Typist #2 Spanking the Billionaire Novel(20)

“Will you go for dinner with me? That's what the surprise is. It's not at the cabin.”

“I need you to be honest with me. You recognized my name and then you emailed my mother and asked her about me?”

“No. I had a few emails with your mother back in January. She was feeling lonely after the holidays, and I could relate. I was in a dark place, and her messages were a welcome distraction.”

“No shit. My mom's awesome.”

His face relaxed as he laughed. “She is,” he said, nodding.

“Best mom in the world,” I said.

“Is that what it says on her favorite mug?”

“Stop talking about my mother. It's weird.”

He shrugged. “Life's weird. So, are you going to stay for dinner? I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I was afraid you'd react just like this.”

I looked up at the blue sky and the treetops. “How many times have I run away from you now? I swear, if you weren't such a Grade A Dillhole, I wouldn't get any exercise at all.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a hopeless romantic.”

“More like hapless romantic.”

He chuckled at my joke and winced as he picked a twig out from between his bare toes. He had a few cuts on his soles that were bleeding.

“Maybe this is our thing,” I said. “I run away and you chase me. It almost makes me wonder if you aren't pushing me away on purpose. Testing me or something.”

He said, “I don't know. I don't understand the things I do. Can I offer you a ride back to the cabin?”

“I guess so.” I started walking toward the four-wheeler.

He said, “I should still write for a few hours, but I can hunt-and-peck at the keyboard on my own for a bit, if you're not up to it.”

“So we're back to our regular schedule? Just like that? Typing, and then dinner?”

“A very special dinner. We'll probably leave at two o'clock so we can get there in time, so just a half-day of work. That is, if your migraine isn't coming on.”

He caught my hand in his and pulled me to face him.

We stared into each other's eyes, and the whole world shifted around me again, like giant building blocks falling into place. Smith Wittingham could date anyone, and he'd chosen me, from a photograph and an email from my mother. Anger and fear ran through me like noisy twins, rattling my nerves and making my heart beat faster.

But I was also flattered. I'd never had someone fall in love with my photo. Was it really that much different from someone spotting you from across a crowded bar and making his way over to buy you a drink? Granted, people didn't usually ship their crushes to Vermont to play games and write novels, but Smith wasn't a regular sort of guy. He was brilliant, handsome, and devious. He was also the most infuriating, fascinating person I'd ever met.

My voice trembled as I said, “Are we dating, or is this just more games?”

“It's a date, I guess. Does your generation actually date? I thought it was all hook-ups and friends-with-benefits.”

“You're not that much older than me.”

He squeezed my hand. “Thank you for saying that. Turning forty was difficult, and forty-one was worse, but you've made me feel like a new man.” He pulled me in for a hug. “Oh, Tori.”

“You make me feel different, too.”

He moved his hands to the sides of my face and held them there, gazing down into my eyes.

His voice husky and soft, he said, “Do I make you feel beautiful?”

“All over.”

He leaned in to kiss me, but I pushed him away, covering my mouth.

“I need to brush my teeth,” I said.

“I can never wait to kiss you,” he said, and he held me tight as he pressed his closed lips down on mine.

We kissed for a moment, then he disentangled himself from my arms and said, “As much as I could kiss you forever, we should get some work done before our ride gets here.”

“Our ride? Tell me more.”

“I arranged everything earlier while you were sleeping in.”

“Sounds exciting. Is it horses?”

He climbed onto the quad and patted the seat behind him. “Can't say. Surprise.”

I growled. “Surprises make me crazy. This had better be the good kind of surprise, not the I-stalked-you-through-your-mother type of surprise.”

“Pack an overnight bag.”

I growled again. “So mysterious!”





We drove the quad back to the cabin, and as I hugged my arms around Smith and rested my cheek against his back, I felt foolish for running away earlier. If you looked at my behavior objectively, I had done the sensible thing, of course, so I knew not to feel bad, but I still did. Every emotion within me had a dark twin.

At the cabin, we went upstairs and got some good work done on the manuscript. As usual, I lost myself in the story, barely aware of my fingers moving as the story flowed from Smith, through me, to the screen. In the story, Detective Dunham and his client, Sheri, had a terrible fight in which he insulted her manicure, saying that the unusual colors were “trashy.” She then chewed him out over his worn-down shoes and the dog hair affixed to his trench coat. They got so worked up arguing that they settled things by having sex in an alley, she with her back against a brick wall and her feet braced on another.