The Way Back. Stephanie Doyle

her jaw open and her arms crossed over herself, she looked more like a lost little girl than the grown woman she obviously was. Despite whatever protective instincts her appearance might spark within him, Jamie had no intention of being swayed. He didn’t rescue lost little girls anymore and he certainly didn’t rescue grown women.

      “You know there’s no ferry service back to the mainland tonight?”

      She looked at him. “I know. I started driving early today, but there was an accident on the Tappan Zee Bridge and then I hit rush hour out of Boston. I saw it was the last ferry run, but I didn’t want to stop. I felt if I stopped, I would…”

      Jamie found himself wanting to hear the rest, wanting to know what she feared would happen if she stopped. She was dressed professionally with long dark hair loose around her shoulders. She appeared to have it all together, but somehow with the way her hair seemed to swirl around her—as though the brutal wind on the island had done a number on it—you knew there was nothing but chaos inside.

      “They usually send the newbies to hassle me,” he said. This woman was no newbie—in her thirties, if he had to guess.

      Her lips curled. “Believe it or not, I am the newbie. At least at this job.”

      It made a little more sense. No wonder she wanted to keep going even though it was late. She had something to prove, lost ground to make up. He was sure of it.

      Not that he cared, he quickly told himself. He was not about to get caught up in whatever her story was.

      “Well, there is a B and B on the island. They’ll have plenty of space this time of year. Follow the road into town, it’s the biggest house. You can’t miss it.”

      “Thanks. Yeah, I have a room waiting for me.”

      He held out the check. “Go on, take it.”

      She glanced at the check with a similar expression to the one he imagined he’d given her hand when she offered it at the door. Like he’d rather touch a dead fish.

      “I’m not taking the check.”

      “Lady—”

      “Gabby. My name is Gabby Haines.”

      “Ms. Haines, I don’t have the patience for this. I really don’t. Here is how this situation will go. You’ll make your pitch and try to persuade me to write the damn book. I’ll refuse—just like I’ve done since the first time I tried to cancel the contract and return the advance. You’ll be stubborn, thinking that might sway me. It won’t. We’ll keep the stand-off going until eventually you’ll break down, maybe even start crying, reminding me you’re new and really need this job, and if you don’t get at least a commitment from me to write the book, you’ll be fired. There will be begging and pleading, maybe even some threats of legal action. None of that will change my mind. So let’s save ourselves the aggravation, shall we?”

      “Gee, no wonder Mary Jane cried.”

      “Huh?”

      “Never mind. See, here’s the thing, Mr. Hunter. As you so accurately pointed out I’m not some fresh girl with her first real job. I’ve wrestled with a tough subject or two. I’ve been to the top. I’ve been on TV. Until they ripped it all away from me.”

      He noticed her voice was gaining in volume and shrillness. Any second Shep would start whining.

      “Now I’m starting over and you and your story might be the thing that will change my whole life. During that ridiculously long drive, I thought about all the reasons why you might be resistant to doing this book. And one of the things that occurred to me was that you had discovered you can’t write—or at least, not well enough to write an entire book.

      “Well, I can solve that problem for you. I’m a writer. I majored in journalism. I wrote magazine columns and I blogged long before I started hosting a television show. Maybe what you need is someone who can bring a certain skill set to the table.”

      “I’m not telling my story.”

      “Don’t say that. At least not yet. Think about it over night. I’ll come back in the morning and we’ll talk about this like reasonable people. You can be reasonable, can’t you?”

      “You clearly don’t know much about me, if you can ask that.”

      This made her laugh. In fact, his comment made her nearly double over with laughter. He was obviously dealing with a slightly hysterical editor-slash-writer. Terrific.

      “Oh, I know about you,” she said, pulling herself together. “I know of you very well.”

      And there it was. That look he’d seen before in the eyes of women. Women who had idolized him or fantasized about him. Women who thought they loved him even though they had never even met him and knew jack about him. Women who felt as if he’d cheated on them, too.

      Yes, Gabby’s look of betrayal wasn’t the first one he’d witnessed. But hell, he didn’t have to see it in his own house.

      “Get out. Take the check and don’t come back.”

      She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she took the slip of paper and flicked it into the fireplace. They both watched a flame lick up and obliterate it.

      “I’ve got more checks.”

      “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

      He met her eyes again and saw it. A determination he wasn’t easily going to squash. But squash it he would. Because he wasn’t telling his story. To anyone.

      “You can show yourself out.” With that he dismissed her and went back to his leather recliner and his book. He held off putting on the reading glasses until she walked past him. A few seconds later he heard the door close behind her.

      Gone. For now.

      Gabby Haines. With the long dark hair that swirled around her shoulders. A sudden image of his fingers digging into her thick hair stirred something inside him and had him shifting in his chair.

      Man, it had definitely been too long if he was getting turned on by some half-crazed New York editor who would probably make his life hell for the next few days until she ultimately gave up.

      At least the next few days weren’t going to be boring.

      * * *

      JAMISON. HUNTER.

      She felt as though she’d met Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt and George Clooney all rolled into one perfect fantasy. She took a deep breath. She was supposed to be cool about this. She was a professional. She wasn’t supposed to regress to teenage behavior, but…wow. Jamison Hunter.

      And they had talked. Okay, mostly he’d dictated and postured. Then she’d gone crazy lady on his ass.

      What had she been thinking?

      She hadn’t. That was the problem. She’d taken one look at the check and thought about returning to New York and her tiny cubicle, mission not accomplished. She imagined standing in Melissa’s office admitting she’d failed. The awareness of how far she had fallen had hit her again and…she sort of snapped. She couldn’t go down without a fight.

      That idea she’d had on the long drive—offering to ghost write Jamison’s story—was a good one. Maybe fate had sent him into her life for this very reason. Maybe she was supposed to do more than get a promise from him. Maybe what she really needed to do was tell his story. Write about his life and his downfall and finally give answers to all the questions everyone had about him. She didn’t have to be the enemy. She didn’t have to be some two-bit employee of a publishing company who wanted to use his story to make money.

      Instead she could help him bring his side of the story to life. They could empathize with each other. Bond over tragedy. After all, she knew what it was like to be on top and have everything taken away. Not on his scale certainly, but on her own.

      Unfortunately he