At the mention of his wife, a hard knot formed in my belly. I looked around the restaurant in desperation for something interesting enough to change the topic.
"Twice a day," he repeated
I'd asked about her before, but now I didn't want to know. I swirled my wine and tried not to react.
"Until she got pregnant," he said.
"I didn't know you had kids."
"We don't."
He reached for the wine, refilled both of our glasses, and changed the topic to investing. He perked up as he talked about the stock market, and his love-hate relationship with high finance.
We slept together in the master bedroom that night.
In the morning, he woke me up with kisses, and we made love languidly, with both of us on our sides and him behind me, sliding in and out. It felt lazy and decadent on the expensive sheets, in the calm morning light.
We had tea and breakfast, and returned to working on the novel.
This was the thirteenth day of our engagement, and we were reaching the end.
Another nice dinner that night, almost routine.
And then it was the fourteenth. Our final day.
The detective story finished with Detective Dunham simultaneously solving the case and pleasuring two women at once. I would have rolled my eyes more, but the sex scene was pretty damn hot, thanks to some rather convincing details lifted from recent experiences.
We finished at three o'clock, earlier than expected, but he'd been narrating the end almost faster than I could type. The pace made me feel like we were Jack and Jill, tumbling down a hill of words, all the plotlines coming together in a perfect web of story to catch us at the bottom.
Smith said, "The end."
I thought he was joking, and I didn't type the words.
"The end," he repeated, pointing at the screen.
I typed the words. "Seriously?"
He nodded. "It's the best part, typing those words. Center that line so it looks nice."
"I thought the best part was cashing the pay checks."
"You mean the advance. Or the royalties. Authors don't get pay checks."
"Well, la dee da," I said, grinning. "I know you don't want any commentary, but I have to say I'm glad Detective Dunham got together with Sheri at the end. That's really nice."
"They'll have to break up at the beginning of the next one."
"No!"
He shrugged. "Fine, I'll have her killed. Tori, I hope you know Sheri's death is on your hands. Your murderous hands."
"Big, mean author." I swatted his butt.
Smith took my hand and led me over to the sofa in the penthouse's living room. The sun was gleaming in, and it was such a scorcher of a summer day, I could practically hear the greenery on the patio crying out for water.
Smith looked at me with those bright blue eyes that made everything else blurry by comparison.
"Tori, I want to take care of you."
I rubbed my finger down his cheek, which bore blond stubble, as he hadn't shaved in two days. "That's sweet of you, but I can take care of myself."
"I'm giving you a co-author credit. It'll be a small percent, but should give you some regular income."
We were sitting on the long sofa, facing each other. "You're dumping me," I said, my shoulders slumping.
"No."
"So, what happens after we leave Montreal?"
"First, I'm going to call my publicist." He picked up his tablet from the coffee table and showed me a gossip website, with one of the photos from the altercation at the cafe.
In the photo, my tits were popping out of my low-cut dress, and I looked cheap and easy. Remi looked like a mischievous twat, and Smith had a red, angry face. The whole thing looked incredibly trashy and scandalous.
"Oh, shit," I said. "You said they wouldn't run those, that you weren't in demand to the tabloids."
"I'm not, but you are." He scrolled the page and read aloud, "The mysterious redhead is rumored to be an up-and-coming actress, who has just gone from B-list to A-list." He gave me a twisted grin. "Ever done any acting?"
"Just for fun in college. My skills come in handy when I pretend you're not driving me bonkers."
He shook his head. "You're not very good at it."
"Thanks a lot." I crossed my legs and tried to hide my nerves.
Day fourteen. The end of everything.
My typing contract was finished, and the book was done-or at least the first draft was done, and from what I'd learned, he didn't need a typist for the next part, which he worked on with his editors.
Did he want me around? We'd been getting along so well for the last few days, and that worried me.
Smith seemed to like me better when we fought.
When we were sweet like this, I could sense him slipping away, his eyes darting around for other distractions.