I wondered if I could still go back to my old job. I’d left on good terms, but they’d probably filled my position already. Besides, the humiliation of crawling back was too much for me when I had so much pride.
Ugh, maybe this was all a fucking mistake.
A couple days later, I returned to his building and let myself into the elevator to his floor. I should probably just call him on the phone, but this conversation needed to happen in person because of the context.
I made it to his door and knocked.
Music was faintly audible through the door, and it abruptly ended when my knock sounded. Footsteps came later. There was a pause, like he looked through the peephole and saw my face.
This was going to be terrible, wasn’t it?
He opened the door and stared me down, furious.
I didn’t notice the look on his face because I only noticed everything below the neck…his shirtless chest. He was in just sweatpants that hung low on his hips. Everything above that was skin, muscle, chiseled perfection. I thought authors sat on their asses all day and typed on their computers…and didn’t hit the gym religiously.
I had to force my gaze to lift again, but it was embarrassing that I’d looked at all, and he knew I’d looked.
Like always, he didn’t have a damn thing to say.
“I’m so sorry to bother you at home—”
“Then don’t.”
I inhaled a deep breath and kept my cool. “Can I come inside so we can talk?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He started to shut the door.
“Please.” Emotion broke in my voice. It was quiet but still audible.
The door was almost shut, but he kept it still, like he heard it too. Then he released it altogether and stepped away.
“Thank you.” I stepped inside and stared at his sculpted back, the intricate muscles of his flesh, the strength of his broad shoulders. His skin was fair, like he never exposed himself to sunlight, but it was still incredibly sexy.
I shut the door behind me and glanced at his penthouse. The living room was enormous, big enough to fit fifteen people comfortably, which was interesting because he didn’t seem like someone who enjoyed company. He had floor-to-ceiling windows that had premium views of Manhattan, and his long dining table could fit twelve people in thick, comfy chairs. On top were lots of pieces of machinery, scattered everywhere. His laptop was there too, along with stacks of schematics.
He turned around and faced me, his hands on his hips. “Speak.”
My eyes narrowed at the command. “I’m not a dog, Mr. Hamilton.”
He didn’t apologize. His eyes were like two pieces of coal.
I should have just kept my mouth shut since I needed something from him. “Look, I’d really appreciate it if you could deliver the book sooner. How about—”
“I’m busy.”
“I understand that, but—”
“No, you don’t.” He came closer to me, his hands still on his hips. His chin was clean today because he must have shaved that morning, and the hard bones in his jaw were more distinguished. He was gorgeous, but his handsomeness could never mask his unbearable personality underneath. “I have more important things to do than write a story that’s not even real. I’ve got—”
“It’s real to me.” How could a writer say that about their own work? “Mr. Hamilton, I’m a really big fan of yours. That’s the only reason I took this job at Astra Books. I was already an editor at a different publishing house, and I loved my job. I worked there for almost six years. But when I heard about the opening and the opportunity to be your editor, I jumped ship just for the honor to work with you.”
His eyes were impossible to read right now. All he did was stare.
“Don’t say it’s not real.” I lowered my voice. “Because it’s real to me and millions of people around the world.” Maybe if he were reminded of the impact of his words, he would give this more importance.
There was a long pause before he said anything, like he needed to take his time before he responded to everything I’d said. “That’s very flattering, Ms. Lane. But I stand by what I said. I literally don’t have the time to write another installment. I’m working on a new rocket that is scheduled to launch in six months, and we’re behind. I’m also a professor at NYU. Sitting down and cranking out an epic story is just not possible right now.”
I couldn’t stop myself from reacting. “Whoa…what?”
His stare remained icy.
“How do you have the time to do all of that?”
“That’s the point I’m trying to make, Ms. Lane.”
“Well, why do you do all of that?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. The pause was so long, it was obvious he wouldn’t respond.
“Don’t you want a life?”