“Anytime. As I always say—”
“Us authors have to stick together,” Kate finished with her. Maybe, just maybe, this would be the first step toward finally being able to legitimately put the word “author” beside her name.
If not, there was still a platter of cupcakes on the counter of the coffee shop. And a memoir she didn’t want to write that could pay the bills. Assuming she could keep her heart out of the whole complicated mess.
“This is even worse than I expected.” Kate shook her head. “Impossible” didn’t even describe what she had in front of her.
The day after their first meeting, Kate had agreed to meet Trent at his apartment after he got home from the office. They’d discussed different places to meet, and in the end, they’d decided his apartment would offer the quietest location to work. Curiosity had nudged her to offer to walk into the lion’s den, which put her altogether too close and too alone with him. She could have insisted on her apartment, or somewhere public, but a part of her really wanted to know the Trent of today. All grown up, successful…unmarried?
She shouldn’t care if he was single too. But it mattered to the part of her that had never quite forgotten him or the sweet, slow way he used to kiss her. So many years ago, but right this second, it seemed like yesterday.
As she parked in the lot and rode up in the elevator, all Kate could think was how alone they would be. Just her and Trent.
Of course, they were adults, so being alone in the same room for hours on end didn’t mean anything would happen. Even if everything inside her yearned for a touch, a glance, a smile.
She’d opted for jeans and a T-shirt this time, with a cute pair of low dark brown boots she’d found on sale last month. Epitome of writer at work, not woman who still got butterflies in her stomach whenever she was around him.
All business. No flirting. No getting caught up in memories.
That hadn’t stopped her from trying to puzzle together the man he was now, using his spacious, modernist apartment as a guide. Clearly, Get Outdoors Apparel was doing well, given the penthouse apartment with an expansive view of Elliott Bay. She could see the edges of Olympic Park and the trail that skirted the bay across the street. His apartment was warm but minimal, filled with eclectic treasures he’d picked up on his world travels. A pair of bikes hung on the entryway wall, and a small wooden shelf held a dozen pairs of running and hiking shoes. His paddleboard leaned against the far wall, a bright white slash in the soft gray décor. The rich scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, undercut by the warm notes of cinnamon and apples coming from a candle on the entryway table. No signs of a woman living there, nor any pictures of anyone other than his family.
Trent had set up a work area for them on his dining room table, an oval polished hunk of wood carved from a felled Sequoia, he told her. The swirled concentric rings echoed a fingerprint, with their ridges and whorls honed from an imperfect life. Thick repurposed branches formed the mighty legs supporting the heavy wood. It had to be one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen, and so evocative of the Trent she used to know. Sitting at the table almost felt like being inside a treehouse.
On the table sat a shoebox he’d filled with notes and scribbles, the extent of his “research” for the book. He’d taken off the lid, unveiling the contents as if it were a prize to behold. Not so much.
“That’s what I have so far. I figured maybe you could piece something together from my notes.” Trent had opted for casual too, with a pale green GOA T-shirt and a navy company-branded fleece jacket. He looked like a magazine ad for relaxed and comfortable—as if she could curl up against him and nap for days. “Can’t you cobble my story together out of that?”
She held up one of the dozens of Post-It Notes crammed into the box and looked at him askance. She’d worked with lots of clients over the years, but none of them had been as ill-prepared as Trent. Coupled with the tight deadline, Kate worried she wouldn’t be able to pull this book off in time. “I’m not even sure I can decipher what this means, never mind figure out how it goes into the book.”
Trent took the paper, his fingers brushing against hers for a second and sending a tremor through her veins. He turned the yellow scrap left, right, his eyes squinting. “Oh yeah, I remember now. This is the story of my climb in Machu Picchu. It’s where I came up with the idea for GOA.”
She rose and peered over his shoulder. Why did he have to wear such tempting cologne, anyway? The scent reminded her of a deep forest at night. Alluring and dangerous. “There’s something that looks like a triangle and three words, Trent. That’s not a story. All it says is ‘Trash. Get Outdoors.’”
“Exactly. When I stood at the top of Machu Pichu, I saw beauty and amazingness. And a pile of trash a few yards away, left by some uncaring tourists. I thought of how the environment needed less trash, and people needed to go outside more often and appreciate the world. Hence, eco-friendly Get Outdoors Apparel.”
It was a great story about the foundation of the company, and Kate could already see how she’d spin it in the book. She had no doubt the rest of the paper scraps held similar nuggets—if she could dig them out of Trent’s brain. “And I am supposed to get all that from three words?”
“Well…yeah.”
“Ghostwriter isn’t some fancy code for ‘miracle worker,’ you know.” She blew her bangs out of her face and dropped into the chair. She rummaged through the box more, hoping for a diary, a journal, anything with actual words she could use. She’d have better luck panning for gold in the bathtub. “You’ve got printed PowerPoints here about the company with notes scribbled on them. Is that a…keychain? Some kind of hand-carved pencil? How am I supposed to create a book in five weeks out of this?”
“The gems are there, KitKat. It’s just going to take some digging.”
The nickname whispered a memory, but Kate ignored it for now. If she let the past intrude, she’d never get anything done. Focus on the book, the deadline. Not him. “Trent, this isn’t digging. It’s mining from the center of the earth. I’m not Jules Verne—”
Trent gave her a blank look.
“The guy who wrote Journey to the Center of…” She waved it off. In college, Trent had teased her about how much trivia she remembered about books, while he could name nearly every tree and plant on the side of a mountain. Opposites, in every sense of the word, something she needed to remember. “Never mind. It’s not important.” She gathered up her laptop and began putting it back into her tote bag. “I’m going to need more than that, Trent. Much more. We don’t have enough time, and you don’t have enough material. I don’t think I can do this.”
“You have to, Kate. I don’t have another option.”