Page 33 of One More Chapter
He blinks, first in disbelief, then in thanks. His pinched smile quivers so slightly, I’m surprised I clock it.
“Even after Aaron burnt your hot dog?”
I roll my eyes and smile. “I made him make me a new one, didn’t I?”
His smile widens, like yawning after a good night’s sleep.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. This is going to take a lot of adjustment, and from what Phyllis tells me, your crew isn’t exactly easy to work with. It’ll be fine.”
“So, you met Phyllis?”
His smile is almost completely relaxed now, which eases something in me too.
“I did. Too bad she’s retiring. She seems like a good one to have around.”
“She is,” he nods, smiling wistfully. “She was one of the only people to show kindness when I first showed up.”
I want to know more. Want to pick apart why that little circle of Meadow Ridge bullies said so many cruel things about him. But I can’t. Icannotlet my heart hope for him. We have one year together, and after that chapter closes, we can go back to leading our separate lives.
I nod, letting the awkward silence drown us, where once upon a time I would’ve done anything to fill it.
“Better get to bed, Mr. Interim-Administrator,” I tease on a shaky breath. I stand, intending to head to my bedroom just to put a door between us.
Ant smiles and nods, and before I can get out of the living room, his silky voice weasels its way into my blood stream.
“You know, if I wasn’t mistaken, I’d say you were beingniceto me right now.”
I turn and lift a brow as my coat of armor.
“Doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed at you.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, PJ.”
thirteen
penelope
“I just don’t understandthe hesitancy, Pen.”
“Then you really,reallyhaven’t been listening to me, Rafe.”
I sigh. My agent sighs. We’re getting nowhere.
From the Zoom call, I see him lean back in his plush leather desk chair in his Manhattan office. Posters of book covers are displayed behind him from other authors that he represents. I can see my own clear as day. My first NYT Bestseller—Second Wind—with the fresh cover that had been redone once I inked my name on the dotted line. It’s weird, seeing my pen name on a poster, let alone in Target every time I have to go on a grocery run.
What’s evenweirderis the fact that Rafe and I are even having this conversation, when he knew my stipulations when I signed on with him in the first place. Still, I reiterate them for the hundredth time.
“I’m a teacher, Rafe. It’s part of the reason I write under a pen name. It’salsothe main reason that I’m not doing a book tour.”
“And I get that, sugar. Believe me, I do. But at this point in the game, do you really need to rely on teaching anymore?”
His foxlike smile tempts me all the way from Manhattan. It’s a question I’ve asked myself before: Do I really need to keep teaching when my books are doing this well? When book reps are practically begging Rafe for tours and signings and meet-ups? He knows to simply decline them and send a crate of signed copies in their place, because PJ Layne doesn’t exist beyond the words inside her books. I am faceless and elusive, like the romance world’s version of Lady Whistledown. It's just a coincidence that I also happen to be named Penelope.
I sigh, and when I meet his gaze over the computer screen, he already knows my answer.
“Teaching is my stability, Rafe. I’m sorry.”
I shrug, and watch the dollar signs in his eyes fall to the floor. At the same time, I know he’s going to take care of me. He won’t dangle this over my head or make threats or guilt trip me. We have this conversation every time I’m presented with a new opportunity that could further my writing career.