Rewritten (The Bound Series Book 7) Read online

  As she came to the last of his finished pages, a chime sounded over the plane’s intercom system, startling her. Somehow, they were already approaching LAX. She quickly made a few more notes then stowed the tablet and planner in her purse as they started their descent.

  The guy next to her—Sam—was looking at her again, and her earlier discomfort returned full force. She turned and looked out the window.

  “I’m sorry I keep staring. You remind me of someone. I’m just trying to figure out who.”

  Apprehension slithered beneath her skin.

  Before she could speak, he asked, “Have you ever done any TV or movies?”

  She forced her features into a bland expression—entirely in opposition to the urges careening through her. Scream. Run. Hide. Escape. Heart thundering in her chest, she shook her head. “Nope.” Swallowing past the thickness in her throat, she continued, “I think I just have one of those faces. Last year, some woman insisted that I was her cousin. Took forever to convince her that I’d never been to Texas.”

  “That’s crazy.” Sam grinned, but he was still coolly assessing her. “So, you’ve never done any acting at all? Not even commercials?”

  The plane touched down, the wheels bouncing a few times, heightening the lurching in her already upset stomach.

  “Nope. No acting.”

  The plane rolled to a jerky halt, and she reached under her seat to grab her belongings and praying that would put an end to his questions.

  “That’s so weird,” he was saying as she sat up. “I could swear I’ve seen your face before. Modeling?”

  She shook her head, her anxiety growing by the second. “I’m not really comfortable being in front of a camera.”

  They stood and moved into the aisle. As they started to inch their way forward, he stepped closer, his front skimming her back. “Porn,” he said as if he’d remembered something important.

  “What?” she asked tightly, her body stiffening. Surely, he hadn’t said what she was afraid he had. That had to have been a trick of her paranoia.

  He leaned closer still, his lips skimming the hair near her ear. “I said, porn. Have you done any adult films?”

  Eliza’s eyes burned with tears, but she blinked them away. “No. And you need to stop speaking to me. Immediately.”

  Clutching her purse strap with her clammy hands, she willed them to stop shaking as a flight attendant stepped forward.

  “Is there a problem?” the woman asked, meeting Eliza’s gaze then looking behind her to Sam.

  “It was my mistake,” he said smoothly. “I thought she was someone else.”

  The woman glanced back to Eliza, as if asking her to confirm his story. She nodded stiffly, wanting to be as far from him as she could manage.

  The woman smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes as she stared directly at Eliza. “If you need any assistance at all, be sure to stop at the gate desk as you deplane.” It was clear from her tone that she didn’t believe him.

  Eliza smiled gratefully at her and mouthed “thank you” as she continued to inch toward the door and the ramp that would lead to the airport and the relative safety of the nearest bathroom. She wanted to be sure that Sam was long gone before she approached the luggage carousel.

  Chapter Twelve

  Angus looked up at a knock on the door between the two rooms he’d been using for the last week. He’d shut it earlier, knowing she’d be arriving soon. Soon was now, apparently. He couldn’t deny how much better he felt knowing she was nearby. It wasn’t “better” exactly. But he felt something—lighter? Excited? He shook his head at himself as he got up to answer the door. She’s only here until you finish the book, dobber. And what happened to not wanting a minder?

  Of course, he hadn’t planned on his minder being exceptionally bright, or challenging, or as delightful as she was. He pulled open the door between their rooms, and the sight of her nearly stole his breath.

  It seemed that each time he laid eyes on her, he noticed some new and utterly compelling thing about her. At the moment, it was the smattering of pale freckles, sprinkled like constellations, across the bridge of her nose.

  “Hey,” she murmured.

  His gaze climbed to her eyes, and he noticed the web of red across the whites of her eyes. “Are you okay?”

  She seemed almost startled. “What?”

  “You look like you’ve been crying.”

  “No.” There was a long pause between her denial and her explanation. “The air on the plane...it was just really dry. And my eyes are sensitive. Anyway,” she continued more brightly, “do I have you to thank for the makings of the emotional eating binge in my room?” She gestured toward the dresser where two bottles of Coke sat chilling in the ice bucket next to a bag of salt and vinegar crisps.

  “I might be trying to bribe you to go easy on me. Or, maybe I’m looking to distract you from whatever revisions you’re going to suggest.”

  A smile tilted her lips, and her eyes softened. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from pulling her into his arms.

  “Either way, it’s not going to work. But, it is appreciated. That was incredibly sweet.”

  He returned her smile and gestured for her to enter. “That’s something I’ve never been accused of before.”

  She breezed past him before gently cuffing him upside the head. “That was an observation, not an accusation.”

  “So you say. How was your flight?”

  It was as if a shadow passed in front of her face. “It was fine. Long, crowded, the usual.”

  Her words sounded slightly strained, and he was even more sure that her bloodshot eyes weren’t the result of dry air.

  “Lousy seatmates and all?”

  Her lips turned downward and thinned slightly. “Yeah. But I’ll never see him again, so...it’s all good.”

