Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I glance at my phone, out of habit. No texts. No service this deep in the woods, and I like it that way. Camille at Sweet Lies set this up with maximum discretion; even the contract says “personal assistant,” as if anyone would believe I can’t run my own laundry. But the second I saw Kat’s Polaroids—her standing there, chin down, arms crossed under the breasts like an innocent—I knew I was cooked. The other agencies send practiced women, career types who can smell loneliness through lead paint. Sweet Lies is the only one who delivers raw material: college co-eds, girls with just enough bad decisions in their past to make them desperate for a miracle, girls who have no clue what they’re worth and would break if you squeezed too hard.
And I like the breaking. I crave it.
Kat finishes the last plate, wipes her hands on a towel, and turns to find me staring. She flushes, her whole face going peach, and gives a little half-curtsy like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to sit at the table unless invited. I let the silence hang. There’s power in silence; it’s the one thing most people can’t outlast.
“Dinner was incredible,” I say. “Seriously. Most people order take-out five days a week, what with UberEats, DoorDash, and GrubHub .”
Kat smiles hesitantly.
“I like to cook,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms across her waist. “I mean, I’m not great at it. But my mom taught me some basics.”
I picture the mother: probably still pretty, probably single, probably had Kat at eighteen and raised her with a mix of hard rules and nervous laughter. I bet the mom still has the same body type, but softer at the edges, and yells about TikTok being the devil.
“You don’t have to be great,” I say, “just not afraid to make a mess.” I let my eyes linger on her hands—small, strong fingers, a little red from the heat. “You ever work in a restaurant?”
She laughs. “God, no. Just coffee shops. Cafés. I always envied the kitchen people though because they had this secret language, like, I don’t know, pirates or something.”
I chuckle. “It’s all screaming and sexual harassment, trust me. At least, from what they broadcast on cooking shows.”
Kat bites her lower lip, making it appear even more plush than before. There’s a fragility to her that isn’t weakness. There’s strength in there, and I want to get to know her. More specifically, I want her to know that I want to know her. It’s a tongue-twister, but it’s also true.
She’s cleaning the table, gathering up the wine glasses and her little dessert plate. I catch her wrist as she moves by, not hard but enough that she stops. Her pulse flutters under my thumb. For a second, she goes completely still, waiting for the next move.
“Sit down, Kat.”
She nods and folds herself into the chair across from me, hands in her lap. I watch her face, the nervous smile she’s trying to kill, and wonder how many men have ever just *looked* at her, instead of what they think they’re supposed to see.
“You know why you’re really here?” I say. My voice is gentle and deep, which is a trick I learned from my own father. You don’t have to shout if you’re strong enough to make them want to listen.
The young girl blinks, unsure if this is a joke.
“You’re my assistant,” I say, “but I think we both know there’s something more than just admin work. After all, why would there be the insistence on discretion? The need for a woman? The Polaroids?”
Kat bites the inside of her cheek, but doesn’t break eye contact. I like that about her. She’s nervous, but not weak.
“What are you saying?” she says. Her voice is just above a whisper, and I get a little high off it.
I drum my fingers on the table, letting the question float. I could spell it out, but I want to see how long it takes for her to put it together.
“You ever read romance novels, Kat?”
She nods, a little too quickly. “Sure. I mean, who hasn’t?”
I lean back, a man at ease. “Ever read the ones that are a little more explicit?”
Her lips part. I can see her weighing whether to lie. She’s not a good liar. “Yes,” she says, after a beat. “The usual stuff. Some Fifty Shades, some Harlequin, that kind of stuff.”
“Good,” I say, my eyes on her mouth. “Because, actually, I’m working on a romance novel. A new book. It’s not public yet, but it’s a—let’s say, an experiment for me. And I want it to be real. Authentic. So I need someone to help me.”
Kat is confused.
“Help you how? I’m happy to proofread scenes, and even act as a sounding board, but that’s normal, Mr. McKnight. I’d be happy to do that no matter what kind of book you’re writing.”