vintage posters of country music stars, Johnny Cash playing from the staticky speakers, and all of it makes me feel like I might be able to relax a little, too. Finn was right about those hotels feeling stifling. We sent our teams an outline yesterday, so it feels like we’ve earned this time to explore. Now we’re just waiting for their approval before we start writing.

I reach across the checked tablecloth for a bottle of barbecue sauce. “I thought this looked familiar. My cousin got this in a barbecue sauce subscription box once.” When Finn gives me a quizzical look, I elaborate. “She’s a little obsessed with getting surprises in the mail each month. It almost doesn’t matter what they are, as long as there’s a box to open. She loved this one—I’ll have to grab a bottle for her before we leave.”

“You and your cousin are close,” he muses. “You talk about her a lot.”

I nod. “Noemie and I—we grew up together. Went to the same schools, same college, even same major, before she decided on the more pragmatic and more financially stable path of public relations. And I live with her. We might as well be sisters, honestly.”

“I used to want a sibling.” He digs a fork into his coleslaw. “But I had Krishanu at least, and we were pretty inseparable for a while.” He mentioned him a couple days ago: Krishanu Pradhan, his childhood best friend, who still lives in Reno and teaches high school English. “You’ll meet him in a few weeks, too.”

“I can’t wait. I hope he has embarrassing stories.”

“Too many, probably.”

“What does Finnegan Walsh do when he’s not filming or on the road?” I ask. “What’s real life like for you?”

“This is my real life,” he says, matter-of-fact.

I shake my head. “No, no, no. Real life is when you’re at home and no one else is around, so you lick the sauce off a plate of spaghetti or walk around naked or pee in the shower. That’s what readers want.”

“They want me to pee in the shower?”

“Metaphorically, yes.”

Finn takes a moment to consider this as the music changes to Dolly Parton. “It’s very boring, actually. A lot of cooking. A lot of reading. Sometimes I’ll video-chat with my mom or Krishanu.” He shrugs. “I shot another Hallmark movie that’ll be out in December, but I wanted to focus on the book, so I don’t have anything else in development right now. It’s funny—when I’m home, I miss being on the road. And of course, when I’m on the circuit, all I want is to go home.”

There’s a heartbreak carved into those words, intentional or not. Both options seem deeply lonely: at home by himself or on the road surrounded by people who know his character but not him.

“That’s exactly why I took this job.” I take the most heavenly bite of pulled pork. “Because I’ve never really left Seattle.”

“Ah, so you’d have said yes to anyone who asked you to write a book for them if it meant following them around the country.” He slices off a piece of corn bread, and now that I know the reason for it, I do my best not to stare. “How’d you get into ghostwriting?”

“Sort of stumbled into it, really,” I say, explaining the job posting, finding Stella, writing Amber Y’s book, and the other two that were less than satisfying. How, because of the secrecy surrounding it, I was worried at the beginning that someone might discover who I was and I’d get in trouble, somehow. My anxiety wouldn’t let me exhale until I was halfway through my second book. Once I even found a Reddit thread where people were trying to unmask the identity of Amber Y’s ghostwriter and I spent a solid hour raking through my social media, even though I was certain nothing could trace her book back to me. No stray pieces of paper or corners of my laptop screen where someone could zoom in and find a paragraph from Don’t Ask Y. Still, even looking at the thread felt like hovering over a paper shredder with my NDA.

“When I first met you,” he says, as though it’s just occurring to him, “you said you were having some kind of career crisis. This isn’t your dream job, I’m guessing?”

I’d kind of been hoping he’d forget about that. “That night... well, I was there for Maddy DeMarco’s book, which I’m guessing you know now. I went up to have her sign my copy, told her my full name... and she didn’t even know who I was.” I stare down at my nails, repainted last night with a pale blue I brought with me, picking at my thumb as I recall the way my heart sank to my toes. “That’s why I was so miserable when you met me.”

Finn just blinks, trying to comprehend it. “You wrote that whole book for her, and she didn’t have a clue who you were?”

“I barely talked to her during the writing process. That’s part of why I said yes to this—because I’d actually get to work with you.” My cheeks turn warm, even though he must know I mean it on a purely professional level.

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