Page 169 of Between the Lines

Just like he’s doing with this interview.

I put on my workout clothes.

There have been times when running is the only thing that got me through the day. Feeling my feet hit the ground and my lungs ache, like I could leave whatever was eating at me behind.

It’s what got me out of my childhood bedroom, out of my parents’ house, afterThe Gambleaired. I hid in bed for weeks. Barely venturing down for dinner, not talking to friends, hardly interacting with family. Until my best friend showed up outside my door in her workout clothes, insisting we go for a walk.

It turned into a run, and soon, I started going on my own. Listening to nothing but the pounding of my feet against the grounds.

The paved streets around Bel Air aren’t as comforting as the dirt trails through the woods around Elmhurst. There are no sidewalks, only asphalt-covered surfaces made for speeding cars. I run to the trailhead I discovered earlier and hit the packed gravel ground. I jog up and up until I feel the high. Run until I have to slow to a walk, and walk until I can finally run again. I repeat the pattern until the buzzing in my mind dies down.

I don’t have to be in the article.

I’ll send Ms. Kingsley a text tomorrow or the day after, a kind but firm request that any mention of me be omitted. Of course, she warned me that might not be enough. It’s open season for anyone to bring up my name. Lord knows I’m well aware of that.

But it’s the only defense I’ve got.

I walk back to Aiden’s house. My mind might have cleared from the low buzz of irritation, but my body has not.

Aiden must be home now. There’s a massive bouquet of flowers on the kitchen island, with a small note attached. I glance at it.

To my favorite writer.

I let the card fall from my hands and set off in search of him.

CHAPTER 60

CHARLOTTE

I find him eventually, following the deep tones of his voice to the half-open door of his study. He’s sitting at his desk, leaning back. His eyebrows are drawn low. “That’s good,” he mutters. “Nora Stone agreed just the other week. We have another meeting scheduled tomorrow.”

I lean against the doorframe. He really is the king of his own world. Getting his way, giving his orders. Expecting everyone to fall in line.

He sees me and something softens in his eyes. “I’ll have to call you back later,” he says into the phone. “I’ll think of a plan. We need to get the contract ready for signing later this week.”

Then he puts the phone down and looks at me—skimming over my tank top and the leggings. There’s appreciation in his gaze. “You’ve been working out?”

I ignore the question. “The Stones have agreed to sell?”

“Yes, but only verbally. We’re nearly at the finish line.”

“After I hand in the memoir, right? You need it for the Board to approve the purchase.”

He takes a moment before nodding. “Yeah. That’s right.”

“And you’ll likely cut some things out of the first draft before then,” I say. “You don’t want too many of your intimate secretsin there.” My voice comes out too combative, and I don’t know how to make it stop.

“Right.” He gets up, a furrow between his brows. “But I can tell you anything you want to know, as long as it doesn’t make it into the book.”

“Right. Because you’re protective of your personal life.”

“I suppose, yes. And it involves more people than just me.” He tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to figure me out. “Charlotte. What are you thinking?”

“I know that the deadline for the first draft is in a few days. I’m almost done. I’ll just need tonight and tomorrow to finish it up,” I say.

“Okay. There’s no rush.”

“We signed a contract. So there sort of is.”

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