The Boy Who Has No Faith (Soulless 5)

After he dropped off Derek, he usually took me home and dropped me off at my apartment if I didn’t need to accommodate Derek. Derek having a personal driver made my life a lot easier, because Ronnie drove me around when I did grocery runs, picked up the fresh flowers, and all the other errands that were required.

Doing it on foot, in heels, was torture.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” We’d spent the drive in silence since it was still awkward between us.

He opened the door but didn’t get out. “Want to come upstairs and help me with the book?”

It was the first time he’d offered to work on his novel voluntarily, when he resisted any other time. I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say.

“We can split whatever the chef brings.”

When he’d screamed at me, I’d forgotten how sweet he could be…and kind. “Sure.”

We left the car and rode the elevator to his floor. When we walked inside, he left his satchel on the dining table and walked to the fridge. He grabbed the container of food the chef had put inside and heated everything in the microwave. “Want a beer?”

“I’ll take a glass of wine, if you don’t mind opening a bottle.” I knew everything he had in that kitchen, so I knew there was some red wine in the cabinet.

“Sure.” He grabbed it and uncorked it. When he faced the counter and his back was to me, his shirt bunched together at the top of his ass, showing how tight his back was…and how tight his ass was too. The shirt fell against his hard physique, highlighting all the muscles underneath, the strength he possessed. Nerds were stereotyped to be scrawny and weak, but he didn’t fit that at all.

He poured me a glass and left the bottle on the counter. “Here.” He handed it to me before he turned to the fridge and grabbed a beer.

“Thanks.” I sat at the dining table.

He came out with two plates and set them down.

He served me when I should be the one doing it for him.

It seemed like he was still trying to make up for that afternoon.

It was unnecessary, because I forgave him the moment he apologized. But it was still nice, so I didn’t stop it.

He pulled out his laptop and ate while he looked over his previous work.

I still had to finish editing his older pages, so I pulled out my laptop and worked as I ate. We fell into comfortable silence.

When he was finished reading, he leaned back against the chair and stared at the wall straight ahead, his eyes shifting back and forth slightly, as if he was thinking really hard. That was the look he adopted at the lab when he studied at whatever he was working on. He wasn’t necessarily stumped, but he was trying to find a solution that wasn’t readily available.

I retrieved the whiteboard from the closet, and we got back to brainstorming.

Once his mind had a running start, his fingertips hit the keyboard.

And he didn’t need me anymore.

Whenever he was finished, he shut the laptop. That was his silent announcement.

His document was automatically shared with me, so I saw his pages written in real time. If he continued to work at this pace, I’d have a lot of work to do that should technically be his new editor’s job, but I cared too much not to be involved. “Has your new editor contacted you?”

“No.”

“Because you’ve blocked their calls…?”

He grinned even though I wasn’t making a joke. “No.”

I loved it when he smiled. It was like a clear sunset. You wished you could watch it every night because it was so vibrant and warm. But the skies weren’t always clear, and you didn’t always have the opportunity to get a good view. “Why were you like that, by the way?”

He drank from his beer. “I didn’t think it was a priority, and you were forcing me to make it a priority.”

“Has your love for the stories died?”

“No…not necessarily. Once I start going, I get into it again.”

“It might be easier for you if you write every day, even if it’s just a few pages. My goal is to get you to do this on your own, without my encouragement, for you to learn how to switch to the right side of your brain without jump-starting it.”

“I thought you enjoyed helping me.”

“Trust me, I do,” I said as I swirled my wine. “But my job is to make you better. Not to be reliant on me.”

His hand was wrapped around his beer bottle as he stared at me, his brown eyes the same color as the glass in his hand.

“Stephen King says he writes every day, even on holidays, because it makes it easier to craft the story, to be close to the characters. Stopping and starting again just makes it choppy.”