The Boy Who Has No Faith (Soulless 5)

He fell into the chair at the end of the table.

I took a seat beside him, excited to get to work on this project so we could move forward. Derek’s novels were one of the highest-grossing series we had at the publishing house right now. They were critically acclaimed and beloved by all kinds of readers. During the slow months or when other books flopped, this series kept the lights on and our paychecks full. It was no surprise Mark was digging into me so hard to get this done.

Derek tapped his fingers on the keyboard to make the screen light up before he turned it so I could see what he’d written.

The page was blank.

My fingers moved to the pad and I tried to scroll up to the pages he’d already completed, but the page wouldn’t move.

He turned the computer back to face him.

“You don’t have anything written?”

He shook his head.

Fuck me. Instead of lashing out with anger, I took a breath and calmed myself. “What’s the problem?”

He leaned back in the chair and shook his head slightly. He had brown eyes that were two cups of coffee in the sunlight. When it was dark, they looked like two pieces of coal. Light-colored eyes were always sexy, but the darkness of his gaze was perfect for his persona, for the dark hair on his head, the shadowed stubble, the contrast against his fair skin. “Not sure.”

I tried not to panic. There were times when authors struggled to get their words onto the page, and that happened for a multitude of reasons. “Writer’s block?” The world he crafted was so expansive and detailed that I found it difficult to believe he had nothing to write about. Literally anything could happen in this story.

He didn’t answer.

“Sometimes when writers are stressed, they can’t focus, so nothing gets done. They’re constantly distracted and can’t get into the moment with their characters. Maybe that’s your problem.”

“Like I said, I’m busy.”

I looked at the stack of papers at the edge of the table, along with all the pieces to some kind of machine he was building. “You said you’re a professor?”

He turned to me.

“How about you make a key for all the work your students submit, and I can grade them?”

His brown eyes narrowed. “I’m teaching this class. Not you.”

“I understand that. But if you give me a key, I can do a lot of the work for you—”

“These students aren’t paying top dollar to attend NYU to have some random-ass woman grade their work.”

I sighed. “Look, I’m trying to help you. Chill.”

Now, his eyes narrowed farther. “Did you just tell me to chill?”

“Yes. I’m only trying to help, and you continue to attack me.”

“You’re only helping yourself.” His voice turned cold, along with his eyes.

I crossed my arms over my chest and straightened in my chair. “I’m one of the best editors in the industry. I have a master’s from GW, and I’ve worked in the industry since I was eighteen. I can submit my application now to find another job. But I stay because I believe in you, Mr. Hamilton. These stories mean the world to so many people, including myself. And if I don’t push you to get these words on the page, this story may never get written. You’re obviously some kind of billionaire or something, so you don’t care if you breach your contract because you can just throw money at the problem to make it go away. But these stories need to be written because it’d be a fucking travesty if they weren’t.”

He didn’t blink once as he listened to my entire speech. Even when he was devoid of emotion, he was so damn handsome it was ridiculous. He slowly turned his face back to his computer and stared at the blank Word document, a quiet sigh accompanying his movements.

“Please let me help you.”

“How can you help me?” he whispered.

“I’ve read your books so many times that I know them like the back of my hand. We’ll set aside writing times, and we’ll work together on the outline, where you think the characters should go. Then when you’re actually typing, I can do other things to help you, like grade papers or whatever. Do your dishes, make dinner, whatever you want.”

He turned back to me, his eyebrow raised. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. It’ll allow you to do two things at once, so you’ll feel less stressed out. While you’re writing, dinner will be cooking on the stove, papers will be graded, et cetera. Come on, let’s do it.”

“Then I should be paying you or something—”

“No. That’s very generous of you, but it’s okay. Honestly, it would be such an honor to work on this with you. You have no idea.” I still respected him as a writer even though I wasn’t much of a fan of who he was as a person. He was an entitled, arrogant, rich playboy. It was a shame, for him to be so brilliant, so creative, and turn out to be an asshole. “This is my favorite series of all time—and that’s saying something because I read a lot.”