Professor Feelgood (Page 25)

He shrugs. “People who hate each other work together all the time.”

“Not writing a book. For this process to work, we need trust, and … God, I don’t know … a certain level of intimacy. We don’t have either of those things.”

He frowns. “Are you propositioning me again, princess? I mean, I let the whole boob-flash thing go because there’s a slight possibility that it was an accident––”

“It was an accident!”

“Sure it was. And now you’re saying you want to be intimate with me? Well, that’s just a level of unprofessionalism I’m not comfortable with.”

“Oh, have no fear, Jake. You could point a gun to my head, and I’d still find it impossible to be attracted to you.”

“That’s not how you felt on prom night.”

“For the last time, I didn’t kiss you!”

Another gust of wind hits me, and I suppress a full-body shiver as I adjust my position so that he’s blocking the worst of it. Of course, he’s wearing a sheepskin-lined coat that probably feels like a field of warm puppies on a summer’s day. It’s bad enough that I’m trying to maintain the high ground while staring up at him. That my fingers and nose feel like they’re turning blue isn’t helping me project fierceness.

“Damn,” Jake says, touching my frozen fingers. “You’re freezing.”

I pull back my hands and shove them under my armpits. “I’m fine.”

The wind whips around us, stirring up random trash from the gutter. Now I’m so cold, my teeth chatter when I breathe.

Jake frowns at me. “Where the hell is your coat?”

“Left it at the bar. Doesn’t matter. Jake, please, let someone ––anyone else––edit your book. I’m begging you.”

Ignoring my pleas, he shrugs out of his jacket and holds it out to me. “Take this before people start thinking you’re a tiny, red-headed ice giant.”

“Nope,” I say. “I’m good.” Normally, I’d give a guy props for referencing Thor, because he’s one of my favorite superheroes. But coming from Jake, it’s just irritating.

“Asha, you’re shivering.”

“And you’re changing the subject. Promise me you’ll go in there tomorrow and tell Serena you want a different editor.”

“No can do. Take the jacket.”

He stares at me, and I stare back. Yes, his jacket would be crazy-warm, but I’d Lady Godiva my way through an arctic blizzard before allowing myself to be indebted to him.

He moves toward me. “Okay, I guess we’re doing this the hard way.”

I hold up my hand. “That’s close enough. I think you’ve forgotten my extensive Tae Kwon Do training.”

He ignores my threat and steps well inside my buffer zone. “And you’ve forgotten that I’m about a hundred pounds heavier than you and could snap you like a twig.”

Without waiting for permission, he roughly drapes the coat around my shoulders. As he pulls it into place, he mutters, “You always were too goddamn stubborn for your own good.”

I look up at him. “Unless you want me to start calling you Mr. Pot, maybe don’t chime in on the stubbornness of others.”

He steps back and points to the coat. “Put your arms through.”

I try to resist, but the wool is so soft and deliciously warm, I last a grand total of two seconds before shoving my hands through the sleeves. I almost sigh in relief when I’m engulfed in his lingering body heat.

As my shivering ceases, he looks at me expectantly. “Better?”

I give a shrug. “I’d say thank you, but you’d probably mock me for it.”

“I probably would.”

He starts walking again, and I scramble to keep up. “Wait, we haven’t finished our discussion.”

“Yes, we have. I’m going home.”

“So, you’ll do it, then?”

“Do what?”

God, he’s infuriating. “Tell Serena to assign you a different editor.”

I briefly consider recommending Devin to burden Jake with an equally annoying alpha male, but then I realize they’d probably get on like a house on fire, so I keep my mouth shut.

“Oh, that,” Jake says. “Nope. Sorry.”

That’s it. I’m not usually an impatient person, but this man is pushing me to the limit.

I grab his arm and pull him around to face me. “Listen, Jacob, I’m actually glad you have a publishing deal, because as much as I hate to admit it, you have talent. But I was the one who made this happen for you, so how about showing some goddamn gratitude by taking my name out of that contract?”

His expression hardens. “Gratitude? Really? That’s the card you’re playing right now?”

“Considering it’s the only one I have, yeah.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Woman, you have balls of steel to lecture me on gratitude. You have no goddamn idea what that word means.”

“How do you figure that?”

The disbelief on his face intensifies, and the golden flecks in his eyes are going crazy.

“I could have signed with anyone today,” he says, anger simmering in his voice. “But I chose you. I have no fucking clue why. Probably because of some misguided sense of loyalty from our childhood.”

“Are you kidding me right now? You signed with us because we gave you a truckload of money. If we’re going to argue about who’s the most ungrateful, at least be honest.” If he doesn’t drop to his knees and kiss my feet for getting him a six-figure deal for his debut novel, then he’s the most ungrateful prick on the planet.

“Oh, you want honesty?” His expression hardens. “Okay, then.”

He steps forward and leans down so his face is just inches from mine. The heat from his body sends my pulse racing.

“The ‘shitload’ of money you offered? Didn’t even come close to the other offers I received. So, if all I’d wanted was money, I would have gone with anyone but Whiplash.”

I blink in disbelief. “We offered three-hundred-thousand dollars. For a debut author, that’s unbelievable.”

“The others offered more. One in particular offered much more.”

“Define ‘much’.”

“The exact figure is confidential, but I can tell you it rhymes with my favorite actor’s last name.”

He stares me down. It’s a test. Do I still remember useless crap about him? Sadly, I do.

“Your favorite actor is Nathan Fillion.”

“Bingo.”

I pause as creeping disbelief makes a home on my face. “A million dollars? That’s what another publisher offered you?”

“Yes.”

I feel like all the blood in my veins freezes. “You’re lying.”

“I’m really not. So don’t act like you’re my beneficent benefactor, showering down cash from on high. If anyone owes a debt of gratitude here, it’s you to me.”

“A million dollars.” I breathe out the words like an asthmatic in need of oxygen. Suddenly, our paltry three-hundred-grand seems pale and sickly in comparison.

“Why?” I ask, looking up into his face. “Why would you pass that up to sign with us?”

He leans back a little. “Maybe I thought the opportunity to torture you every day was too good to ignore.”