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  Sexy, I thought.

  “I feel like they want to change the entire story!” Cathleen Darling burst out, her voice nasally and high-pitched over the phone. “Like I, the fucking author, have no creative freedom to speak of!”

  I nodded, though of course she couldn’t see me, and let her rant while I went over several options in my head. Cathleen Darling was an author. I was her editor. Officially, all my edits and revision suggestions went to the higher-ups, meaning sexy Dorian Desmond, but it was pretty rare that anyone said shit about my work. I was a badass editor, but more importantly, I was good with the clients.

  Desmond sent me the toughest clients, the biggest pains in the ass, and a workload that would’ve had most quitting by Christmas of their first year—or at least drowning their sorrows in a bottle of the good stuff.

  But not me. I was focused and a real brownnoser—in the best sense of the word. I knew how to please people and how to back them into a corner, fight or flight, and get what needed to be done. It was a gift I’d had since about third grade, when I shoved little Billy into the sand for picking on Court. At the time, it had gotten me into a lot of trouble with the teachers, parents, principals, everyone.

  Now, it served me well.

  “—signed a damn contract, but I’ll take my business elsewhere if they think they can just bully me like this,” Cathleen continued her rant.

  I imagined her puffing up like a little rooster trying to pick a fight. I snorted before I could help it and had to quickly turn it into a cough before Cathleen caught on that I was snickering at her. “Ahem. Sorry,” I apologized, then dove into my job—smoothing over difficult clients. “You know that I would never suggest anything to you that I didn’t think would do wonders for your already brilliant story.”

  Cathleen paused. I imagined her pouting, her lower lip fat and her arms crossed. “Don’t think you can appease me with flattery,” she told me indignantly. “I’m an author. I have principles.”

  I rolled my eyes. Principles, yeah, right. You’d sell out if I gave you a goddamn turkey sandwich. “Of course you do, Cathy, sweetheart,” I told her in my sweetest voice. “That’s why we love you; that’s why you’re such a great author. You have power in your words, and I would never want to lose that.”

  “Then why did you cut my baby to ribbons!”

  I covered the mouthpiece of my phone so she wouldn’t hear my sigh of frustration. Cathleen did this every damn time I sent her manuscript back. She was the kind of author that thought her words were seamless, perfect, in need of absolutely zero editing to speak of. And every time she sent me something, I had to fix every little grammar mistake, cross out the shit that didn’t make sense, and point out the major plot holes or inconsistencies. For my trouble, I then got a phone call from her telling me that I’d destroyed her “baby.”

  She’d had about ten “babies” at this point, nine of them best sellers, and this one likely would be, too—if I could convince her to let me help her.

  “Cathy. Stop,” I ordered in a soothing but firm tone. It was all about tone with authors. “You know I love your book. I’ve loved all of them, that’s why I’m sticking with you, you know that.”

  That was a small, white lie. The truth was, Dorian had specifically assigned Cathy to me because she was a problem client and I dealt with problems. Go me.

  “But sometimes the world isn’t ready for genius,” I continued, leaning back a little farther in my plush chair. “Sometimes, you have to ease people into what they aren’t ready for. Think Vonnegut. Think Kafka. Hell, even Hemingway was misunderstood during his lifetime.”

  “You’re saying I should wait until I’m dead to be appreciated?” Cathleen deadpanned.

  I smiled, showing teeth. “No. I’m saying you should wait until you’re dead to be understood. To be appreciated, you should listen to what I’m saying. You’re brilliant. I’m just making that brilliance accessible to the general population. I’m getting your words out there in a way that the rest of the world can understand, because you just can’t expect the masses to understand brilliance.”

  There was a long pause over the phone, pure silence coming through. I wondered briefly if I’d laid it on a little too thick. The fact was, Cathleen was incredibly intelligent, but she wasn’t an easy read. If I left her manuscript completely alone, she would have to wait until she was dead to be appreciated. Why? Because everyone wanted brain popcorn, light fluff that was easy to process and addicting as hell. You didn’t get that with the complicated shit.

