Free Between the Pages: A Novel by Amanda Richardson Page A

which is the first time I’ve slept past 7:30 in a long time, I shake my head and laugh into my pillow.
    Welp, that’ll do it.

CHAPTER TEN
    Finley
     
     
    Except it doesn’t.
    I thought dreaming about Emerson with Geoff’s head would help—Geoff is Hannah’s boyfriend. He’s unequivocally off limits. But Geoff is not Emerson.
    Emerson is Emerson. My lewd and depraved thoughts about him constantly assault my mind, and there’s nothing left to do but accept them as reality.
    My first week on the job is intense. Emerson and I spend most of the days together, reading a sentence and writing a short scene to go with it. He’s trying to groom me—to tweak my writing so it suites his needs. Also, if we’re on the same page about verb tense and narration style, there will be way less work down the road.
    For example, I naturally write in first person. Emerson’s book will be in first person, so that’s been easy enough. However, I like writing in present tense. Emerson prefers past tense. It’s not so easy to switch tenses like that when you’re used to writing a certain way.
    I will say though, working side by side highlights the things I like about Emerson—his messy hair, his sloppy clothing, and the way he interrupts me on almost every occasion he gets. He doesn’t mean to. He’s just really excited about this project, which is extremely endearing. He still won’t give me too much information on the book. It’s about a man named Ethan who has lead this crazy, wild life. I asked him if it’s an autobiography, and he replied simply, “Of sorts.” I want to know everything about him. I have to push my blooming feelings to the side though, because not only are they inappropriate, they’re inconvenient.
    Sometimes it’s hard to ignore—like when he leans in a little too close, and I get a whiff of his cologne, which smells like coriander and basil. Or when I make him laugh, and the self-satisfied little monster inside me applauds gleefully. The worst is when his eyes get sad, like they do a lot of the time, as if he’s bearing the weight of a million people, or like he’s had the life of an eighty-year-old man. I want to touch him; I want to take his hands. How weird is that? I hate PDA. I always avoided it with past boyfriends. I never wanted to let my guard down like that—until now. I liked my own space and presumed others did too. Until now. I want my hands all over Emerson.
    On Friday afternoon, after I spend a few hours working on the prologue for Emerson’s book, he comes into to my room with a set of keys. Without saying anything at first, he tosses them to me. I’m taken by surprise so I don’t catch them, and they drop to the floor. He comes over and retrieves them, setting them next to my computer.
    “Go. Get out of this room,” he starts, smiling widely. “You’ve worked hard all week, and you deserve a nice, relaxing weekend.”
    I look at the clock. “But it’s only one—”
    “I know. This way you’ll beat traffic.”
    I save my work and close my computer. I stand and stretch my back. “Okay, if you insist.” I pick up the keys and grab my purse and the small overnight bag I have packed. It’s weird to think that I live here most of the time now, so an overnight bag is all I’ll need to go home. I jingle the keys excitedly as he takes my overnight bag. I walk behind him as he heads downstairs and to the garage. “Am I taking the Soob?” I joke.
    “Not exactly,” he says, opening the door. “I was thinking the red one.”
    My eyes adjust to the vintage convertible Mini Cooper. The red one. “What?” I exclaim, jumping up and down. “Are you serious?” I look at him with big, hopeful eyes. “Please say yes, please say yes.”
    He just laughs. “You can drive stick, right?”
    “Of course. Oh my God! This is so cool.” I run over to the car and giggle hysterically. I place my purse and overnight bag in the trunk, pocketing my cell phone and sunglasses. I take a