Page 30 of Arrogant Heir

When you break through his aloof exterior, there’s a caring side lurking beneath it. He can be prickly with Seb and his grandfather, but I’ve noticed he’s lovely with his mother. I’m gradually unpeeling a whole other layer to him, which couldn’t be more different to how I pre-judged him as a privileged billionaire playboy-arsehole.

I tagged him with even more labels than that, but you get the picture. Now I see not only is he ridiculously attractive, but there’s a good person hidden behind his icy facade.

We’re silent as the car slices through the miles, and we bury our heads in our phones. I read my first draft from the latest chapter of the book, and then I reply to Simon. He deluges me with love hearts in his new flamboyant style, and we message back and forth for a while.

We’re nearing the outskirts of London and I sense Damian’s eyes on me. I feel his presence as I message Simon, telling him I’m on my way to London for an assignment. He calls immediately, but I decline the call. It’s too awkward to speak to him with Damian watching over my shoulder. The thought of him listening to our conversation almost brings me out in hives. I can’t do it.

Damian’s smooth, deep voice wraps around me. ‘Take the call. We still have a while until we reach the store.’

I feel myself flush and mutter, ‘It’s okay. I’ll call later.’

‘As you wish, but please don’t decline on my account. It must be difficult being apart from your fiancé for such an extended period,’ he says. I don’t look at him, but I feel his green eyes drilling into me.

Now I wish I could sink into a hole and disappear. I’m mortified at being caught out in a lie. I was so upset when I took the job and didn’t want to get into my personal situation, so I let them all think I’m engaged. It seemed easier. But like all lies—even tiny ones—they suck you in and grow darker and more treacherous as time ticks by.

I’m too embarrassed to explain I didn’t tell them the truth initially. I can’t bear the thought of Damian’s sardonic expression if I tell him now, and so I don’t put him straight.Again.

I can categorise it as a lie of omission, but it’s still a lie. I can’t bring myself to tell him Simon is no longer my fiancé, and I hate myself for it. Being a straight talker is something I pride myself on. That’s the only way I’ve been able to build a career working with high-powered entrepreneurs. I can’t be a wallflower in this business. They’d eat me for breakfast, so I must be tough. But there’s something about Damian that makes me clam up. I’m not as intimidated by him as in the beginning, but I’m still like a fifteen-year-old with a crush, and I desperately do my best to hide it from him.

If he finds out I fancy him, God knows what he’ll think of me. I know I’m not in his supermodel league, and the most I hope for is my feelings will subside and I’ll make a quiet getaway when the job is over. He doesn’t need to know anything about it, and I berate myself once morefor letting myself fall for his charms.

Simon might be an idiot, getting cold feet, but he’s no playboy, and he regrets what he did. When I return to London, I’ll make him sweat it out, so he does nothing so selfish again, but then I’ll give him another chance to make things right. Who knows? We might even be married this time next year.

I’ll probably never see Damian Rochester again. That’s the cool thing about being a ghostwriter. You might only get a written acknowledgement, and not be able to bask in public applause, but you also don’t need to deal with the hassles of publishing and marketing. I won’t even need to attend the book launch. I’ll get a copy for my collection, which I can use for credibility with prospective clients, and then it’s game over. It’s a simple trade. You spill your secrets and pay me a handsome fee. And I craft your story into an engaging manuscript. Money for words. It’s that simple.

I take a deep breath and relax against the seat as the car weaves through the London streets. The traffic is thick, and Damian calls out to John to ask for our ETA. Looks like we’ve still got some time to pass, so I resume reading my novel.

The words have been pouring out of me at my table overlooking the illuminated pond each evening, and I’ve had nothing to do but write. There’s only so much ghostwriting I can do in a day, and I need to change things up to keep it fresh. The peace at Greystone is inspiring and I’ve barely watched TV since I started. Looks like I might achieve my long-cherished dream of writing my debut novel.

They say a debut novel is typically semi-autobiographical. I’m not sure about that, but I’ve set mine in a fantasy world where the hubristic hero is the prince. I’ve always enjoyed fairy tales and fantasy romance. The prince is a tortured soul who is under an evil curse. Only true love can undo the spell and save him. A mystic reads the Tarot for him and predicts his princess is on her way, but if he and his kingdom are to be freed from the spell, he must love her more than he loves himself. He has a reputation as an arrogant prince who doesn’t have the ability to fall in love. It’s part of the curse which he inherited from his father, who treated his mother terribly, and her lady’s maid was a witch who adored his mother and punished his father with the curse.

I didn’t intend to write fantasy romance, but when I started typing, it just flowed through my fingers and took on a life of its own. I’m thrilled because my biggest fear was that I was destined to write non-fiction, and the reason I hadn’t already written a novel was because secretly I didn’t have the talent. Writers are notoriously severe on themselves and I’m no exception. I’m relieved to see the manuscript taking form and each evening when I review what I wrote the previous day, I’m excited to see it isn’t too bad for a first draft. There is a story in there, and the characters have energy.

I plan to bash out as much of the story as I can in the next month while I’m still at Greystone—I’m not sure how we’ll reach the happy ending. I only know we will. A romance without a happy ending is a definite no-no, and after reading loads, I’m clear about that. But I don’t want a sappy two-dimensional romance where nothing happens. The adventure and the twists and turns are what I enjoy. I want my readers turning the pages, unable to put the book down until they see everything works out for Sofia, the future princess, and Jonas, the cursed prince. I’m enjoying writing the story immensely because I don’t know what’s going to happen, and it’s addictive.

Sofia and Jonas must get their happy ending. I raise my head and catch Damian looking at me.

‘You seem engrossed,’ he said. ‘What are you doing?’

I’m taken aback that he’s asking something so personal, and I don’t have a plausible alternative to the truth. I’m also a horrible liar, and don’t want to fall into that trap again. I turn to him and say, ‘I’m writing my first novel in the evenings. It’s so peaceful in the cottage.’

His green eyes widen. His irises are lighter than usual today, with threads of yellow. I think I see a flash of admiration as I return his stare.

‘Two books at once is impressive, Jackson. I clearly underestimated you in my preference to work with a male writer,’ he says in a teasing tone.

My face grows heated at the compliment. ‘I’m not sure you’ll agree when I tell you what type of novel I’m writing.’

One black eyebrow tilts. ‘Try me.’

My heart is pounding, and my throat is gritty. His large, beautiful hands (there are no words to describe them better) rest on his muscled thighs near mine as he leans closer. I can’t think when he’s so near—the desk between us is usually an unspoken boundary. My words are muddled in my brain and won’t form, never mind come out of my mouth. His presence overwhelms me, and the air between us is smoking hot like the other day when he came over to the cottage.Am I imagining this chemistry between us?

‘Jackson,’ he says, after a minute that seems like hours. ‘You were telling me what else you are writing?’

I clear my throat, which has closed over. ‘Romance,’ I squeak. ‘A fantasy romance novel.’

His eyes light up and he laughs.

I grow more agitated, but now I’m also indignant. ‘I knew you’d laugh at me. It takes just as much skill to write a romance novel as it does any other, but romance authors get a bad rap. Romance isthebiggest selling genre, you know.’ I raise my chin and stare at him, defiance blazing in my eyes. Just let him dare mock me, the arrogant bastard…