  Finally, Cathleen said, “Well. I guess you haven’t changed that much.”

  My grin widened. “I haven’t changed much of shit. Your novel doesn’t need changing, it just needs a little shove to get it out to the audience, you know that. We signed you because we trust you and in your vision. I just want to make sure the world sees that vision just like I do. I’m no author, I’m just an invisible helping hand.”

  “I’ll look over the changes again,” Cathleen finally said. “I mean, there’s no harm in that, right? And if you think it helps get my story out…”

  She trailed off, but the implication was clear: I had won.

  Swiping my feet off the desk, I plopped them back down onto the floor and sat up straight. “You’re a peach, Cathy, and I love working with you.”

  “I still want to make sure the story isn’t changed too much,” she added quickly, almost like she just couldn’t be fucking happy without being a little unhappy with something.

  “Of course, of course. If you think anything is too drastic, shoot it my way and we’ll come up with a better option. This is your story.”

  “Thank you. I hate going through Dorian. He never gets this stuff, you know?”

  Shaking my head a little, I told her, “I don’t know if it’s ’cause he’s a guy or ’cause he’s the boss, but some people just aren’t on the same page.”

  “Amen to that.”

  We chatted a little longer about benign stuff—how were the twins? Did that no-good-piece-of-shit ex of hers ever pay alimony? Did she get that leak fixed?—then hung up the phone. Cathleen was happier for our conversation, and I had another victory story to tell.

  Just as I was ending my session with Cathleen, there was a brief, perfunctory knock at the door. A second later, Dorian pushed the door open and poked his pretty head in.

  He was a sexy man. Tall, muscular, with dark hair and a broad smile, he was great with the ladies. I had my dirty fantasies of some of the things we could do together, but never really considered pushing for anything more than a business relationship. Mainly because I liked my damn job and I wasn’t about to risk it over some romantic affair that would likely end in a ball of fire. My career was what mattered, not all this romance nonsense floating around out there these days.

  “Are you busy?” Dorian asked with a smile.

  I waved him in. “Never for you. Besides, Courtney would have told you if I was.”

  Dorian laughed as he stepped into the office. He closed the door about 90 percent behind him, which told me that he wanted to talk about something serious and or private. Because Dorian was my boss and a smart man, he never completely closed the door. Too risky. Since I was a female, there was every possibility that I could jump on the opportunity to call sexual harassment on his ass, whether he’d done anything or not, and he’d have to settle before anything went to court.

  Not that I would ever do that, but there were assholes out there.

  “Very true,” Dorian said, taking a seat in the chair on the other side of my desk. He looked almost comical in it, too big to fit in the chair that was designed for skinny, lanky authors instead of the well-built man in front of me. “Do you mind if I steal a minute?”

  “Steal away,” I told him happily. “I just finished up with Cathleen, so I wouldn’t mind talking with someone who isn’t a pain in my ass.”

  He grinned at me. “Cathleen’s a pain in everyone’s ass. That’s why you have her.”

  I
smiled back at him sweetly. “Why, thank you. You’ll be happy to know that her ruffled feathers have been smoothed out and she’s not breaking her contract and going to another publisher.”

  “Like I said, that’s why you have her.”

  Although I always thought my clients were sort of suckers for buying into the flattery bullshit, I acknowledged that some part of my own nature admitted that I liked it, too. Who didn’t like to be told they were awesome? “So what’s up, boss?”

  He folded his hands across his flat stomach. He looked good in the soft gray suit and the purple power tie, not a look every man pulled off. But he had that darker skin tone and a fit body, so he got away with more than most.

  “I wanted to say how impressed I’ve been with your work.”

  My eyebrows rose. More compliments? Why’s he buttering me up? “Well, thank you. It’s good to know my work’s appreciated.”

