Page 13 of Between the Lines

This is the best possible celebration I could ever have for finishing my last ghostwriting project.

He grabs my hips for leverage, and when he comes, his face tightens with pleasure that makes him look like he’s in pain. It’s perfect. I feel like a sex goddess again, Charlotte of the Night.

“Charlotte,” he says later, when the condom is discarded and our breathing is under control. “I live in LA.”

My brain feels shot. A jumble of pleasure, awash in sensations.

Slowly, his words pierce through. “What?”

“I live in LA. Let me show you around when you arrive.”

The pleasure inside me spikes. He hadn’t mentioned that earlier when I said where I was headed. I look at Aiden across the bed. The sheets are messed up. We’ve fallen on either side of the California king. Only one hotel room… and the smartest thing is for us to just share.

I raise my eyebrows. “Are you asking for my number?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “I am.”

I twist, wanting a better look at him. His eyes are so unusual. A light-green color I’ve never seen before. They meet mine without any hesitation. He’s not embarrassed to have asked, not worried about my response. He’s not backtracking.

He’s going to be different from everyone I’ve been with before.

I push off the mattress and slip out of bed. I’m fully naked and terrifyingly aware of it. Aiden watches me walk over to the desk.

I reach for a notepad and pen.Red Rock Resortis printed at the top in gold letters. I write my number quickly, feeling his gaze on my exposed body.

When I’m done, I turn to glance at Aiden. He’s lounging in the bed. Fully naked. An arm bent behind his neck. And his eyes searing me.

“Call me,” I say.

CHAPTER 6

CHARLOTTE

Two weeks later, I’m in Los Angeles, and Aiden has not called.

Not the day after our hook-up. Not the week after. I’ve stopped hoping for a text.

The small apartment that has been rented for me is in the Westwood area, in a condominium filled with short-term rentals, mostly occupied by students. A small living room, an even smaller bedroom, and a minuscule kitchen. It’s clean, though, with only nominal wear and tear from the people who had lived here previously.

I pause, running my hand over the the small wooden table. There’s a fake bouquet of tulips in a vase.

This place reminds me of the cast accommodations during the LA press junket ahead of the release ofThe Gamble. Small, impersonal, clean.

I hate that.

It’s been almost ten years sinceThe Gamble. Ten years since I was a naive nineteen-year-old and too-hopeful to know what I was getting into when I signed onto the reality show.

Nearly a decade since I’ve been back in LA.

I grab the fake tulips and shove them into the back of a kitchen cabinet. Tomorrow I’ll go buy fresh flowers or a pottedplant. A throw blanket for the couch. Anything to make this space feel just a little bit less generic.

The round dining room table is covered with a stack of papers for this job. The job Istillknow almost nothing about. Not even the name of the subject. All I know is that it’s a man and that he runs a big company. But that’s it.

I signed the contract today, and Vera told me that she would send over the packet with the information ASAP. That was hours ago, and she still hasn’t. My editor at Polar Publishing is usually on top of things. We’ve worked together for almost five years at this point, ever since she scouted me as a young, independent, freelancing ghostwriter. Jointly, we’ve produced almost a dozen memoirs and biographies over the years.

She promised me that if I hit this next book out of the park, we’d talk about getting me on a contract for a non-fiction book under my very own name. Investigative journalism on a topic that we’ll brainstorm together. Not someone else’s story; but, a tightly woven narrative about the lives of many.

The carrot—dangled.

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