His Dirty Author: An Age Gap Romance

She laughs. “Can’t argue with that.” Looking over at me, she smiles. “I’m sure that in the future we may have to work some on your books. Malik tells me that you’re still relatively new. But the book you sent us is fantastic, and I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t go on submission immediately. I’ll have a list of potential editors for you by the end of next week.”

“That’s amazing,” I say. “Thank you.”

Malik reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Make sure my editor is on that list as well, please.”

“Of course.”

We sign the agency contracts, and I feel settled. This is so much better and easier than it ever was with Michael. I can already tell that I won’t have to work to ‘prove’ myself with this woman. I’ve known her for less than a day and she’s already a better partner.

“Thank you, Ms. Glass,” I say. “Truly.”

She laughs. “With the work you’ve already shown me? I should be thanking you. I'm not sure I could manage what you have already at your age, Erin."

I flush with pride.

She adds, "And it’s an honor to have Malik Ellis on my client list. I imagine that I’ll have some other agents gunning for me now.”

“If there are, send them to me,” Malik says with a laugh. “We’ll make sure they’re not out to get you. Especially Michael Collins.”

Michael had not gone down quietly. He'd tried to smear Malik's reputation by calling him a pedophile, selling photos of me and him together for gossip rags. But in the end no one bit. Maybe because Malik and I didn't give a shit, we didn't react when paparazzi asked us embarrassing questions or snapped more photos.

We are in love. Let rumors be rumors. Plus, with his provable pattern of drinking, people began to think of Michael as a chaotic drunk. His own reputation tanked.

Malik stands. “If there’s nothing else, we have another appointment.”

“No, that takes care of it,” Rose says. She stands and shakes both of our hands. “I’ll be in touch about re-signing the contracts once your editor sends them over, and I’ll follow up with you, Erin, about the sub-list. If you have anyone you’d particularly like me to send the book to besides Malik’s editor, let me know.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Once we’re on the sidewalk outside, I take a deep breath. “Wow, that was nice.”

“Right?” Malik laughs. “I should have switched years ago. I guess I was just comfortable. And I wasn’t looking for that kind of behavior.”

I lean up on my tiptoes and kiss him. “What did you mean by another appointment? Did you just say that so we didn’t have to stay there and make small talk?”

“Actually, no.” He raises a hand in the air and hails a cab. “I have somewhere that I’d like to take you.”

“Where?”

He holds the door to the cab open for me. “It’s a surprise.”

That’s fine with me. I never thought I’d be this girl, the impulsive girl who’s so in love that she’ll do anything and go anywhere and be silly and rave about how in love she is. But now that I am that girl, I love being her.

Malik slips his arm around me in the back of the cab, and even that’s enough to wish that we were back at the apartment so he could carry me upstairs and order me around the way that only he can do. But that will come later.

I hope the craving that I have for him never wears off. Because right now? I absolutely cannot get enough.

The cab takes us over the 59th Street Bridge into Queens. “Sure you can’t tell me where we’re going?”

He squeezes my hand. “We’re almost there.”

The cab makes its way through the streets of Long Island City, and out into the more suburban area. Before long, we pull up at a beautiful building. There are a few stories, but it’s clearly nice and well cared for. On the side of the building is a small sign. Arrowhead Long-Term Care Facility.

Why we’re here drops into my mind. “We’re here to see your dad?”

“I want you to meet him,” Malik says quietly.

We get out of the cab and Malik pays the driver before he takes my hand again. In the frenzy of everything that’s happened over the last few days, we haven’t talked about his father the way he told me that he wanted to.

“My dad was a writer, too. Not published, but it was his passion. He loved it so much, I could always find him writing a new story. And he was good.”

I wait for him to continue, because clearly that’s not the end of the story.

“A few years ago, he started to struggle. But it wasn’t until last year that we found out that he has dementia.”

I squeeze his hand, and we start walking toward the door.