Eric carefully swallowed the big gob of bread he’d been chewing—he didn’t want to necessitate the Heimlich himself—and leaned forward. “So how are you doing,” he said, “in terms of word length?”

“I’m keeping the long words to a minimum,” said Davonte. “Like Regina said, this is a book for everyone.”

Regina smiled warmly, forgivingly. Silly Eric, her smile said. Trying to trip up an international star. “And how long is the book? The word count?”

“Oh,” he said. The waiter arrived with their plates—pasta for Eric and Regina, poached fish for Davonte. He frowned at his food like it wasn’t what he ordered. “I haven’t counted them. But not that many, to be honest with you. It’s hard, writing a novel.”

“It is,” agreed Eric, the only bona fide novelist at the table. A novelist, and a teacher! Not a businessman, after all. “Has using the digital voice recorder helped?”

“A little.”

“What about what I said in class—writing to the heat?”

“What’s that?” Regina asked.

Eric turned to her, glad for a chance to play the expert, even if it wasn’t a suggestion he personally believed in. He was often giving advice, in his classes, that he didn’t use himself—but that didn’t mean it wasn’t useful to his students. Hadn’t he had glowing reviews from his students in Dubai? Hadn’t they wanted him to stay another term? “Basically, if you’re stuck, you write the more exciting parts—the climax, or just the intense scenes of conflict—first. Then you fill in the rest later. It can be motivating for new writers.”

“I tried that, but I kept writing the temptation scenes, because that was the part I connect with the most with this character.” Davonte put his hand over his heart. “I think Damian has got too many women in his life now. Honestly, I’m not sure I’m a good novelist on my own. When my life coach found this opportunity, he kind of led me to believe I’d get some help.”

“The classes aren’t helpful?” Regina asked. She pushed her plate aside and took out a tablet, wiped her hands on her napkin, and began typing.

“A ghostwriter,” he explained. “I was hoping to find a ghostwriter. Like Jay-Z. You know he didn’t write that book himself. Three hundred and fifty pages? I don’t fucking think so. Excuse me, I don’t think so. I mean, I would supply the ideas—I’ve got the ideas—but someone else would do the rest.”

Regina nodded. Eric wondered how she’d handle the dispiriting news that a novel wasn’t the same thing as a celebrity tell-all, and Davonte would have to write it himself—just like Joyce, like Hemingway, like Terry McMillan. Like Eric.

“That’s a marvelous idea,” said Regina. She turned to Eric. “Don’t you think?”

“Um,” said Eric, setting down his fork. “No?”