Page 91 of Someone to Tempt
“Absolute darkness,” Grandpa finishes.
I offer him a small smile. “We spent hours making up stories. Ellie Spaulding was originally Elliot Spaulding,” I tell him. “I changed our protagonist to a woman when I started book one.”
He shakes his head. “You had all of these books outlined by the time of your brother’s accident?”
“No, but the initial idea was his. I’d imagine the plot twists because I had a flair for the dramatic. The plan for a book series was Mike’s. He didn’t want to go to Harvard or major in finance. He wanted to be an author—a storyteller.He wanted to write stories that mattered.”
Grandpa’s eyes fix on me, but I can’t tell if he’s mad, disappointed or both. “You’ve done that, for both of you.”
I think about Mike crouched down in the darkness, spinning story ideas like they were the safety net that would keep us from falling into the endless pit of our parents’ dysfunction. And now that I’ve started my confession, the words come flooding out of me.
“I started writing to feel closer to him. I never expected it to turn into…this.” I glance at the stack of books.
“But why keep it a secret?”
“Do you know the first thing authors get asked in an interview?Where did you get your start? What’s your inspiration?”I shrug, my throat tight. “What am I supposed to say? I stole the idea from my dead brother? It should have been him.”
Grandpa picks up a book with each hand like I haven’t seen them before. “These are your words, Jake, your work. Even if you and Michael came up with the idea together, you’ve written eight books. It’syour voice on every page.”
“Nine,” I correct. “The next installment is due to my editor in a couple of days, and last night I came up with the idea for number ten. It will be the final Ellie Spaulding book—the last book Spencer Charles will ever publish.”
“Why?” he demands. “You’re talented, Jake. You?—”
“I’m sick of hiding,” I whisper, my voice hoarse with emotion I can’t seem to contain.
“Then tell people. Does Iris know?”
“Of course not.” I sigh and run a hand through my still-damp hair. “Ironically, she’s a fan. Her book club is reading my latest release this month. Her friend Sloane keeps reaching out to my agent—Spencer’s agent—trying to convince him to make an appearance at their meeting.”
“You need to tell her.”
“It will be a non-issue after the final book releases. I’m not going to be a writer anymore.”
“I don’t think that’s how being a writer works.” He places his coffee mug on the table. “And damn skippy, your brother would be the first one to say how proud he is of you.”
“You don’t understand,” I tell him, my voice quivering with the emotion I can’t seem to tamp down.
“I understand enough to know that walking away from something you love leaves scars.” He shakes his head. “You have enough of those already.”
“So what now?” I demand as panic tightens my stomach. “Are you going to reveal my big secret? Put Dad in charge of the foundation to try and convince me not to give it up?”
“If you truly believe I’d do either of those things…” He pushes back from the table and stands. “You haven’t been paying attention. I’m not going to make your decisions for you. Be a man and make them yourself. I did hope that by now besting your father isn’t the only reason you’re here. The foundation is part of my legacy,” he says quietly. “But you’re the most important part.”
His words hit me square in the gut. “I’m here to honor your legacy. What the foundation does matters to people. To me.” I get up and wrap my arms around his thin shoulders.
We’ve spent a lot of time together this past month, but I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve given him a hug. I need to do it more. I should take every opportunity to let this man who means the world to me know that I love him.
“Tell Iris, Jake. I know you love her, but keeping a secret, even one that feels innocent, isn’t the way to show her.”
I pull back. “Iris and I are just friends.” The denial sounds ridiculous even to my own ears, but I plod ahead like the fool I am. “I care about her, but I don’t do love.”
Except I do, and it terrifies me.
“Then you aren’t the man I believe you to be,” he says softly. That parting shot lands like a sledgehammer against my chest, and I stare numbly at his back as he walks away.
“You forgot your books,” I call after him when he’s at the door.
He turns around, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Bring them back signed by the author. They’re first editions, you know. I’ve been a fan of yours from the beginning.”
