Night Owl (The Night Owl Trilogy #1)

Night Owl (The Night Owl Trilogy #1) Page 19

I was starting to understand his aversion to goodbyes.

I revised my resume and faxed it to Pamela Wing's office that night, along with a cover letter reintroducing myself, apologizing for my ill-prepared state at our first meeting, and expressing my enthusiasm about working under her.

Writing the letter and retooling my resume took my mind off Matt for an hour. As soon as the fax machine spit out the pages, I felt his absence. It expanded inside my chest until it hurt. Why was this happening?

Maybe I was seeing too much of Matt.

Maybe I wasn't seeing enough of him.

I drifted around the house. He'd been everywhere, and he made everything beautiful. He made my kitchen beautiful. He made my backyard radiant. He even made our hideous gaming room funny. Now the same rooms were dark and lonely.

I checked my email as I lay in bed. I was surprised to see a story installment from Matt, sent about five minutes earlier. I checked the time. 12:50 a.m. My night owl. I smiled and snuggled down to read his paragraphs.

In the whirlwind of the last two days, I had forgotten about our story. Suddenly I couldn't wait to see Cal's response to Lana bathing. My eyes skimmed over the text.

Oh, this was good.

A familiar heat spread through me as I read.

Cal stared at Lana's naked body, making no effort to conceal his interest. "He was no gentleman," Matt wrote, "and enjoyed the luxury of knowing it."

Matt wrote without reference to the setting, which worked. Cal was oblivious to his surroundings. There was only the human bathing with her back to him. I knew things were going to get good when Cal glimpsed the rounded sides of her breasts.

Cal wasn't without complexity, though. As he undressed and approached the dark river, he considered what it would mean for himself and Lana to be together. He was a demon, after all, and she was mortal. Matt made his plight sincere—and aching.

Cal walked the world in the skin of another.

He could have Lana, but he couldn't keep her. He couldn't love her.

I projected myself shamelessly onto Lana as that dangerous creature prowled toward her and slipped into the river like a snake. He extracted the soap from her hands. He began to wash her body. The roiling undercurrent bumped them together.

Hot damn.

I texted Matt.

Nice post. Thanks.

He replied instantly.

Yw. Writing it beat lying here missing you, which I'm doing now. Goodnight little bird.

Matt was lying in bed missing me. And I was lying in bed missing Matt. Okay, we were in the same boat. Now where was this boat going?

My cell woke me at 7:15 a.m.

I groped for my glasses and took the call, though I didn't recognize the number.

"H—" I coughed. Crap, morning voice. "Excuse me. Hello?"

"Hi Hannah, Pam Wing. Impressive resume. Matt neglected to mention your US-UK Fulbright. Very nice. I need you in here today."

I threw off my sheets. Pamela freaking Wing needed me today. I was not about to go starry eyed and speechless for the second time.

"That sounds great," I said. "I'm excited to get started. I'll be there within the hour."

"Perfect."

Click.

Within the hour. Within forty-five minutes. Maybe I should have given myself a little latitude, but I had to make up ground with Pamela Wing.

I showered and shaved in fifteen minutes and took more time with my outfit. I wanted to look professional, and I wanted to be comfortable. I wore nude nylons, a gray pencil skirt, a white blouse, and black pumps.

I forced my mind to stay on track. That meant no thinking about Matt, because thinking about Matt meant drooly daydreaming.

I flew through the doors of the Granite Wing Agency at 7:55. Score.

The building was empty. After some cautious wandering, I found my way to Pamela Wing's office. Her door was open and she was seated at her desk, flipping through a sheaf of papers and frowning. She didn't look up when I knocked.

"Not quite within the hour, Hannah, but close enough."

Not quite within the hour? I glanced at my watch, my cheeks burning. Okay, so ten minutes of searching the building put me in Pam's doorway at 8:05, but seriously?

I remembered Matt's words. There is no margin of error. He wasn't kidding. And fuck, now was not the time to start thinking of Matt with his sly smile and hard torso and huge—

"You're in there." Pam pointed with her pen to a door off her office, still not looking up from her paperwork. "I've laid out some documents for you to go over. You won't find any errors; these are finalized documents pertaining to electronic rights for one of our authors. I need you to get familiar with them today. I also need to get a feel for your ability as a reader. You'll find five partial manuscripts on your desk; read them and write up your impressions. Email those to me by the end of the day. I've already been over the samples. If we're on the same page, you'll be helping me cull the slush pile. Finally, I need you to..."

Pam went on for about five minutes, piling on tasks.

I refused to feel intimidated. (Or rather, I refused to let how intimidated I felt show on my face.) She was probably trying to see if I scared easily, and I don't. I listened to her instructions, made mental notes, thanked her, and got started.

Well, first I texted Matt.

Working for the shark. Lunch break at 1. Meet me?

Then I got started.

CHAPTER 17

Matt

I CALLED PAM on Friday morning.

I had to cover my bases about Hannah.

To be honest, I was starting to crack.

I met Hannah's family. I cried after we fucked. Oh, and Bethany texted once and called twice while I was at Hannah's house. Fuck.

