Читать книгу Unwanted Girl - MK Schiller - Страница 14

Nick paced the room, his anxiety increasing with every step, while Shyla perched on his couch, reading his pages. Her brows knitted in stern concentration. One thing was for sure. She read at a snail’s pace, resulting in a kind of torture for him.

She put down the final page and wiped the tear before it could fall down her face.

“It’s so bad it made you cry?” Nick asked, his voice tense.

“It’s so good it made me cry.”

Nick expelled a long breath, one he’d been holding in since she’d arrived.

“I’m glad you like it. I wanted to show you a rough example of how you could write it.”

“It’s as if you were in my head. Yesterday, I gave you a brief description of the plot, but you added the emotion.”

“I tried to imagine what it must have been like for two women in that circumstance. I just colored in your outline, that’s all. I’m relieved you’re not angry.”

“Why would I be angry?”

He chuckled. “I didn’t want you to think I was trying to steal your story.”

“I would never think that. It makes sense that Sister Sarah would make the connection to Moses and Nalini to Krishna. You did some research?”

“A little in terms of the Hindu faith. I’m Catholic, so Moses is who I thought of when you told the story.”

Her lips parted slightly, as if his admission surprised her.

Nick cleared his throat. “These are just ideas. I don’t want to dampen your creativity.”

“What creativity? I have a string of events, but you made it a story. You brought it to fruition.”

“Easy Tolstoy. It’s one chapter. One chapter does not a book make.”

She leaned forward, pulling her legs under her. “I have a proposition for you.”

“That’s gotta be the scariest sentence in the English language.”

“What if we worked on this together?” she asked, arching her brow.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s your story.”

“But you’re the writer.”

“Shyla, this sounds like literary women’s fiction. That’s not my genre. In fact, I wouldn’t even read a story like this much less collaborate on one. Besides, I don’t work well with others.”

“I think we work well together. I’ll tell you the story, and you write it. Simple.”

“It’s not simple. It’s incredibly complicated.”

“Why?” she challenged.

“Well, for one thing, money.”

“Money?”

“Yes, if it gets published, how will we divide those profits? The story isn’t mine.”

“We’ll split it. Or you can take it all. I don’t care to make money on it.”

Nick laughed at her innocence. “You say it now, but I’ve seen greed firsthand. It changes people. And truthfully, I really don’t want to make a profit on this either. I wanted to give you a starting point, that’s all.”

“If neither of us is interested in making money, then why are we arguing about it?”

She had a point. He sat beside her on the couch. “Look, you can do this by yourself. I have faith in you.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve tried,” she said with a defeated frown.

“You can take classes. There are some great professors at NYU. I can recommend a course for you.”

“This is my last semester. It’s too late.”

“You can take online courses when you go home.”

She turned toward him. “Nick, don’t you understand we can help each other right now?”

“How so?”

“I have a story to write, but I don’t possess the skills to do it. You have the skills but no story.”

“I’m just blocked right now.”

“Yes, but obviously something in this idea spoke to you because you were able to create this,” she said, holding up the pages. “Maybe it will give you inspiration to write other things. Maybe Max Montero will start talking to you again.”

He tightened his hand around the arm of the couch, not wanting to admit she vocalized his own thoughts. “I know some other authors who write in this genre. They might be willing to work with you. I can talk to them.”

She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t feel comfortable with strangers.”

“I was a stranger, Shyla.”

“Yes, but now you’re my friend. That took a year of weather conversations to happen. I don’t have another year.”

She gathered up the pages and stood. “I should go.”

“Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not. I’m sad. Thank you for the pages. I’ll cherish them.”

Shit.

Nick never had envisioned writing that rough draft would lead to this. She was right. The story had sparked something in him—kick-started his creativity in a way.

He escorted her to the street and hailed a cab.

“I don’t want you to pay for my cabs anymore, Nick.”

“I worry about you walking home.”

“I’ll take a cab if it makes you feel better, but I can afford it.”

He shoved his hands in his pocket, fighting the urge to argue with her.

“Are you going to stop coming now?” He cursed the pathetic nature of his question, but the time he spent with Shyla was both precious and precarious. He didn’t want it to end.

A cab stopped, and he held the door open for her.

Her lips quirked in a half-smile. “Of course not, I’m your delivery girl.”

He tilted her chin toward his face. “You know what I mean.”

“Nick, I’ll invite myself to dinner as long as you let me in.” She smiled wider, just enough for the dimple to make an appearance. God, he loved the dimple. “I understand why you don’t want to work on this with me, but it doesn’t change the fact we’re friends.” She moved to get in the cab, but paused, her eyes level with his chest. “My time with you is the best time of my day.”

He swallowed, replaying the sentence in his head. “Me too, Shyla.”

“Be safe, Nick.”

* * * *

That night, Nick Dorsey paced so much he could have created a groove in the floor. The girl brought laughter into his quiet, lonely life. He missed her when she was gone. And yes, he was attracted to her, but he was careful to cloak those feelings around her. He craved her friendship most of all.

The next night she showed up complete with juice boxes and sandwiches.

Nick took the food and set it down. Then he led her to the couch. His digital tape recorder lay on the coffee table in front of her.

“I don’t understand,” she said, studying the device.

He remained standing. “Here are the rules. We do this until one of us no longer wants to. You tell me the story, and we write it together. If I determine it’s good enough, I’ll share it with my agent. If it’s published, you’ll get the lion’s share of the profits, and I’ll take a five percent cut.”

“Only five percent?”

“Consider it my editing fee.”

“But you’re doing more than editing. You’re writing it. Surely, you deserve more.”

“It’s all I want. Those are my rules. Do you have anything to add?”

“It’s a very generous offer. One I can’t pay you back for. Thank you.” The girl didn’t understand. She was already paying him back. Or rather, she was bringing him back.

She stood and walked toward him. He staggered back, unprepared when she threw her arms around his neck. She didn’t let go, tightening her hug. Nick closed his eyes, took in her scent, and embraced her. He felt the curves of her body under the thick material of her clothes. His own body reacted.

Shit.

He backed away clumsily before she could decipher the non-verbal communication. He took the seat opposite the sofa and placed his notepad over his lap. “Ready?”

“I think so.”

He turned on the recorder. She sat with her legs beneath her.

“This is so I can remember without taking notes.”

She nodded and leaned down until her mouth was inches from the device.

He laughed. “It’ll pick up your voice. You don’t have to do that.”

She sat back. “Oh, okay.”

He punctured the top of the juice box. She did the same with hers. They didn’t cement the decision with a contract or a handshake. Instead, they toasted with colorful cardboard boxes.

“Before we start, I wanted to ask if you have a title?”

“Not yet.”

“Sometimes it’s better to let it come to you as the story unfolds.”

She cleared her throat and continued the story. He hung onto her every word, wrapped in the trance of her rich, seductive voice.