  Rage and fear swirled through Angus’ gut, tightening it uncomfortably. He stepped closer to her and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Are you sure you’re okay? He didn’t hurt you? I’ll go back to the airport with you if you want to file a complaint.”

  She shook her head, the silk of her hair sliding across the tops of his hands. “No. He didn’t—just made me uncomfortable.” She lifted one of her hands and rested it on his, the simple contact sending a jolt of awareness through him. “I appreciate the offer, but I just want to move on.”

  “If you change your mind...” He let the words hang there while mentally shaking his head at himself. He wasn’t sure where this knight in shining armor attitude was coming from, but he found himself wanting to beat the fucking wankstain bloody who’d upset Eliza.

  “Thank you. I promise, I’ll let you know.” She squeezed his hand before stepping away. “So, I read your pages,” she said, clearly changing the subject.

  The rage that had been twisting his gut morphed into pounding anxious dread. “Yeah?”

  Her brilliant smile poleaxed him, and he sank into his desk chair, waiting for her to speak.

  “I’ve got a few notes and questions in my planner, but overall I’m absolutely loving it. I think you’re definitely on the right track. And honestly, I’m dying to see the rest.

  Relief and pride warmed him, spreading through his body like a sunrise burning away the mist. “Well, thank fuck for that.” He grinned at her but sobered quickly. “I’ve been at this so long, I’m not sure I even know which end is up any more,” he admitted.

  She settled into the chair across the room from his desk, under a stock photo of the L.A. skyline at night. “Don’t you have a beta reader?”

  He shook his head.

  Confusion marred her features. “I thought Barbara mentioned something about your brother. I might have misunderstood, though.”

  “He used to beta for me,” he heard himself saying. “But he died about a year and a half ago. Cancer.”

  Her hand flew over her mouth and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh my god, Angus, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, I—”

  “It
’s okay. I mean, it’s not.” He drove his hands through his hair. “It fucking sucks, and I hate it, and I miss him every fucking day.” He looked up at her, trying to understand where this great flood of emotional honesty had come from. It was as if she’d pulled it out of him like she had a truth magnet. He swallowed hard, past the deluge of grief his revelation had left in its wake. “But none of that is on you. You asked a simple question.”

  “I just... I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.” He took a deep breath then stared into her eyes. “I do have a request, though.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’d prefer this stay between you and me. Barbara doesn’t know, and I’d rather keep it that way.”

  She studied him, her pretty hazel eyes steady. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  He sighed and dragged his hands over his face, not sure if he could even put words to his feelings. Focusing on her again, he finally said, “I don’t want Ewan’s death to be the reason I fail.”

  “You’re not going to fail,” she rushed to say.

  “It’s been five years. I basically already have.”

  She shook her head, her expression fierce. “Are you giving up?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then, you haven’t failed,” she insisted. “And I’m not letting you give up. You’re going to finish this.” She gripped the arms of her chair and leaned forward. “And then, you’re going to move on to your next story, and you’re going to finish that one, too.”

  His lips twitched, but he tried not to laugh. Her enthusiasm was nearly contagious. The keyword being nearly. “So, what are you saying? You’re not only my minder, but you—”

  “Want to volunteer as tribute.”

  He did laugh this time, a big burst of sound that seemed to startle them both.

  She crossed her legs and sat back in the chair—doing her best to look imposing, he suspected. But she’d surpassed imposing and had landed firmly in regal territory. And fuck him if he wasn’t prepared to worship her. Preferably on his knees. Between her spread thighs.

  He pushed the thought away, and guilt left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. After whatever had happened with the fuckhead on the plane, she’d probably be horrified if she knew he was sitting straight across from her, fantasizing about making her come.

  “I happen to be an excellent beta reader, I’ll have you know.”

  He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay. Let’s hear it. Bring on the critique.”

  “Wait right there.” She walked back into her room, and when she returned, sans shoes, she carried her damn planner, phone, and was dragging the rolling office chair from her room.

  She pushed the seat up to the opposite side of his desk and plopped down in it. Flipping open her planner, she pulled her pen from where she’d tucked it and grinned at him. “Where do you want me to start?”

  He grabbed his own notebook and pen and waited for her to speak, a sudden tangle of nerves in his gut. He knew she didn’t hate it—she’d said as much. But waiting for the specifics on her likes and dislikes was grueling, and she hadn’t even been in her chair for thirty seconds. Even waiting on Barbara’s actual edits wasn’t this nerve-wracking.

  Unexpectedly, Eliza laid her hand over his wrist. He glanced up at her.

  “You okay?”

  He shook off the anxiety. “Yeah. It’s just weird. You’re the first person to see this. And well...it’s a little stressful.” He sighed. “I know. I’m pathetic.”

  “No. You’re a writer. One who’s been under a great deal of stress...and grief.” She was quiet for several long moments. “I get it. I really do.”

  And he could tell she did. Sincerity emanated from her. Eliza Burrows was a lot of things—predominately a pain in his arse and a gorgeous fucking distraction, but insincere wasn’t one of them. He wanted to ask her about her stress and her grief, but now wasn’t the time. They were together to deal with his shit, not hers.

