Mr. Personality by Carol Rose Read Free Book Online

you to work for him?”
    “Because he can’t get anyone else. Apparently, he’s got a really bad reputation with the employment agencies.”
    “He’d have to be a pervert or something not to be able to get help and even perverts get people to work for them. A rich guy like that can always afford a lackey, no matter how big a bastard he is. I’ll bet money he makes a move on you.”
    “I’m not sixteen.”
    “No, you’re an idealist and that’s worse.” Claire’s voice was severe. “You’re also inclined to tunnel vision. When you get an idea into you head, you don’t know when to quit. You’re really good with your students, but let’s be realistic. Max Tucker isn’t your usual misunderstood youth. You have a sometimes unrealistic positive outlook that makes you over-estimate your neighbor’s good will!”
    “Don’t worry.” Nicole smiled. She knew her weaknesses. As long as he kept locked up behind his sarcasm, she’d be more than able to control any romantic inclinations and she wasn’t nursing that big a savior complex, no matter what Claire thought. Her career had taught her to mix a good dose of realism with her optimistic tendencies.
    “I am worrying and your dad will, too, even if he says he’s not.”
    Nicole frowned. “Well, what if I call you every night so you’ll know I’m okay? Would that help?”
    “Some. A little. But you still need to watch yourself.”
    * * *
     
    “What does it matter what margins you use?” Max said, impatience in his tone. He stood beside the computer where Nicole Cavanaugh sat.
    “Well, I could just start typing it any which way.” Her words were tart. “But I’m guessing your publishing house has rules for manuscript preparation. Don’t you have any clue about how this needs to be typed?”
    “I employ people to handle the typing so I don’t have to think about those kinds of details. The people at Haskell Publishing will be happy to get whatever I give them.”
    Nicole Cavanaugh rolled her eyes. Her scorn prompted him to say, “The usual rules don’t apply to me.”
    Maybe that was arrogant, but it was true, he reflected with a tinge of bitterness.
    “So I’m just supposed to start typing? Single spaced, using any weird font I like? You’ve got to be kidding.”
    “You can call Haskell, if you want.” How the hell was he supposed to know about margins and fonts? He’d never had to know. “Call them and tell them you’re working for me. They’ll give you whatever you need.”
    Picking up his yellow pad, he left the office.
    Behind him, he heard her mutter something about needing her head examined, but he wasn’t tempted to laugh at her absurdity. Now that the typing issue was resolved, he was left with nothing but the blankness of his thoughts and a deadline looming ever closer. He had to somehow find this damned book.
    The typical rules didn’t apply to him and his work, he knew. They never had. Some people might envy him that, but few knew the downside of perennially high expectations. All his life, he’d known what others required of him. He required the same of himself. Incredible insight mated with incisive prose. Nothing less.
    Only now, with his gut clenched, he expected to turn the faucet of his thoughts and get no more than the coughing, sputtering sound of dry.
    Still he had to strive toward it. He couldn’t let go of his whole world without a fight.
    Max climbed the polished wooden treads of the stairs leading to his bedroom suite. The landing on the staircase possessed a broad, low window, its mahogany sill wide. It was here he placed himself, leaning back against the window embrasure.
    Something about this particular place had always focused his thoughts. Like a prism receiving light and separating it out into deep, pure bands of color, while sitting here at the window, his thoughts connected and spread out into the shapes and structures of his novels. At least, they had in the past.
    Two years ago when he’d signed this