Page 7 of Billionaire Grump's Baby

Hazel sits with her arms crossed, mutinous.

The silence grows between us.

The thing is, Sarah’s right. Much as I’m loathe to admit it, my dad’s plan works better if this book convinces people I’m a good person. For that, I need a good writer. And I’m running out of time.

Plus, if Hazel needs this job as much as Sarah implied, then Cooper would want me to give Hazel a chance.

“If we do this,” I say at last, “we need to find a way to work together.”

“Oh, now you think it’s a good idea.?” Hazel motions back and forth between us. “In the past hour we’ve fought about how to act on a New York sidewalk, how to write a book, and whatI’mgoing to order for lunch. Do you really think we can work closely together for two months straight?” She shakes her head. “Writing a book that quickly is going to involve long hours, late nights, intimate conversations...we’d kill each other.”

My brain is hung up on latenightsand the soft curve of her lips, and the way her eyes spark when she’s pissed at me.

Fuck.

I’m not an idiot. I know I’m attracted to Hazel. But I’ve always been able to shove it aside. If we’re working closely for hours on end...

This is a much worse idea than she realizes.

I take out my phone—ignoring Hazel’s pointed glare at my manners—and text my dad.I’ve met your writer. This won’t work.

His response is immediate.I don’t have time for your theatrics. If you can’t get this book written by the deadline I don’t know if I can recommend you for CEO in six months.

I scowl down at my phone.

Working with Hazel is a terrible idea. But apparently, I don’t have another option.

I’ve worked in difficult conditions before. I can make this work, I decide.

“What we need are some ground rules. Give me your notebook,” I say.

“My...notebook?”

“You always have one,” I say impatiently. She’d been scribbling in one when I met her, and I’d seen her jotting down ideas in countless ones since. Hell, she’d brought one to Cooper’s ill-fated engagement party. She’d been carrying one of those tiny fancy purses women take to formal occasions, and I’d seen her notebook poking out of the top of it.

It’s kind of a cute habit. Not that I’d ever admit that.

Hazel digs in her leather backpack and produces her current notebook. This one is pastel pink, with watercolor style trees painted on it in pretty rainbow colors.

I stare at it for a second. My dad would have a heart attack if he ever saw a Helius Airlines employee using a notebook like this. We’re a sober gray and black kind of company.

I reach out to take the notebook, but Hazel doesn’t let go.

“You can’t look at any of the things I’ve written,” she says. “That’s personal.”

Immediately, I’m seized with the urge to read everything she’s ever written in this soft, silly notebook.

Is it full of dreams? Story ideas? Secret hurts she doesn’t tell anyone because she wants everyone to think she’s tough?

“I’ll resist the impulse,” I say dryly.

Hazel lets me take the notebook, reluctantly.

I flip to a clean page and writeLuke & Hazel’s Rules for Book Writing.

Hazel reads over my shoulder. “You cannot be serious. This isn’t how contracts work! There are lawyers, and paperwork, official signatures. You can’t just make up stuff and jot it down in my notebook.”

“A contract is just a deal,” I say with forced patience. “And for this deal, the only people who matter are you and me. Understand?”

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