“Gavin, I can’t just move in with you.”

“Why not? I’ve got room for a small army in my house. Pie can have the run of the place. A kitty-litter box in every room, if it . . . she wants.”

He made it sound so reasonable. “I just got through a difficult divorce.”

“Please, tell me all about it. I want to understand you.” But what glittered in his eyes seemed as much curiosity as sympathy.

“I’m not a character in one of your books.”

“I know. You’d be so much easier to deal with if you were.” His lips curled in a rueful, lopsided smile.

She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “I can just imagine you writing me into your bed, then into your shower, then back into your bed.”

“I’d find much more creative locations than those.” But the light in his eyes went dark. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I was a desperate man. The writer’s block . . . it’s not just about missing the deadline or holding up the movie production. Everyone thinks those external pressures are what’s giving me neck spasms.” He went silent.

“It’s prevented you from doing what you do best, hasn’t it? It makes you feel like you have no purpose.” She could relate to that.

His nostrils flared as he pulled in a breath. “What’s the point of getting up in the morning? To go to meetings about foreign rights and marketing plans? Other people are experts on that. I’m just there as a courtesy.”

“Do you feel like your creativity is all bottled up inside you and can’t get out?”

He fiddled with a sugar packet. “It’s worse. There’s no pressure at all. Just a vast, blank void. No world where I am in total control.” He looked up at her, his eyes pools of despair. “I wasn’t joking about wishing you were one of my characters. I’m not all that good with living, breathing people.”

The harsh fluorescent lights of the coffee shop accentuated the shadows of fatigue under his eyes and the unhappy lines bracketing the corners of his mouth.

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what words of comfort to use, so she reached across the table to fold her hand around his. It took him a long moment to drop the sugar packet and relax his fingers into her grasp.

“I’ve been told I confuse friendship with pity,” he said, “but I don’t want your pity.”

“What I feel is empathy.” And an almost overwhelming desire to help him, something she needed to be wary of. In battling his pain, he might unintentionally hurt her, lashing out with teeth and claws the way Pie had when Allie tried to give the little cat medicine that would save her life.

She must have made an unconscious movement of withdrawal, because he gripped her hand with a sudden urgency. “Tell me I haven’t scared you away.”

“My mama didn’t raise a coward.”

“That’s my Allie.” He traced her knuckles with his fingertip, sending tiny waves of delight dancing over her skin. “I know I’m cranky and overbearing, but I thought you could stand up to me.”

“When I did, you didn’t like it.”

He looked toward the plate-glass window that framed the dark, quiet street. “I panicked.”

“You know it’s not me who gives you the ideas, right? They come from within you.”

“You’re the catalyst.” He brought his gaze back to her.

She wanted to be his inspiration. Another dangerous desire.

“I said I’d be there tomorrow, and I will be.”

“When I’m with you, I believe that.”

Her resolve weakened. It would feel so right to take him up to her apartment and show him that she would be there for him. After all, she was used to healing with her touch.

He released her hand. “I’m going to take my needy presence away so you can get some sleep. Because tomorrow night I intend . . . no, hope to keep you awake for several hours.” He gave her a long, hot look. “Allow me to escort you back to your front door, where I will place a chaste kiss on your forehead and depart into the night.”

“You don’t have to go to extremes,” Allie said. “I’ll take a down-and-dirty kiss on the lips.”

And she got one that left her knees so weak she could barely climb the four flights to her apartment.

Chapter 17

When Allie walked into the office the next morning, Gavin was staring at his computer screen. “Thank God!” he said, swiveling his chair so he faced her. “What do you think of adding a subplot about Julian’s handler, Virgil? Readers are always asking for more about him, and this seems like a good place to expand his character.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Allie said, walking over to her desk and setting down her purse and her to-go cup of coffee.

Gavin offered her a rueful smile that made him look almost boyish. “When I’m engrossed in a story, I forget about the social niceties. Top of the morning to you. You look exquisitely beautiful today. I hope you slept well.”

“Such insincerity. You made sure that I tossed and turned all night.”

He raised an eyebrow. “The tea kept you awake?”

So last night wasn’t going to be discussed in the cold light of morning, even though she’d lost sleep over the despair she’d seen in him. She lifted the bag in her hand. “I brought fresh croissants from the best bakery in the city, which just happens to be two blocks from my apartment building. Be nice or I won’t share them.”

“Ah, that explains why I was suddenly thinking of the rue Yves Toudic.” He stood and sauntered over to her, dipping his head to give her a quick kiss on the lips. His were warm and tasted of coffee. Their touch sent a ripple of desire through her. She put her hand on his chest to push him away, but the feel of his solid muscles under the black cashmere just made things worse.

“Rue what?” she managed to ask.

“It’s the street where Du Pain et des Idées, the best bakery in Paris, is located.”

“Wait! Julian eats there in Best of Both Worlds. The name is so cool that I thought you’d made it up.”

Gavin snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her close again. “You are utterly delicious, my dear.”

“And I’m your assistant,” Allie said, as much to herself as to him. She was still reeling from his revelations of the night before, and it made her more vulnerable to him.