Typist #1 - Working for the Billionaire Novelist (Erotic Romance) by Mimi Strong Page B
Authors: Mimi Strong
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dining table. After setting the plates down, he reached his right hand out to shake mine.
“Nice to meet you, I'm Smith Wittingham.”
His hand was hot and firm, his eye contact unwavering. Those gold-brown eyes had a ring of green around the pupil.
“Smith?” I took my seat directly across from him. “I wonder if I've read any of your books. What's your most popular one? I've mostly been into textbooks the last four years, not a lot of time for fiction.”
“That's too bad.” There was a bowl of mixed greens on the table and he served us both some salad instead of answering my question.
He was so familiar, from his looks to his name.
A bird outside flew past one of the windows, and he turned to look. As I saw him in semi-profile, everything clicked into place. That was the pose he used in his author photo, and I had read his books.
As he turned back, he raised his eyebrows, his forehead furrowing.
“Everything okay?” he asked. “That was just a bird, not the killer moose coming back to finish you off.”
Of course. His mocking tone. His I'm-so-wonderful attitude.
He was Smith Fucking Wittingham, author of the Smith Dunham detective series. He'd actually named the main character after himself, boldly owning up to the fact his character was his own disgusting fictional avatar. Smith Dunham bedded one or more ladies in every novel, sometimes at the same time. He made James Bond look monogamous. And people loved the books, of course.
My own mother read them and swooned over fictional Smith Dunham, discussing with her girlfriends what actor might play the detective if and when they made the inevitable movie or TV series.
I had read Smith Fucking Wittingham's books—while sitting on the toilet at my mother's house. The bathroom was where his books belonged.
And now I was stuck in the woods with him? For two weeks? The generous paycheck didn't seem at all adequate anymore.
“Moose do kill people,” he said casually. “In Alaska, some say moose kill more people than bears. The death toll includes vehicle accidents, but a few deaths are by trampling.” He paused, staring contemplatively at the antler chandelier above us. “What a novel way to kill someone and make it appear to be an accident. You wouldn't want to leave it to chance, of course, but find some implement that matches the hooves … perhaps through a taxidermist.”
“Oh, no,” I said.
“No? Oh, of course not. Then the taxidermist would know, and you can't have a perfect crime if someone knows. Good point. The killer would have to kill the moose as well.”
“Am I here to help you type … a Smith Dunham novel?”
“Well, you're not here to sit around and look pretty, though it certainly would help. Perhaps if you unbuttoned a few more buttons.”
I shook my head. “I can't do this.”
“Of course you can! A hundred words a minute. We'll take it slow at first. And no, you can't record the session and transcribe later. I need to see the words on the screen or they're not concrete.”
I stared down at my hands. I'd done worse things for a paycheck—like the summer I'd worked at the meat-processor. My main duty was scooping up the floor meat to feed into a machine that made sausages.
That was it.
Smith Wittingham's perverted scenes and twisted ideas were just so much floor meat , and I'd scoop them up to make the sausages that were his bestselling novels.
After lunch, he showed me to my room, which was on the lower floor and the smallest of the three bedrooms in the cabin. I hung up my clothes and lay down on the double-sized bed with my tablet computer. My plan was to research my new boss and send some emails to let my friends and family know I had not been eaten by a moose. My tablet couldn't detect any wireless internet. Hadn't there been something in the contract about internet access? I should have read the thing.
I tried again to search for wireless connections, but found nothing.
Was this shit for real? No internet?
“Nice to meet you, I'm Smith Wittingham.”
His hand was hot and firm, his eye contact unwavering. Those gold-brown eyes had a ring of green around the pupil.
“Smith?” I took my seat directly across from him. “I wonder if I've read any of your books. What's your most popular one? I've mostly been into textbooks the last four years, not a lot of time for fiction.”
“That's too bad.” There was a bowl of mixed greens on the table and he served us both some salad instead of answering my question.
He was so familiar, from his looks to his name.
A bird outside flew past one of the windows, and he turned to look. As I saw him in semi-profile, everything clicked into place. That was the pose he used in his author photo, and I had read his books.
As he turned back, he raised his eyebrows, his forehead furrowing.
“Everything okay?” he asked. “That was just a bird, not the killer moose coming back to finish you off.”
Of course. His mocking tone. His I'm-so-wonderful attitude.
He was Smith Fucking Wittingham, author of the Smith Dunham detective series. He'd actually named the main character after himself, boldly owning up to the fact his character was his own disgusting fictional avatar. Smith Dunham bedded one or more ladies in every novel, sometimes at the same time. He made James Bond look monogamous. And people loved the books, of course.
My own mother read them and swooned over fictional Smith Dunham, discussing with her girlfriends what actor might play the detective if and when they made the inevitable movie or TV series.
I had read Smith Fucking Wittingham's books—while sitting on the toilet at my mother's house. The bathroom was where his books belonged.
And now I was stuck in the woods with him? For two weeks? The generous paycheck didn't seem at all adequate anymore.
“Moose do kill people,” he said casually. “In Alaska, some say moose kill more people than bears. The death toll includes vehicle accidents, but a few deaths are by trampling.” He paused, staring contemplatively at the antler chandelier above us. “What a novel way to kill someone and make it appear to be an accident. You wouldn't want to leave it to chance, of course, but find some implement that matches the hooves … perhaps through a taxidermist.”
“Oh, no,” I said.
“No? Oh, of course not. Then the taxidermist would know, and you can't have a perfect crime if someone knows. Good point. The killer would have to kill the moose as well.”
“Am I here to help you type … a Smith Dunham novel?”
“Well, you're not here to sit around and look pretty, though it certainly would help. Perhaps if you unbuttoned a few more buttons.”
I shook my head. “I can't do this.”
“Of course you can! A hundred words a minute. We'll take it slow at first. And no, you can't record the session and transcribe later. I need to see the words on the screen or they're not concrete.”
I stared down at my hands. I'd done worse things for a paycheck—like the summer I'd worked at the meat-processor. My main duty was scooping up the floor meat to feed into a machine that made sausages.
That was it.
Smith Wittingham's perverted scenes and twisted ideas were just so much floor meat , and I'd scoop them up to make the sausages that were his bestselling novels.
After lunch, he showed me to my room, which was on the lower floor and the smallest of the three bedrooms in the cabin. I hung up my clothes and lay down on the double-sized bed with my tablet computer. My plan was to research my new boss and send some emails to let my friends and family know I had not been eaten by a moose. My tablet couldn't detect any wireless internet. Hadn't there been something in the contract about internet access? I should have read the thing.
I tried again to search for wireless connections, but found nothing.
Was this shit for real? No internet?
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