Page 2 of No Control
“I apologize, Henry,” I say quickly, ignoring the rush of heat in my cheeks. I use the moment to dig into my bag and retrieve my notebook. I flip it open and click my pen, feeling a little more confident with it in my hand.
I can always stab him if he tries anything.
“I was thinking that we follow my initial thoughts.”
“A dark thriller?”
“Yeah, similar to your own works.”
I freeze, looking up from my scribbled notes—no one knows that I write for myself on the side, and most of my audience is, well, women. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about...”
He smiles, flashing me a set of perfect pearly whites. “I know you write under a pen name. The depravity in your work appeals to me, and you’re quite successful with your own literature—why are you still ghostwriting?”
I shift in my seat, feeling the urge to squirm under his heated gaze. “Um…I guess I haven’t reached the point where they pay the bills yet. I also like helping other people achieve their writing goals, I guess.”
Henry nods, albeit a slow bob of his head. “I see. Well, hopefully, this project will change that.”
“How so?” I don’t bother to hide my confusion. “We’ve already spoken about the agreed rate of five cents per word. That’s—”
His tongue runs along his bottom lip, and my eyes follow it like bait, watching his perfectly shaped mouth say, “I’ll pay you significantly more if you’ll abide by my terms.”
I blink a couple of times, recognizing the change in his tone. It’s as intriguing as it is intimidating. “And what are your terms?”
“I believe in order to write the best book, we should have a close working relationship. The setting is around Los Angeles, and I’d prefer you move there temporarily while the book is written. I have a place there. You can return home when the first draft is complete.”
I narrow my eyes. “I thought you lived in New York City...”
He nods. “I do. I live both places, but I’d like for this novel to be set there. It’s winter, too, and trust me, you’ll appreciate the warmer temperatures of LA.”
“I...” my voice trails off as I consider the offer. “I assume I’ll need a temporary apartment?”
“Not necessary. My home is big enough to accommodate you.”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out for a few beats as his eyes hold mine. “I need to speak with my fiancé about this, before I agree to anything.”
Something shifts in his eyes, and it leaves me feeling cold inside. “Very well.” He reaches into a bag I never realized was sitting next to him, pulling out a thick packet of papers. “Here’s the contract. Feel free to spend the evening mulling it over. My flight leaves tomorrow evening at eight. You have until then to make your decision.”
I nod as he pushes the contract across the table to me, the edges bumping into my fingertips. “What about the rate?”
He chuckles a dark, borderline insidious laugh. “It’s all in there. Let me know what you think, Lydia. We’ll speak soon.” He slides out of the booth gracefully, slinging the black backpack over his shoulder. “I hope you truly consider my offer. I’d hate to see you turn down something of this caliber.”
I gaze up at him as he towers over the booth, his frame naturally muscular but not bulky. His arrogance challenges his charisma—in a bad way. “Of course. Thank you for considering my services.”
Henry’s lips curl into a wicked smile. “Of course. It was a pleasure to finally meet you. Have a nice evening, Lydia.”
My eyes follow him as he leaves the coffee shop, and I realize that I might be the only one gawking at him now. Everyone else seems to be unaware of his presence—not so different than I was when I entered the place. It was as if he had been invisible…
That was, until I locked gazes with him.
Now, however, I feel as though I’ve been shaken until my brain detached from my skull. But as he disappears into the late afternoon sun, I snap back to reality and grab the contract. Part of me wants to rip it up and throw it in the trash, but I have a deep-seated fear that the man might somehow know. So, I shove it into my messenger bag and shake it off.
Henry Bayne has left me riddled with questions, but there’s one thing I’m one hundred percent sure of…
There is no way in hell I’m writing a book for him.
two
Henry
