Come Dancing by Leslie Wells Page A

that this had commercial potential.
    I sped through the chapter as soon as I got in. The raw material was interesting, but it wasn’t in good enough shape to show to anyone. I guessed there was a reason most celebrities used a ghostwriter.
    Meredith stopped in my doorway. “How did it go with Isabel?”
    “I liked her a lot, and she gave me a chapter. That’s the good news. The bad news is, it reads like a ten-year-old wrote it. In my excitement I kind of forgot she might need a ghost.”
    “Let me see a page.” Meredith perused it through her half-rims. “Hmm. I’m afraid you’re right.”
    “Is there any way to hook her up with a writer? I need to get it fixed up before Harvey sees it.”
    “She’d have to pay for it herself. Would she be willing to do that?”
    I pictured Isabel’s cat-shredded chairs. “I don’t get the sense she’s rolling in it. Her furniture was falling apart.”
    “Why don’t you take a stab at it? Half the time you’re rewriting anyway.”
    “That’s a great idea. I’ll give it a whack.”
    Invigorated by the need to outshine Briar, I took the pages home with me. It was slow going, but the thought of being passed over for Prickles spurred me on.

 
     
     
Chapter 10
    Could You Be Loved
     
     
    The next night I walked home, so glad it was Friday, I was levitating two feet above the sidewalk. Jack had said he wanted to come up to my place, and I was more than fine with that. To be honest, I was an ecstatic mix of nerves and excitement. I paced around until I heard him calling my name from the street and threw down the sock. As he clumped up the stairs I waited in my open doorway in jeans, a sheer sleeveless top and bare feet, having put on and rejected my leather skirt and heels. I had started to go braless, but that felt too slutty. Hopefully my naked toes will remind him there’s even more nakedness attached .
    “Hello, Julia,” he said, smiling and handing me the key.
    He was outrageously handsome in denim that hugged his thighs, worn almost bare in places, and a cowboy shirt with metal buttons. His face had a bit of dark stubble that made me want to rub my cheek against it. Instead, I just said hello and asked if he wanted a drink. “I bought some whiskey.”
    “I’ll have some of that.” He followed me to the fridge. “Give me a glass; I don’t want to drink so much tonight.”
    I wonder if that means what I hope it means . I handed him the bottle and let him pour his own.
    “You don’t get hot in here?” He pinched the front of his shirt and fanned it.
    “I’m used to it. Plus I get—”
    “I know, you get a cross-breeze. Hey, you’ve still got that manuscript on your bed.” He ambled over to my futon, where several chapters were spread out.
    “I’ve been working on it.” Stupidly I’d forgotten to finish clearing them off in my muddle over what to wear. I repressed the urge to leap on the bed and kick them all to the floor.
    “So where are your blues records?” he asked, going to my wooden crates.
    “In a special place.” I sat on the couch, watching him prowling around.
    “Where? I want to see what you’ve got.”
    “I don’t have nearly as many as you.” Please, please don’t look in that crate .
    He turned to me, frowning. “That’s okay, baby, just show me. I’m in the mood for something good. You got any Muddy?”
    Great; now I’m in for it . “In that covered one there. Lift up the scarf.”
    He draped the scarf over his shoulder and peered into the crate. “Hmm, what have we here … you’ve got all our albums.” He thumbed through them and looked at me, eyebrow raised. “You’ve got our stuff in here with your blues. Is this the place of honor?”
    “Um … it might be.” Why didn’t I realize this might happen?
    “I didn’t even know you listened to my music. You sure kept that bit of information to yourself,” he said, eyeing me.
    Pull yourself together, Julia . “You don’t need me to tell you how good you are.