Page 8 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

“Excuse me?”

She tsks. “Feigning ignorance doesn’t look authentic on you. Why are you back and unmarried? Signs point to you screwed up.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” I take a sip of coffee and set it back down. “But I didn’t do anything wrong. We just weren’t right for each other.” And even though I should stop there, I can’t seem to keep myself from saying more. “It wasn’t until after I told her this that she informed me it was okay because she already had someone whowasright for her.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that it’s sympathy on Emily’s face right now. For a split second, her expression softens to a look I’ve never seen on her before. It’s open and smooth. And of course, I have to exploit it because that’s just what we do. Also because it pinches something raw inside me that I wish didn’t exist. “Is that concern I see in your poison-ivy eyes, Ms. Walker?”

Those eyes shutter. “Only for your students. I’m worried you’re going to get their hopes up and then suddenly bolt when you and Zoe get your shit together and you take her back.”

My jaw tics. “Don’t worry about that.”

Zoe and I are finished. It was something that didn’t feel right from the beginning, but I was so lonely and desperate for someone to wake up to in the mornings that I overlooked too much. Loneliness will make a person do scary things. Like convincing myself I’m in love with a woman I never even felt safe enough with to share my biggest secret without making her sign an NDA first.

I do think Zoe and I had something genuine in the beginning. We had fun. She returned my kindness and affection—both things I really needed at the time. But then things started breaking down pretty quickly, and instead of ending it like I should have, I allowed it to drag out. In hindsight I should have been concerned that she would never leave her phone unattended. That I was gettingrandom massive charges on my credit card for lunches and dinners. That she always seemed to encourage me to hide myself away and write because she used those times to disappear for most of the day. I didn’t know what she was doing, and most alarming of all, I didn’t seem to wonder either.

It took moving with her to Nebraska where she got a new job to realize I felt lonelier with her than I ever felt by myself. It took being stripped of my work and…Emily…to see the truth. Zoe didn’t love me—she loved the lifestyle I could provide because of my writing career, but not me. And I didn’t love her either. I loved the companionship she could offer when I needed it. The wedding was going to be a Band-Aid for something that was hemorrhaging from the start. Even the proposal was born from an argument where Zoe said we weren’t moving fast enough. I kept thinking she was fighting for us, but now I know she was fighting to keep my money. Embarrassing to realize. Even more embarrassing to remember how comfortable I was remaining distant from her.

It was just a mistake…all of it. And I stuck with it for so damn long because I clearly have issues I need to deal with.

“Idoworry, though. For your students,” says Emily, sitting forward. “And you would too if you were in my shoes and anything close to professional.”

I balk at that. “I’m always professional.”

“Your shirt says you’re not.” What a very specific and random attack.I like it.

“What the hell is wrong with my shirt?”

“Why are the top two buttons undone like that?” She looks disgusted at the sight of my skin. Or maybe my necklace. “Are you trying out for an island love show?”

“Came up with the answer pretty quickly. Either you’ve been thinking about my clothing for some time now, or it’s on your mindbecause you’re currently applying for one of those very shows yourself.” I nod toward her laptop. “Let me see if you’re innocent.”

Her eyes are pancakes and she quickly lowers her laptop screen until it’s only cracked open. “No. I mean…no, I’m not applying to one of those annoying shows. I don’t even want a relationship. And also, I don’t have anything to prove to you by showing you my computer.”

I scrunch my nose obnoxiously. “You seem pretty guilty.”

“I am not. Show me what’s on yours.”

“No.” I inch it shut too.

“I guess I’m not the only guilty one, then. See you on Love Island.”

It’s a struggle not to laugh. I enjoy our fights more than any emotionally healthy person should. They don’t always make sense. They’re a little unhinged. They reek of pettiness. But there is also a realness to them I don’t tap into easily with other people.

And what would Emily think if she knew I was actually writing a book on this laptop?Too bad I’ll probably never get to tell her and see the shock on her face.

My dad is Fredrick Bennett, a world-renowned mystery writer for the last three decades. He has hit number one on theNew York Timesbestseller list with thirty-one out of his forty published books and usually holds one of the top coveted spots for months at a time. He’s brilliant and is touted as one of the best mystery writers ever. But what none of his readers know is that most of the time, he’s an absolute bastard. Especially to my mom, and especially when he’s on a deadline.

The thing is, I understand deadline stress. The occasional blowup or snippy attitude from time to time would be normal. Especially if the man knew how to apologize. But this is different. This bleeds into every corner of his life. He faces each day thinkingthe man who looks back at him in the mirror is the most important person in the world.

I want my mom to leave him once and for all, but I don’t think she ever will, because like me, she has issues. And that’s why my dad has no idea that the only other mystery writer the media and readers have ever deemed as his rising equal—is me.

Growing up with Fredrick as a dad really should have made me hate writing, but I had a story in my head I needed to get out. So I wrote it in college, and I loved every second of it. And when it was done, I thought it was maybe okay, so I pitched it to several agents under a pen name so I could know for certain that if I made it, it was by my own merit and not because of who my dad is. I was only hoping to hear back from at least one agent, and was floored when I was offered representation by all of them. I hadn’t even told anyone I was writing a book because I wasn’t sure I believed in myself—and there I was, on the brink of success.

And then I thought of my dad finding out. I thought of all the ways I would either fade into his shadow as Fredrick’s son who also writes, or he’d suck every last drop of joy from my writing process by insisting he was the reason for my success, or he wouldn’t be able to handle the competition and it would send him spiraling back to alcohol, which would in turn make my mom’s life miserable. Most likely all of the above.

So I signed with my agent and together we got that book plus two more published—but I kept it a secret. My entire identity is hidden, and no one (other than my agent, Zoe, and my core publishing team, who have all signed NDAs) truly knows who the man is behind AJ Ranger,New York TimesandSunday Timesbestselling mystery writer. My writing has become my safe haven. A place where no one can reach me. I’ve never felt that kind of security in my life before, and it’s hard to want to risk giving it up.

Before I can challenge Emily further, Carol, my favorite realtor/party planner, rushes into the coffee shop and looks around quickly until she spots me. Her shoulders droop with relief and she makes a beeline to my table.

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