Page 34 of Between the Lines

“Homework.” He does another pull-down. “What is it?”

“Think of an anecdote. Just one, that illustrates something about you or your past that you think is relevant.”

“I don’t spend much time sitting and just thinking about myself.”

I push off the Pilates ball as gracefully as possible. “First of all, I don’t think that’s true for asecond. And even if it is… just try. Running a companycannotbe easier than sharing a little info about yourself.”

A curved smile stretches across his face. “You’re angry.”

“No,” I say, but my clipped voice betrays me. “I’m being professional. Which means that I care about delivering a comprehensive and moving first draft of your story.”

Aiden rises off the bench, and I lose my height advantage. He runs a hand through his mussed hair, and I hate that he looks so much more like the man I met weeks ago and not the tailored suit-clad CEO I’ve been faced with lately.

“The next time slot on our schedule is a car drive tomorrow evening to the fundraising event,” he says in another stunning display of changing the subject.

I want to cross my arms over my chest.

I want to tell him that he’s being obstinate.

“Yes, we have about forty minutes.”

“The invitation includes a plus-one,” he says and takes a step closer. His eyes are locked on mine, and there’s that glint in them again, like he’s setting me up for a challenge. Like he wants to see if I’ll back down. “Come to the event with me.”

It will give me more time with him. And time to observe him in his natural habitat. My teeth dig into my lower lip. Right now, I don’t want to spend any more time with him than I absolutely have to.

But I have a book to finish. And the sooner I get the details I can from him, the sooner I can retreat to my writing cave and just focus on creating output.

“I’ll go.”

His mouth curves. “Need a dress? My assistant can take you to the stores. It’s on me.”

That makes my eyes narrow. “I have dresses. Thank you. And I’m not sure that would be a good use of Eric’s time.”

“Just asking,” he says, still smiling. He walks over to grab his water bottle and runs a white towel over his face. “And Eric wouldn’t be going. It would be my personal assistant.”

“Eric isn’t your personal assistant?”

“He’s my executive assistant, and handles my work engagements.” Aiden hangs the towel around his neck, and the room feels too small, with so much masculinity on display. “Elena is my personal assistant. She takes care of personal travel, household maintenance, that sort of thing.”

Right.

He’s as close to American royalty as they come. This is just another reminder of everything that makes his world different from mine—the helpful hands and money and redirected responsibilities.

I open my mouth to ask if he can get Eric to send me the details for the event.

But Aiden speaks first. “And no, I don’t think Elena or Eric would be good interview subjects.”

My mouth clamps shut. They would beexcellentinterview subjects.

Why does it feel like he’s sabotaging his own memoir?

CHAPTER 13

CHARLOTTE

I lied.

I don’t have a dress. Not one fit for a gala, anyway, in the suitcases I brought to Los Angeles. The nomadic lifestyle has its downside sometimes.

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