  “It is. And as a reward, I’d like to give you more.”

  I laughed. “Isn’t that always how work is rewarded?”

  He smiled and nodded. “That’s the game. Are you still interested in playing?”

  I sat up straighter, sensing that the conversation was more important than Dorian was letting on. “Of course. I live for the game.”

  “Good.” He gave a single nod. “Because I’m thinking of making you my partner, and I can’t have a lazy partner.”

  I froze. Partner? It was everything I’d dreamed of and more. It was what I’d been working for, from the ground up, and had been told by every Tom, Dick, and Harry that I would never get. Partner. It wasn’t just the money—though the salary was pretty slick for the job—it was the knowledge that I’d crawled my way to the top, beat out the boys, and come out lookin’ pretty. I wanted this. I needed this. My mouth watered for this.

  “I assure you, sir, that I am one hundred percent not lazy.”

  “I believe you, but I do have one more requirement before I give you the job.”

  “Name it,” I told him instantly, a fire lit inside me now. What I wanted was within reach, and I’d be damned before I let it go.

  “I need you to sign Trent Parker.”

  And just like that, my world crumbled. Trent Parker? Otherwise known as the biggest asshole playboy out there? In the publishing world, Parker was the equivalent of Midas—everything he touched turned to gold. Instantly. Just putting his name on something made it sell. But the problem was, he knew he was a gold mine and he milked it. For someone who wasn’t a rock star, he sure as hell acted like one.

  My nerves twitched, but I folded my legs and smiled to cover it. “Oh? Is that all? I thought it was going to be something challenging with the way you were talking.” I forced a laugh and hoped it didn’t sound nervous.

  Dorian grinned and stood. “Great. Glad to hear Parker won’t be a problem for you. I knew you were my girl.”

  Only two people got to call me girl. My father and my boss and for two very different reasons. Standing, I reached my hand across my desk to clasp his. We shook.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll sign him.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  He left after that, and it wasn’t until I distantly heard the ding of the elevator that I let my fake bravado drop.

  “I am so fucking screwed,” I said aloud. “Court, c’mere!”

  Courtney Hughes was compact, short, sexy-curvy, and took absolutely no bullshit. She ate people alive if they weren’t on their toes. She had also been my best friend since we were in elementary school.

  “What’s up?” she asked. “This about Dorian?”

  I nodded. “I need everything you can get on Trent Parker, or so help me God, I’m going to lose my fucking job and my mind.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be dramatic. I’ll get you the dirt. Give me a couple of hours.”

  She turned and left then to make some calls and work her magic. I sat back in my chair, slumping and rumpling my power suit, wondering if there was any hope that I was going to be able to sign Parker as promised.

  Chapter Two

  Callum

  I paused outside the little café that catered to hipsters who liked to pretend they were too cool for Starbucks and liked the indie scene because it was just so “genuine.” This was why I had stopped at Starbucks along the way to have my venti-double-foam-café-caramel-macchiato with extra cream, sprinkles, and two shots of espresso. The café was fine, but its coffee sucked—they did it like real coffee, the bastards—and I wasn’t going to figure out what whole-wheat low-calorie health crap they served as pastries. Nobody got a damn pastry because they wanted to be healthy.

  My longtime friend Trent Parker was seated at one of the outdoor tables, with a large coffee mug that was bright red and chipped for the sake of “character” sitting on the table in front of him. But he wasn’t focused on the coffee or the really nice view of downtown and the harbor. Instead, his dark eyes were fixed on a waitress whose skirt was so short I kept expecting to get a flash of the panties beneath and whose chest was large enough that the lettering across her shirt was misshapen.

  I shook my head.

  Before heading over, I got rid of the evidence of my infidelity. The half-eaten scone disappeared in the trash, and I got only one more swallow of my coffee before it, too, followed. I sighed. I wished Trent would be less of a trend follower so I wouldn’t have to put up with this indie bullcrap.

