Billionaire Novelist 1 : Working for the Billionaire Novelist(11)

And who was I? A barely-middle-class girl with freckles and a pile of student loan debt. I didn't know what all the various-sized forks laid out in front of me were for. I knew one was for salad, and one for the main course, but there were more than two.

Smith had let go of my hand when the waitress came in, and I was wringing a napkin nervously on my lap.

The waitress turned and asked me which wine I'd prefer.

"You decide," I said, smiling at Smith. "I think sometimes you know what I want before even I do."

The waitress grinned and said, "Have you two been dating long?" Apparently the hostess hadn't passed along Smith's fib that we were cousins.

"No," I said. "We're not-"

"Less than a month," he said, beaming. "We met scuba diving and she saved my life."

The waitress tilted her head. "Aww!"

"Yes," I said, kicking him under the table. "That was really  …  unbelievable. Like something out of a book."

"Or a movie," the waitress said. "I love the meet-cute."

"He barfed," I said.

"Sweetie!" He pretended to be shocked and embarrassed.

The waitress giggled, each little laugh making her look more stupid to me and more interesting to Smith.

Grinning, Smith took another look over the wine list and made his selection, then ordered food for both of us.

After the waitress left, I said, "Thank you for ordering for me. I had no idea what anything was."

He laughed, tipping his head back and filling the mudroom with his booming laughter.

I kicked him again. "Don't laugh at me."

He frowned. "You're being silly. Who cares what some waitress thinks? As long as she doesn't think you're rude, and stick her dirty thumb in your food, it doesn't matter."

"I guess. Easy for you to say, with your big wallet full of cash and your  …  good looks."

Looking smug, he turned to look out the window at the lush green garden. "My good looks, you say? Do go on."

"You're not bad-looking, for an older guy."

"Ouch."

"Smith, can I ask you a question?"

"You can ask me two. Now go ahead with the second one."

The waitress came by with our wine, so I waited until we were alone, and said, "Is this how you wrote all your novels?"

He swirled his wine and stared into his glass. "You mean did I have sex with my other typists? Come now, I didn't ask you for your sexual history." He leaned across the table with his glass raised in a toast. "To fresh stories."





 

 
"To fresh stories."

Despite my toast, I wasn't satisfied with Smith's answer. In the olden days, pre-internet, a woman would have to wait for a man to divulge his secrets, but these were not the dark ages. I had my cell phone with me. After we ate dinner, I excused myself to the washroom, where I did some web searches on his name.

It took me ages to find anything that wasn't a book review or a fluffy interview. What little I did find was not exactly what I wanted, but still illuminating.

I discovered that he preferred to write first drafts in his cabin in Vermont, which meant the cabin wasn't a brand-new thing. One article said he spent months researching his stories ahead of time and outlining them. That part was news to me, as I hadn't seen any notes or outlines at the cabin. I read on, to a quote from him, where he said he put away all his research when it came time to write the first draft, and went on his memory alone. He said that if an element of the book didn't stick in his memory, then it wasn't important enough to have in the book.

I found scant information about his personal life, except for a brief mention of his divorce, two years ago. I found no mention of a new wife, which was a relief. The thought had crossed my mind that he could be married. I doubted any sane woman would send her husband off for two weeks in a cabin with a young secretary, but that didn't guarantee he wasn't doing it in secret.

Wife or no wife, was I still his secret? Was that why he introduced me to that woman as his niece, and then asked to sit at the very back of the restaurant?

My mind flitted around all the possibilities as I went to the sink and tidied up my hair. I appraised myself in the mirror. The blue blouse was flattering, and the clothes had that crisp look only brand-new things have. My skin really was glowing, and except for my sneakers, I looked like someone who mattered.

I calmly told myself, "It's just two weeks. Have some fun, earn some money, and make a few great memories. That's it. Two weeks."

I freshened my lipstick, gave myself a winning smile, and left the washroom.

When I got back to the table, Smith was frowning at his cell phone. He held out his empty palm and said, "Dead battery already. Let me use yours."