Rules and Roses

I am nervous about writing. Wait, let me repeat that. I am nervous about writing. Me, Marigold Alistair, writer extraordinaire, and New York Times best-selling author. I am actually nervous about writing. Colour me shocked. But then this is different from what I'm generally used to. I'm a fiction writer, more into steamy romance novels, especially when vampires and werewolves are involved but I've never done something like this before. By ‘this’, I mean ghostwriting. And not regular old ghost-writing either, I'm meant to ghostwrite this rich guy’s entire auto-biography so here I am, sitting pretty in the waiting room of his fancy executive floor. Of course, I've done my research so I know Mr Santarossa is about sixty-three years old and has two children; a son and a daughter. His wife died two years ago (cancer) and he’s an extremely private man so there isn’t much to be said other than that. The fact that he's a private man just makes me wonder why he wants an autobiography written and published about his life. What shocks me most is that he called my agent, Lucy, and requested me to ghostwrite his autobiography. Of course, Lucy told him that I don’t do that and then he offered a huge amount of money just to have a meeting with me. I mean, some authors specialize in this sort of writing for a living. After this meeting, I will be free to choose whether or not I want to write for him. I'm currently building a house in California so I can move out of New York and I need all the money I can get… so here I am. The phone rings and blonde secretary (why are they always blonde?) picks it up and tells me I can go in. I stand up and use my hands to smoothen out my yellow pencil skirt which I paired with a cute white shirt today. I have on a beautiful set of Agent Provocateur beneath and I feel goooooood. Well, except for the nerves that come with trying something new. I strut in my white Marc Jacobs Proposal pumps and open the understated door. I say understated because the office behind the door is amazing. No huge glass or oak doors for this man. All the glass is inside the office instead. As per New York, there just has to be a huge glass wall to view the skyline. Most of the office is either glass or white, with the only colour in the room coming from the bold red chairs in front of the huge glass table and the same colour of sofas at a far corner of the office. Sitting on said sofas are two men, Mr Santarossa who I can recognize from Google and probably the sexiest man I've ever seen outside of Playgirl. Perhaps even within Playgirl. My gaze stays on him for a few seconds as I appraise the way his muscles fill out his shirt and slacks. Yummy. But I'm here for something else so I smile wide and ignore the heat rising slowly in my body. Mr Santarosss is already standing up with a grin on his face to greet me and I walk over to where they are. He seems like a jolly man with his smile lines and rosy cheeks. His hair is surprisingly dark for his age, with only a few silver strands in it and his hairline is still intact. Must be the good Italian genes. I'm a bit taken aback by his kindness and straightforwardness when he reaches me and kisses both cheeks but I catch myself and appreciate him for trying to make me comfortable. “It is truly wonderful to meet you, Marigold,” he booms cheerfully, “I must say that you are indeed as beautiful as they say you are.” His good mood is way too infectious and I place my hand on my chest in mock shock, “Who says that? It’s very nice to meet you too, Mr Santarossa.” “Please, call me Adolfo,” he turns around to face the younger man who’s still sitting down, “Piero, when a beautiful woman walks into a room, you stand up to greet her properly. You know that.” Piero rolls his eyes slightly and starts to stan up. Adolfo turns back to me, “Please forgive my son’s bad manners.” His son? For the first time, I take my attention away from Piero’s sweet bod and look at his face properly. He's absolutely breath-taking with his high cheekbones, full lips and piercing dark eyes. His eyes are actually weird though; so black I can’t see the difference between pupil and iris. But they’re very cold and unwelcoming. His lips, though plump, are set in a small frown and I wonder what’s crawled up and build an apartment in his ass. He strikes me as a bad-mannered and cocky man, the complete opposite of his father and I scowl before I can control it. “See now,” Adolfo huffed, “you went ahead and made a beautiful woman upset, Piero. You never upset a beautiful woman, you hear me?” “Yes father,” Piero said with another eye roll. Even his voice sounds bored and cocky, but why did it just ricochet straight to my c******s? Weird. Piero stretches his hand out to me for a shake and I take it, only to drop it almost immediately when I feel a small shock on my hand. Either he’s the Tin Man or something I've only ever written about just came to pass. Double weird. Turns out he felt it too because he looks at his hand strangely before looking up at me, “It’s… nice to meet you, Marigold.” I don’t trust myself to speak yet so I just nod my head. “Introductions are over, let’s sit down and talk,” Adolfo says and helps me into a one-seater sofa while he and Piero settle on the three-seater they were on when I came in. “As your agent must have told you, Marigold, I want to write my autobiography. I am no longer a young man, you know.” I feign shock again, “No way! I can swear you’re not a day over thirty.” That earns a laugh from Adolfo, “You flatter me, Marigold but this is something I wish to do. I want to start from my earliest memory up until this meeting. I do not wish to stress you and you will be properly paid, but there is a catch.” I knew it sounded too good not to have a catch, “What is it?” I ask. Adolfo’s eyes turn sad, which is a bit daunting for such a happy man, “I have run this family’s business since my father retired and sincerely, I'm tired. The thrill of the business left when my wife died and right now, all I want to do is go to Italy and spend the rest of my life basking in the good memories my wife and I shared.” Aww, I feel so sad for Adolfo. It mustn’t be easy to lose a spouse and from the look on his face, they must have been very much in love. I look at Piero to gauge his reaction to this whole situation but his eyes are downcast and his face expressionless. “Since my wife died,” Adolfo continues, “I have been slowly passing the mantle of leadership to Piero here. Of course, he has been trained to do this since he was able to walk but I've been giving him hands-on training since his mother died.” He looks at Piero, who still has no expression on his face and turns back to me, “So the catch is this, to write this book, you will have to come to Italy with Piero and me after my official retirement. You will stay in our family villa and we will be able to talk every day. I will give you all the information required for my autobiography to be completed and your every need will be catered for.” This is a lot. I mean… Italy? Of course, who doesn’t want to go to a sexy European country? It’s not like I have anything here for me anyway. My parents and two siblings will be fine; I barely ever see them anyway. I have no boyfriend (sad at twenty-eight, I know) and the only person I’ll truly miss is my best friend, Imelda. I could make new friends, get inspiration for other books and even maybe meet a nice man. “How long will I be required to stay in Italy?” I ask. Adolfo’s face lights up at the possibility that I might agree, “As long as it will take to finish and edit the autobiography.” “Alright. I’ll go. You can contact my agent for the legal and contractual details. Just let me know when to be ready.” Piero’s face whips up, “That easy?” I look him dead in the eye and try not to flinch at the intensity of his gaze, “Yes, that easy, Piero. I don’t like to dwell on decisions when I already know what I want.” “An admirable quality,” Adolfo comments and Piero snorts. Rude. I stand up and pick up my small bag to leave when I suddenly think of something. “Actually, Adolfo, I have one request,” he looks at me expectantly, “Can my friend, Imelda come? She’s a fellow writer and it would be nice to have the company.” “I don’t see why she can't come,” Adolfo says. “Awesome!” I beam, “thank you, Adolfo. Piero.” “See you soon, Marigold,” he says as I walk out. That wasn’t Adolfo, that was Piero. Triple weird.