  Checking for oncoming traffic, I made a break across the street and half jogged to the little café.

  Trent was still eying the sexy little waitress who was taking way too long to clean that damn table when I came up to him.

  “You’re despicable,” I informed him mildly as I plopped down in the seat across from him. I’d picked it deliberately so that I was blocking his view of the girl.

  He made a frustrated sound and leaned half out of his chair to look around me. “You’re a prude,” Trent responded, unfazed.

  “I’m not a prude,” I argued. “I’m just selective. You should try it sometime.”

  Trent switched to the other side, leaning a little farther. “I am selective. I only like hot chicks.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Very romantic.”

  He snorted. “What would you know about romantic?”

  I straightened up in my chair. “I’m romantic. I wine and dine ’em like the best.”

  “Sure, sure,” he said. I shifted in my chair slightly to impede his view again and he scowled at me. “Damn it, Callum, just because you want to live the life of a solitary, money-grubbing billionaire with nothing but the bat cave equivalent of a bachelor pad doesn’t mean I do.”

  “And just because you want to personally test every woman in the greater Seattle area to see if they have an STD doesn’t mean I want to witness it,” I countered easily.

  Finally, the waitress straightened up, glanced at Trent, and then headed inside with a giggle. I knew because Trent finally stopped trying to look straight through me to watch her ass.

  Trent leaned back in his seat and sighed. He slipped a hand over his head, rubbing his close-cropped, dark hair like it was a chia pet. Scowling at me again, he said, “Thanks a lot. I was gonna get her number.”

  I waved him off. “You’ll still get her number. She was wiggling her ass like an open invitation.”

  “She was cleaning a table,” he pointed out.

  “No one takes that long bent over to clean a table.”

  He shrugged. “Either way. Now I have to look at your ugly mug instead of her fine work of art.” He paused, then added, “I mean her body.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “I know what you meant, jackass.”

  Trent’s grin was like turning on a damn lightbulb. It was bright and seemed to lighten everything around him, even more so because his teeth were so white, contrasting with his darker complexion. “How’s life in Seattle treating you?” he asked, lifting his coffee and bringing it to his lips. He took a sip, then made a face.

  I laughed at him. “See? Indi
e coffee is crap.”

  Immediately, he was defensive. “No it’s not. I support locally owned businesses. In fact, I’m thinking of investing in this place.” He waved a large hand to indicate the café behind us.

  “Starbucks is locally owned,” I deadpanned.

  He made a frustrated sound in his throat, maybe a little bit annoyed for real. We’d had this discussion a thousand times before. “It started here; that doesn’t make it local.”

  “Sure it does,” I argued, now just to piss him off. “There’s one on every corner. It’s local everywhere.”

  “You’re such an asshole,” he told me. “Starbucks is a chain, not a small business.”

  I shrugged. “Honestly, every big business started as a small one. If we stopped buying from the big businesses, they’d shut down and put a lot of people out of work. At the same time, that means we’d be buying from small businesses and making them larger, which would eventually make them into chains—because everyone wants more money—making them the exact same evil, monopoly businesses that we were all bitching about before. If anything, we should buy from the devil we know, that way we don’t destroy the gentle integrity of the small business.”

  There was a beat of silence as Trent just stared at me like I’d grown a second head. He didn’t say anything, didn’t smile, didn’t frown, nothing.

  After a moment, I reached across the table and grabbed his coffee. I took a sip, then made a face. “Plus, indie coffee is fucking disgusting.”

  Trent made a face that suggested he at least partially agreed with me on that last point. “It’s ’cause it’s cold,” he argued.

  I laughed. “Bullshit.”

  “No, seriously. It was good when I first got it.”

  “You’re a liar. That was the first damn sip you took.”

  He shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. “Whatever. I’m going to flag the waitress down and get us some more coffee—fresh, hot coffee.”

  I laughed lightly. “Only because you want to get in the waitress’s pants.”