Player(97)

The curse of a reader.

He slid the book to me and picked up another. But he didn’t sign it. Instead, he turned that godforsaken smirk on me which subsequently turned my knees into jelly.

“But he loved her. Isn’t love enough to forgive?”

It was that tingle again, climbing up my face like fire. “Of course it is, but your heroes never make heroic decisions about the women who love them. In fact, they don’t seem to love their women at all, not enough to sacrifice their own comfort. They’re irredeemable. Why isn’t love enough to make them act less like assholes?” I clapped a hand over my mouth, my eyes widening so far, they burned from exposure to air.

Something in his eyes changed, sharpened with an idea. He was otherwise unaffected, chuckling as he opened the book and turned his attention to his Sharpie again. “I mean, you’re not wrong, Amelia.”

The way he said my name, the depth and timbre and rolling reverberation slipped over me like a drug.

I blinked. “I’m not?”

His eyes shifted to meet mine for only a heartbeat before dropping to the page again. “You’re not. Every time I publish a novel, I wait for your review to see if I finally won you over.” He closed the book, pushing it across the table to me before reaching for the last. “I think you should help me with my next book.”

Somewhere, a needle scratched. Tires squealed from a pumping of breaks. Crickets chirped in a chorus in an empty room.

Help him?

“Yes, help me,” he answered. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken the question. “I could use a critical voice on my team. I think they’ve been telling me yes for years when they should have been telling me no. I need a no. Are you interested?”

“Interested?” I echoed stupidly.

“Are you interested in being my no?”

I blinked at him. “What a weird question.”

A chuckle through a closed, sideways smile. His eyes had to be black, black as sin. “I’ve got to admit, I’m usually asking for a yes, especially where women are concerned.”

My face flattened, not only because he was a cocky bastard, but for the flash of rejection that I wasn’t considered a woman worthy of a yes. “What would the job entail?”

He watched me with an intensity that made me want to crawl out of my skin, like it was too small for everything inside of me. “Be available for meetings to plot and character develop. Read for me when I send the manuscript and provide critical feedback. Talk me off any ledges. Or push me off them, if that’s what you think I need. Help me make my stories better. What do you say?”

What could I say? Thomas Bane was a sensation, famous not only in the literary world but in the pop culture stream. His Instagram had seventy million followers. Page Six followed him around like he was their only job. He was, at that very moment, on a forty foot billboard for TAG Heuer in Times Square.

And he was asking me for help.

“Say yes, you idiot!” the girl behind me hissed, presumably the one who’d shoved me toward his table when my feet had failed me.

Thomas Bane’s smile tilted higher. Otherwise, he didn’t react.

Say something. You have to answer right now.

In the span of a handful of seconds, I weighed it out. He wanted my help, and I loved to help people. I’d beta read for authors a hundred times and had always found it fulfilling, to offer my advice in order to make a story the best it could be. In fact, I loved it and took every opportunity to say yes, should it arise.

So why wasn’t I jumping at the chance to help Thomas oh-my-God-quit-smiling-at-me-like-that Bane?

On paper, there was no reason. Floating around in my head were a hundred, the topmost being that when he looked like that, I actually felt like my panties were on fire.

He watched me expectantly. But when that smile of his dropped incrementally, coupled with the almost infinitesimal draw of his brows, I caved.

He wanted my help, and I had to give it.

“No.”

His eyes narrowed in thought. “Wait. No as in yes? Or no as in no?”

“I will happily tell you no at every opportunity. If that’s what you want, I’m your girl.”

There it was again, that smile that probably cost more than most people’s cars. “I like the sound of that. I’ll message you through your blog and we can set up a time to meet.” He arranged the stack of books, straightening their corners before moving them a couple inches closer to me, the gesture strangely nervous and utterly disarming.

I found myself smiling. I picked up the books and deposited them in my bag. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“Did you want a picture?” he asked.

I got the distinct impression he asked everyone that question simply because there was no way in hell anyone could have the constitution to make that request on their own. Not with his energy sapping everyone in a twenty foot radius of their wits.

“I…erm…”

He was out of his seat and stepping around the table before I could say no again, this time meaning the word in full. But there he was, approaching like a thunderstorm. My chin lifted as he approached. He was at least a foot taller than me, the air around him charged, everything about him dark. His hair. His beard. His bottomless eyes. His jacket that smelled like Italian leather and combat boots to match, the laces half untied and the top gaping open with irreverence.