Lists. Look at the lists. Get control. Make an appointment with Mike. Call Pam. Fuck, I fucked up. I fucked up with my overblown reaction to M. Pierce. Hannah noticed. It's like you have an ax to grind with that poor author.

That poor author. Me. I was overdoing it. My anger looked suspicious, the way I mocked Hannah for liking my books, the way I put down Pierce. Should have played it differently. Should have feigned indifference.

Now I had Hannah shadowing my fucking agent. Fuck. Brilliant move, Matt. You just couldn't resist the opportunity to throw your weight around.

No, that wasn't it. I couldn't resist the opportunity to help Hannah get a job.

But I wasn't a businessman. I didn't have dozens of connections in Denver. I had one connection and I used it for Hannah, and now I was losing sleep over it.

Losing sleep? That implied I had sleep to lose, and I didn't sleep a wink last night. I tossed and turned in my net of lies.

"Pick up, pick up," I muttered as I paced through my apartment.

"Morning." Pam sounded harassed. "How's the writing going?"

"It's not. We have to talk."

"You have a therapist. I'll give you five minutes."

"I'm fucking serious Pam. It's about Hannah. You know, that—"

"Yes, I know. She faxed her resume—on the Fourth, no less. I hope she works out."

"What? Are you taking her on?"

"Trying. She's on her way here now. I'll think about thanking you if she doesn't have a breakdown by the end of next week."

"Go easy on her," I snarled. Fuck! I pulled at my hair. Why did I say that?

"Is there a point to this call? I appreciate the secretary. I don't appreciate being told how to run my business. I assume when you recommended Hannah you felt she was capable of—"

"Pam, sorry. Listen. Forget that. She's a friend. That's why I'm calling. This goes almost without saying, but it's imperative that..."

I stopped pacing. I rubbed my neck as I searched for words.

For once in her life, Pam didn't seize my silence as an opportunity to interject. Even that unnerved me. Was she curious about my relation to Hannah? Pam did a good job of disguising any interest in me and my life, but she was also one of the most cunning people I knew. She had probably figured out a lot about me over the years.

God, now I was analyzing Pam. Was Pam analyzing me? Fuck, I just needed to eat. My morning coffee on an empty stomach was giving me the shakes.

"Imperative that she... not know who I am," I stumbled. Awesome phrasing. Way to go bestselling author. "Ah, that is, documents and... things you might have with my name... in connection with..."

Pam let me flounder. I despised her for it.

"Pam, I know you take my privacy as seriously as I do, but in this circumstance I..."

Finally, the steely bitch spoke up. God damn, I was glad to have Pam Wing as a friend and not an enemy.

"There is nothing in this office," she said, "on paper or otherwise, in that connection. It's all at my home office, and even there, the computers have passwords and the file cabinet is locked. I'm surprised you've never asked about this before."

Pam was right. Until now, I never cared to know how Pam safeguarded my identity, I only cared that she did it. She had to be wondering what about Hannah inspired my paranoia. Fuck, fuck. This call was another mistake.

"You say you know I take your privacy seriously," she went on, "but maybe you don't know. Your publishers and I cannot publicize you—more's the pity. All we can publicize is your mystery. I trust this makes sense to you. I have a vested interest in your anonymity. Now, rather than insulting me with insinuations that I am careless, why don't you join the working world and do some writing. Your five minutes are up."

Pam hung up.

I sank into my office chair.

Fuck, I felt like puking.

Normally, Pam's zingers delighted me. Not today.

I opened my lists. I'm a list-maker. Mike says I need to break away from the lists; he says that I need to feel comfortable with the conditions of life, which are often out of my control.

I say fuck that.

Just opening the documents made my hands stop shaking.

I could cover all my bases. I wasn't living a double life. I was protecting the integrity of my prose. I could be with Hannah. I could keep her from getting hurt. I could do it all.

I zoned out as I scanned my lists.

First, I had a list of people who knew I was M. Pierce (and their non-disclosure agreements on file): Bethany, one of my exes, my brothers Nate and Seth, my uncle, one friend, Pam and her partner Laura, my psychiatrist Mike, and a select group at Knopf.

I also had lists of important dates. I had lists of precautions to take in protecting my identity. I had to-do lists. Lists of things that frightened me. Lists of unhealthy thought patterns. Lists of ideas for my novels. People to call in emergencies. Reasons to stay sober. Good restaurants. Movies. Songs and artists. Books. Adjectives. Websites. Colors. Critics. Blogs. Bookshops. Streets. Cars. Quotes. Prizewinners. Magazines. Clubs.

It was all there. It was all organized. I lost nothing.

I opened a new document and typed: THINGS I WANT TO DO WITH HANNAH.

I smiled and brooded while the churning in my stomach ceased.

Things I want to do with Hannah: dance, watch a movie, camp, swim, hike, bike, take a trip, build something, have a food fight, write more, do Christmas—

My phone chimed.

It was a text from Hannah.

Working for the shark. Lunch break at 1. Meet me?

My carefully collected calm scattered. Hannah. Working for Pam. Wanting to meet me. In five hours. My hands started to shake again.

I didn't need food in five hours. I needed food now. Too bad anxiety kills my appetite.

I texted Hannah.