Page 54 of Between the Lines

“Mm-hmm.” She sounds like she’s not entirely sure of that.

That makes me chuckle. “Don’t believe me? I’ve read most of the books you’ve ghostwritten in the past few weeks. You’re a good writer.”

Her eyes widen. “Most?I’ve ghostwritten almost a dozen.”

“I think I’ve read seven or so.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Which one was your favorite?”

I smile at her attempt to trap me. “The Alaskan musher, Alice Copeland. But I quite like the one about the Olympic swimmer, too, like I mentioned.”

“When do you have the time to read?”

“Audiobooks are a great invention, Chaos.”

She blows out a breath. “You’re always surrounded by people. By me, this past week or so.”

“Not always,” I say. Sleeping isn’t something I’m great at, at least not when I’m focused on business. Or distracted by other things, or… individuals.

Her audiobooks have kept me company during the dark nights. Even if the stories are about other people, and the narrator is someone unknown, the words are hers.

She shakes her head and looks down at her laptop. “Okay. So… you’re okay with this narrative? The chapter structure I laid out?”

It makes sense. Of course it does, and I don’t have to like it to see the commerciality of what she’s organized. It’s a good story. I just don’t know if I want it told about myself and my family.

But I swallow my apprehension. “Yes. But fine-tooth comb, Chaos.”

“Fine-tooth comb,” she agrees. Then she starts putting her things together and reaching for her empty takeout box. I watch her throw it in the trash.

It’s late. So far, she’s spent most of her time in her room, staying out of the way, except for the times we have scheduled to work on the book together.

I push off the chair and walk over to the neatly stacked pile of her things. That damn notepad that she scribbles in all the time is on the top.

I grab it and sit back on the chair, flipping it open. “What kind of notes do you take in this thing, anyway?”

“Just observations. Anecdotes. Things I might use in my writing.”

Her handwriting is slanted, just faintly cursive. She writes in black ink. The last few days’ notes are neatly scribed here, with the dates written at the top.

Meeting with his team about the purchase of BingeBox. A is direct, firm, and makes harsh demands while smiling. Easy to see how he gets his way.

“A?” I ask. “Is Aiden too long to write?”

“It’s code,” she says, her voice sarcastic.

“Hard to crack. I see that I’m both potentially jealous and fragile of ego.” I flip another few pages and find the day she came to the gym. She had her notepad with her then, too.

“‘Working out with A,’” I read out loud. “‘He gets up ridiculously early. Probably cold plunges and listens to an audiobook at 6x speed. Obnoxious in the gym. He has white shoes with black shoelaces. Seems to enjoy bicep curls. Muscles and vanity are clearly important. What a scoop! God, he’s such a dick.’” I look up at her. “I’m a dick?”

“You were being a dick at that moment,” she says and snatches the book from me. She closes it with an audible snap. “That was then, and I was annoyed at your evasiveness. I’ve gotten much better information since then.”

“That’s what worries me.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “Right.”

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