  “Let’s do this.” He nodded toward her planner. “Give me your thoughts, then.”

  She moved her hand, and already he missed the comforting warmth of her skin. Christ, he was a pitiful fuck. He needed to focus on what was important, here, and that was finishing this fucking book.

  “I’ve already told you, I think it’s brilliant. And I need you to know that I’m utterly serious when I say that. But, as brilliant as it is, I still have concerns about how they’re going to survive the crushing force of an event horizon.”

  Yeah. He had those same concerns, because he hadn’t a clue.

  An expression of pure horror crossed her face and she grabbed his arm again, her fingertips digging into his flesh. “You’re not going to kill them all, are you?!”

  He glanced down at her hand. She followed his gaze, and she quickly released him, her cheeks coloring.

  “Sorry,” she blurted.

  “You don’t have to apologize for touching me—unless this is going to turn into some sort of Stephen King Misery situation.”

  She crossed her heart, an impish grin tugging at her lips. “I promise not to use a sledgehammer to hobble you and force you to write the ending I want.”

  “That’s...comforting. Though, I notice you haven’t promised not to hobble me at all.”

  She shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a woman who likes her options.”

  “Hobbling’s still on the table. Good to know.” He couldn’t help but smile when she was around. For the first time in years, he felt as though he might actually be able to finish this book. “All right, let’s have your questions and suggestions.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Okay, hand it over.”

  Eliza looked at Angus’ outstretched hand then back up at his face. His gorgeous, brooding face.

  “I’ve kept my part of the bargain and let you read the manuscript pages, time to keep your part. Hand it over, Eliza.”

  His firm tone sent tremors of awareness cascading through her body that seemed to gather in her nipples before zipping down to center in her pussy.

  “We’ve discussed all the story notes you made, haven’t we?”

  She leaned back in the chair, pulling her planner with her. “Let me check.” She flipped through the pages of notes she’d written, looking for anything that hadn’t been mentioned. Anything that would keep the little book in her hands a while longer. But there was nothing. They’d gone over everything, and he’d made his own notes as they’d talked.

  He reached for the book again.

  “Wait. What about your con schedule? We’ll need the planner to keep track of your events this weekend.”

  “No, we won’t.” He picked up his phone—she hadn’t noticed the symbol on the case before. A “W” overlaying a “Y”—she’d bet anything it stood for Weyland-Yutani. It seemed Angus was an Alien fan. Somehow, she was completely unsurprised. He unlocked his phone and tapped the screen. “I downloaded this scheduling app, and then, I went through all of Barbara’s messages and inputted the necessary information into the app.”

  “Wait...” She squinted at him. “You read all of your email?”

  “All the ones from Terra, anyway. And I picked up the box of tote bags and other promo material from the concierge a few days ago.”

  He reached across the table and tapped the underside of her chin. “Your mouth is hanging open, lass.”

  She snapped it shut. “Sorry. This is just...so different from the last con.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not helping my career—or yours—by behaving like I need to be looked after constantly.”

  She wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He wasn’t wrong, but she didn’t want to rub in the fact that he’d been acting like a dick before. That wasn’t going to help anything. Instead, she asked, “Are you sure you’ve got all your events and the locations?”

  He held the phone up to show her. “See? Everything’s right here. So, hand it over.”

  “But I won’t know where to be. All that informa
tion is in my planner.”

  Smirking, he tapped at his screen a few more times, and the muffled sound of an incoming text message sounded through the open door to her connected room. “Now, it’s on your phone, too,” he said, clearly pleased with himself.

  She frowned. She wasn’t sure why it was so hard to hand over her planner. It wasn’t that she was afraid he was going to comb through it and find out all her personal information. There weren’t any big secrets in the book. But the idea of being without it made her anxious in a way she wasn’t sure she had words to explain or even describe. The closest she could come to a rationalization was that planner felt like the only thing keeping her life from careening out of control. As if possession of it would prevent being subject to anyone else’s whims.

  She knew that was stupid. Not to mention irrational, but she couldn’t help it. Maybe she was too dependent on the stupid thing. All she knew for sure was that she really didn’t want to let it out of her sight.

  Something else niggled at her, and she recalled their discussion the last time they’d had a meal together. “Wait. I thought you said I could just lock it in my luggage for the weekend.”

  His eyebrows raised as he met her gaze then his eyes dropped to her hands. “Look at how hard you’re clutching it. It’s like you’re Rose clinging to that piece of wood while Jack’s freezing to death in the water.”

  She snorted and glanced at her hands.

  “Do you really believe that you’re capable of having that in your room and not looking at it at all? For the entire weekend?”

  Sighing, she stared at the way she clenched the book. “I think we both know the answer to that,” she muttered sullenly.

  He held out his hand again, patiently, as if he had all the time in the world.

  “Remind me, what is giving you temporary custody of this supposed to accomplish?”

  His lips curved into a wicked-looking smile, and he seemed entirely too pleased with himself. “To teach you the joys of spontaneity. To experience life that’s not scheduled to death.”