Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(50)

FROM: Emily Walker <[email protected]>

TO: Jack Bennett <[email protected]>

DATE: Wed, June 12 9:02 PM

Subject: My book . . .

Have you ever been horny for a Highlander before? Now’s your chance . . .

1 Attachment: DepravedHighlander.docx





Chapter Fifteen


Emily


It’s six-forty-five A.M., a breeze is blowing through my kitchen window and James Taylor is singing “How Sweet It Is” on my record player as I lift my cup of steaming hot coffee to my mouth. That’s when Jack opens my front door. No warning knocks. Just steps right in like this is his house too. I squeak a noise at the intrusion and barely manage to scoot away from the slosh of coffee over the edge of my mug.

He’s holding a big stack of papers in his hands, and there’s another pile under his arm.

“Jack!” I press myself back into my kitchen counter, feeling incredibly skimpy in my nightgown. It’s the exact color of champagne and of course made of silk because that’s the only fabric I will let touch my skin at night. It’s a short little number with a slit up to my hip. Oh, and it has these cute little lace straps with bows at the juncture of each seam. Fine, let’s be real, it’s lingerie. And I’m not wearing a bra because this is my home, and I will not endure that torture device first thing in the morning. It’s my favorite gown but definitely inappropriate for standard visitors.

“Oh good, you’re up.” He hasn’t looked up from his engrossing papers yet. And I’m worried that when he does, he’s going to see a lot more of me than he’s expecting.

“What are you doing in my house before seven in the morning? And ever heard of knocking?”

“We’re past knocking. It’s a waste of time.”

“I beg to differ.” I set down my coffee mug to cross my arms over my chest. He looks up finally as he steps into my little galley kitchen, full of light with window sheers being tossed by the breeze. And when he sees me, it turns out I had nothing to worry about. Jack doesn’t look fazed by the sight of me in the least. Good?

I, however, can’t help but swoon a little over the sight of him. He’s a mess. His hair is disheveled, his jaw is lined with stubble, there are dark circles under his eyes, and his T-shirt is not only inside out but backward. And he’s wearing dark gray jogger sweatpants. Sweatpants. Jackson owns sweatpants. I imagined he slept in chinos.

“Emily Walker,” he says in a firmer tone than I have ever heard from him. “This”—he raises one of the stacks of papers in the air, wiggling it a bit—“is incredible.”

I’m lost. I’m lost in a dream—that’s what this is. It has to be. I’m in sexy, flimsy clothes, birds are chirping, James is singing, and Jack is in my kitchen babbling on about something that I don’t care at all about because it’s not actually important to the plot. The plot is that we are going to have sex in my dream and that’s the whole purpose of it. That must be what is happening.

Why am I so attracted to the sight of him disheveled? Why do I want to bite his elbow? I’m ninety percent sure that’s a weird thing to think.

“What’s incredible?” I say, giving in to the dream’s silly little side plot.

He frowns lightly at my sensual tone of voice. “Your book.”

My dreamland bubble pops, and I yank myself upright when I confirm that this is reality. “My . . .” I blink a few times. “My book? That’s my book.”

“This is your book.”

“You’re reading my book.”

“I read your book. Twice,” he says. “Saw it come through my email when I got into bed and meant to only read a chapter and instead, ended up staying up the entire night to read it.”

“Twice.”

He grins. “Twice.”

“And you printed it out? You own a printer.”

He looks confused. “Doesn’t everyone?”

I need to sit down. I need to . . . there’s nowhere to sit. There’s nowhere to escape. The dreamy sunlight from a minute ago is suddenly a piercing spotlight. I’m now searching through our entire interaction of the last minute to remember what it was he first said. It’s incredible.

“You liked it?”

His eyes are bright and a little wild. “I loved it. And it’s not that I didn’t think you would be a good writer, it’s just that when I read stuff from friends or novice writers I try to go in with pretty low expectations because I never really know what I’m going to get, but I should have known better.” He cracks another smile. “I should have known you would approach writing with the same precision and expertise you approach everything else in life. Emily.” He steps forward, a little breathless. “It was exceptional. You have to do something with it. It would be a shame for this story”—the pages wobble in his hand as he shakes it firmly again—“to live in a drawer.”

I’m light-headed. Jackson Bennett thinks I’m a good writer. Thinks I could do something with this work. I turn away from his intense gaze and retrieve my coffee again; I drink it too fast and burn my tongue. “Shit.” The mug goes on the counter again and I whirl around. “You’re not lying to me, are you? Just saying what I want to hear?”