The Boy Who Has No Faith (Soulless 5)

“Alright. I won’t say anything.”

“We don’t share any physical traits, so she shouldn’t be able to figure it out. And you don’t have pictures in your place…”

I sighed at my mother’s jab. “I’m not a decorator.”

“Which is why you need Emerson. Your place is nice, but it could be better.”

I wasn’t letting some woman redecorate my place.

“I think the two of you should get together and discuss the specifics. I can be there if you want a moderator.”

“That’s not necessary, Mom. But thanks.”

She studied me for a while, like she had more to say but chose not to say it. “You’ve worked really hard to get where you are, and I’m so proud of everything you’ve accomplished. You’re brilliant, just like your father.”

“Thanks.” I was a grown-ass man who didn’t need the approval of my parents, but it did mean a lot to me.

“But I want more for you. I hope Emerson can give you more time to yourself.”

I’d probably just spend that time working anyway.

“One day, work isn’t going to be the most important thing to you. You’ll be a husband and father, so you’ll be really grateful for that extra time.”

I didn’t really talk about my personal life with my parents. Sometimes they asked if I was seeing anybody, but my answer was always the same. There was never anyone serious, so there was never anyone to mention. In truth, I wasn’t looking to settle down and have a family. That wasn’t for me, not a lifestyle I wanted to have. I never wanted to marry. My brother might have kids, and my sister definitely would, so continuing our gene pool wasn’t my responsibility. That was their problem. “Yeah.”

The papers had been signed, so I couldn’t change the situation.

I should just change my attitude and become optimistic about the new working relationship. My mother was right when she told me the chance of success depended on how much effort I put into it. Either way, I would lose all that cash, so I might as well try to get the most out of it.

A week had passed, and I focused on my projects and my class. The book was abandoned once again, because without her there to steer me in the right direction, I just didn’t know where to start. I was like a child who needed the discipline of a parent to focus on their homework. My first novel had been released years ago, when I wasn’t so busy, when I hadn’t founded my own company and taken on a teaching position at the university. Now everything was different, and I was trying to cram three jobs into a single schedule.

I didn’t change into jeans because this wasn’t a professional meeting. She would work for me, so if I wanted to wear sweatpants and a tee, I could. I sat on the couch and leaned back into the cushions, the light almost gone from outside the window. Summer was my favorite time of the year because of the trips to the cabin in my childhood.

Hadn’t been there much lately…

Emerson knocked on the door.

I sighed before I rose and walked to the door. When I opened it, she stood in the entryway with a folder and notebook in her hands, wearing a black dress with heels, looking professional like she was about to step into the office. She had dark brown hair, a lot of it. It was thick, cascading over her shoulders like a curtain. Right now, it was pulled over one shoulder, like there was so much of it that it kept getting in her face. She had blue eyes and pink lips. She went light on the makeup, almost not wearing any at all. “Good evening, Mr. Hamilton.”

I stared at her for a few seconds before I turned away and moved back to the couch. “Call me Derek.” I didn’t want to listen to her refer to me like I was an old man. It was way more syllables than necessary, took much longer than saying my first name. And I didn’t want to be called that in my own home.

“Sure.” She took a seat on the couch across from me, crossing her legs, showing her fair skin in contrast to the dark material of her dress. She wore shiny black pumps. She looked through her papers before she opened her notebook. “I thought having a long discussion about your needs would be a better way to get things going.”

I sank back into the couch, my elbow on the armrest so my knuckles were against my cheeks. My knees were spread apart, and I tried not to look at the model sitting on the dining table, the stack of work that I could get through instead of having this long conversation.

“First of all, I’m really flattered that you think I could assist you. I know we’ve kind of butted heads since we met, but I think this will be a good relationship.” She repeated the statement she had already texted me—the one I never responded to.