Page 89 of Someone to Tempt
I force a smile and squeeze her fingers. “I never thought I’d be jealous of a book, but here we are. Just remember, it isn’t going to make you scream in pleasure.”
“You have a special skill set,” she assures me, but just as I start to relax, she adds, “But so does Spencer Charles.”Each word I’ve ever written under that name suddenly feels like a confession.
She laughs again and heads for her front door while I’m left to drive home, my thoughts whirling. The Ellie Spaulding series is already popular, and the spotlight will be even brighter once the first season of the series that’s filming in Vancouver makes its debut.
As much as I love her, Ellie Spaulding needs to go.
I climb the steps to the apartment above the barn two at a time and burst through the door, divine inspiration blasting me with adrenaline. It’s an idea for the tenth installment of the series, the final book, after which I can leave behind my secret persona and just be me.
It wasn’t the plan, and there’s no doubt I’ll miss this part of my identity. Even on the most challenging days, when the words won’t come, and the plot feels like pea soup in my brain, I love writing. I love the process and the satisfaction of finishing a first draft. I love it as much as Ellie loves solving the case.
If I’m going to say goodbye to her, it will be in grand fashion—the case of her life.
I grab my pad of paper and start scribbling an outline. The plot points flood my brain. The villain takes shape, the red herrings and clues I’ll drop. I work until three in the morning, then climb into bed, exhausted.
When I open my eyes again, it’s to find light streaming in the bedroom window. I pick up my phone from the nightstand. How have I slept until ten? I was supposed to have breakfast with my grandpa an hour ago to review and give input on the foundation’s grant cycle for the next twelve months.
I have three missed calls and twice as many texts from him, along with one from Iris, wishing me a happy morning and good luck at the meeting. I don’t even remember telling her about it, but the fact that she remembered means the world to me.
Except I can’t think about that because I haven’t overslept like this in years. I hate that it will only confirm my reputation for irresponsibility, which is ridiculous. I’ve never missed a deadline, and my writing is a joy to edit—at least according to my editor—because of my thorough research and attention to detail.
One missed meeting, and I feel like a kid again. The screw-up everyone in my family believes me to be.
I scramble out of bed and tap my grandfather’s number, but a phone rings nearby.
“What the hell,” I mutter as I stumble into the main living area.
Grandpa sits at the table, bathed in morning sunlight and surrounded by my notes plus the eight Ellie Spaulding mysteries published since the start of the series.
I open my mouth to apologize for missing the meeting, but trail off after, “I’m sorry,” because there’s so much more that needs to be said. And I don’t know where to start.
“You want to start at the beginning and explain this to me?” he asks, like he’s reading my mind.
33
JAKE
“No one was supposedto see those notes.”
His thick brows draw together. “I got worried when you didn’t answer your phone or my texts. The truck is here, so my rational mind knew nothing bad happened up at the lake.”
His gaze shifts as he massages a hand over his wrinkled forehead. “Then I wondered if something bad did happen because…well, that’s where my mind went.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, and he waves off the words.
“I let myself in and saw that you were sleeping. But when I turned around to walk out, I saw…”
He gestures to the papers spread across the table. “What the hell, Jake? Are you Spencer Charles? Mike’s middle and Grandma’s maiden name put together.”
The decade-long secret feels like it’s choking me as emotion clogs my throat, but I nod. “It seemed a fitting way to honor them both.”
Gilbert Byrne smacks a heavy hand on the table. “Don’t you think a better way to honor your family is to put your own goddamn name on the cover?”
His anger surprises me, and I raise a hand to my chest as if I’ve been dealt a physical blow.
“It isn’t that simple. Or at least it wasn’t when I started. Now it feels even more complicated.” I incline my head. “You’re a fan?”
He snorts out a laugh and runs a finger along the pile of books. “Son, half the world is a fan of Ellie Spaulding. Spencer Charles is up there with the greats. Patters?—.”
