But Laney had no idea. Eyes still on the pizza, she began.
“Well, as you know, I’m a journalist,” she said softly. “I like to write. My passion is fiction, but writing for the newspaper pays the bills.”
I laughed, white teeth flashing.
“Of course sweetheart. We all have to pay the bills, even me while I’m in prison,” was my remark. Her eyes flashed my way, but it was true. Jail doesn’t stop the bills. I had my apartment in New York to maintain, plus a shitload of other properties and businesses. And of course the tax man. There’s always the tax man.
But this wasn’t about me, it was about her. So I pressed gently.
“Well if if fiction is your passion, what’s your ultimate dream? Can’t be working for the Star.”
Laney thought about it for a minute, brow furrowed.
“I guess it would be to become someone’s favorite author,” was her soft admission.
I nodded approvingly. Most writers I knew were so snooty. All they wanted was fame and fortune and making the NY Times bestsellers list, but Laney was different. It wasn’t about prestige or money, but the honor of changing someone’s life with words. I respected that.
“So what are you doing to make it happen?” came my drawl, eyes quizzical as I laid out some more pizza dough. “You writing on the side?”
She swallowed looking down.
“No, not really. There isn’t that much time between work and coming here,” she blushed. “Plus, I’m not the kind of go-getter who would find an agent and put herself out there, you know?”
My brows raised.
“Sweetheart, where there’s a will there’s a way,” was my drawl. “And you know what? I’d love to read some of your work sometime.”
Her eyes widened as a blush covered her cheeks.
“Oh no,” she stammered. “It’s really sappy, you wouldn’t want to.”
“Sappy?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow in question. “Like how sappy?”
That blush grew fiery red.
“Well, I usually write romance,” she admitted in a small voice. “You know, boy meets girl, they encounter obstacles, and then fall in love. That kind of thing.”
I laughed then, but it wasn’t mean laughter. Because my curiosity was piqued. My little Laney wrote romance, huh? Did she keep her writing clean or were there steamy erotic scenes? And as I watched, those cheeks flared an even deeper shade of red, hot and beautiful. Oh fuck yeah. Laney was writing triple X shit, the naughtiest of the naughty. She had a dirty mind, and this was where it all came out.
“I’m sure your stuff is good,” came my throaty rumble. “You know, I’ve heard that writers always draw on experience. Do you think that’s true when you write?”
She bit her bottom lip, going even rosier if possible.
“Well, um….”
“You don’t have to tell me, of course. I’m just curious.”
“Mis-Mister Evercore, I don’t have much experience,” she stammered, big boobies rising. And oh yeah, those tips were hard now, jutting out like pebbles. “You know that,” she whispered.
“I do,” was my confident rumble. “But sweetheart, there’s always room to learn.”
She blushed even more then. But then Laney took a deep breath, meeting my gaze fully.
“Why Mason?” the girl asked softly, bringing big brown eyes to mine. “Why?”
“Hmm sweetheart? Why what?” I was genuinely confused.
The brunette took a deep breath.
“Why are you so interested in me? I’m nothing special,” she murmured, ducking her head so that a lock of hair fell forwards, obscuring that beautiful face.
I reached across the table and tilted her chin so she was forced to look at me. “Don’t say that.” My voice was firm and unwavering. “You’re special and anyone who tells you differently doesn’t know what the hell they’re talking about. I’ve known you for three weeks now and it’s not hard to figure out that you’re one hell of a girl, both inside and out.”
Usually, I wasn’t one for such sappy compliments, but it was true. Laney was an incredible woman, a beauty just beginning to come out of her shell.
But she shook her head, disbelieving.
“No, that’s not true,” were her soft words, eyes cast down. “I know it’s not true.”
What the hell? What was the source of this low self-esteem? Anyone with two eyes could see that she was amazing.
“What’s wrong sweetheart?” I demanded, sitting so close to her now that I could smell her vanilla-scented perfume. “Why are you so down on yourself?” Her perfume nice, but not as nice as the smell of her pussy. Now that shit was good.
Laney didn’t say anything for a moment, just staring at me with those great big eyes, tugging on one of her curls.
“You can tell me,” came my low, deep growl. Since no one was around, I wrapped my arms around her shoulders, pulling her close. Instinctively, she laid her head on my chest and closed her eyes, body shaking with a quivering breath. “You can tell me,” I murmured into her hair once more.