Brontë’s inclusion into their secret meant that she would be around a lot more. And Brontë was good friends with his mysterious redhead—Gretchen.
This was information that Hunter could use. And so he didn’t protest when Logan had brought her in. She’d given him plenty of information, too. His Gretchen was a writer. A ghostwriter. There had to be a way to get in contact with her. Spend time with her without arousing her suspicions. He simply wanted to be around her. To have a conversation with her. To enjoy her presence.
Of course he wanted more, but a man like him knew his limits. He knew his face was unpleasant. He’d seen women clutch their mouths at the sight of him. He’d never have someone like Gretchen—smart, beautiful, funny—unless she was interested in his money. And the thought of that repulsed him.
He’d take friendship with a beautiful woman, if friendship was all he could have.
Chapter 2
Gretchen Petty picked the lemon off her water glass. “Do you suppose if I take enough of these home, it’ll make me a decent dinner?”
Across from her, Kat Garvey reached over the table and snatched the lemon wedge from Gretchen’s hands. “Stop it. You’re not that broke.”
“I’m almost there,” Gretchen said glumly, shoving a straw into her glass and sipping her water. “The cupboard’s bare, and I’m weeks away from an acceptance payment.”
“So I take it lunch is on me this time?” Kat asked dryly.
Gretchen set down her glass and fluttered her eyelashes. “Why, Kat. It is so generous of you to offer.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m taking it directly off the top of your next royalty check.”
“In that case, I’m ordering dessert.”
Kat just shook her head, grinning, and Gretchen blew a kiss at her. They’d started out as agent and client and over the last five years, had ended up as something more like friends and less like coworkers. It suited Gretchen just fine. Considering that she spent most of her days in front of the computer trying to keep ahead of deadlines, the only friends she got out to see were usually due to business lunches.
“So how’s the book coming, Gretchen? As your agent, I’m obligated to ask you.” Kat took a bite of her pasta. “I know it’s not your favorite project.”
“Favorite would be a grand overstatement,” Gretchen said, morosely jabbing her fork into her salad. “Something more like ‘greatest torture known to mankind’ would probably be closer to the mark.”
Kat grimaced. “That well?”
Gretchen shook her head, internally debating how much to share with her agent. She and Kat were good friends, but once she knew how much Gretchen had struggled with this project, it could be tricky. Kat would take the publisher’s side, not Gretchen’s. Kat was fun and a good friend, but when it came to work, Kat would follow the money.
“Are we on track to turn in at the end of the month, at least?”
“Mmmmmsure.” Gretchen gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders and didn’t make eye contact. “Or a week or so after. Maybe two.”
“Gretchen,” Kat said, exasperated. “Are you serious? This is the fourth project you’ve been late on this year.”
She grimaced, expecting this reaction. She didn’t have excuses to give, either. She stayed home and worked all day, but the projects she was getting were less than . . . exciting. And it made it damn hard to sit down and work on them every day. “I had to do a lot of science research,” Gretchen mumbled.
“For Astronaut Bill and the Space Vixens of Dark Planet? Are you kidding me? It’s pulp, Gretchen! Granted, it’s pulp with a huge following, but it’s still freaking pulp. Just write.”
“Yeah, but have you read those books?”
Kat snorted. “Not my type.”
“Yeah, well that makes two of us. I had to read a few of them, too. And you know what happens in Astronaut Bill Conquers the Moon Maidens? He razes the planet of all greenery. All greenery, Kat! How the hell are they supposed to breathe if there’s nothing to produce oxygen?”
“It’s space fantasy.” Kat waved a hand in the air. “Write in some robot oxygen makers or something.”
“But it has to make sense,” Gretchen insisted. “I can’t just phone it in. I can’t write loopholes like that in the story.”
She didn’t know why it mattered so darn much, but the thought of those stupid, big-breasted moon maidens asphyxiating under her watch made her annoyed as hell. Details mattered. And if she got the details wrong, she’d be blasted by legions of fans for doing a bad job. If she did a bad job, the sales would suffer. And if sales suffered? Astronaut Bill would be assigned to a different ghostwriter.
“I don’t know why you get so hung up on that misogynistic crap, Gretchen. Just finish the book and have the copyeditor fill in the holes. That’s what they’re there for.”
Gretchen chewed, saying nothing.
“You know if you turn in late again, they won’t re-up your contract. You need this contract.”
“I know. I’m just . . . struggling.” Every page of Astronaut Bill was painful. They were only fifty thousand words long and the plots were simplistic. Bill gets a mission from headquarters. Bill goes to explore a new planet. Buxom babes are encountered and they need rescuing. Bill ends up saving the day after some spectacular laser gun battles and sexual tension. Piece of cake.
Except she kept getting hung up on the details. And she didn’t much like Bill, which made it really hard to spend time with him every day. But Bill was a paycheck, and a good one, so she struggled on.
“Just tell them I’m sick. Maybe someone died and I had to leave town for the funeral.”
Kat glared at Gretchen. “I’m not going to lie about your family. I’ll just tell them you need another week, max.”
“Two?”
“One week,” Kat said firmly. “But you know they run on tight deadlines and they won’t be happy.”
“I know,” Gretchen said glumly. The rent was due and now was not exactly the time to have a crisis of faith. “I’ll get it finished, I promise.”
“Gretchen, you know I adore you, girl. You’re my favorite client. But I say this with love—you need to get your act together.”
“Consider it together. I promise.”