Did Not Finish, page 3
I’m a city girl. Born and bred New Yorker, so while I can appreciate a weekend escape in the country, the moment I step off the train in Sugar Plain I feel like I’ve entered an alternate universe.
There’s quaint, then there’s quaint, and this town looks too picture perfect to be true. Or maybe that’s because I’m a Gilmore Girls fanatic and always pictured myself living in Stars Hollow—complete with my very own Luke, of course—but as I pull my wheelie suitcase and leave the station, I can’t help but gawk. From the gazebo in the middle of a grassy town square dusted in snowflakes to the red-brick shopfronts decorated with flowerpots, the diner on the corner to the cutest bookshop I’ve ever seen, Sugar Plain is definitely channeling Stars Hollow and I can’t wait to explore.
But I’m being picked up and taken directly to Axel’s place so my exploration will have to wait. I haven’t been given an itinerary of the next seven days but I’m hoping to have some free time. I can’t imagine being chained to a keyboard for that long. Which is ironic, because I am for work, but this is different. Writing is my creative outlet and I need to give my muse space to breathe. She’s fickle and doesn’t appreciate being told to perform on command.
A newish black pickup truck rumbles to a stop not far from me and a giant of a man unfolds himself from behind the steering wheel. He’s huge, at least six-four, with a buzzcut, thick black beard, and shoulders that could heft a bookcase or two. He’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, without a jacket despite the freezing temperature, giving off a distinct lumberjack vibe as he ambles toward me.
“Mia Samson?” His voice matches the rest of him, deep and commanding, and I nod.
“That’s me.”
“Cole Williams.” He sticks out his hand. “But my friends call me Buzz.”
I’m not sure what to call him so I shake his hand and smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Axel’s personal assistant and housekeeper so if there’s anything you need during your stay, don’t hesitate to ask.”
I struggle to hide my surprise. This guy looks like a local farmer, and I can’t imagine him running an author’s business and household.
He must see my skepticism because the corners of his mouth twitch with amusement. “It looks like you won’t be convinced of my excellent housekeeping skills until I whip up one of my signature apple pies. I’m famous for them around here.”
“Can’t wait,” I say, embarrassed that he can read me so easily. “Is it far to Axel’s place?”
“About ninety minutes.” He eyes my single suitcase and raises an eyebrow. “That your luggage?”
“You were expecting more?”
He shrugs. “Guess I thought a writer would bring two cases for books alone.”
I laugh. “Is that what Axel does?”
A shadow passes over his face. “Axel doesn’t travel much.” He hoists my suitcase. “We better go.”
I’m not sure if he’s uncomfortable talking about his boss or if I’ve hit a nerve, but I’m determined to find out a little more about Axel before I meet him. An hour and a half drive is plenty of time to do some subtle probing for information, even if Cole seems reluctant to chat.
Like any good groupie, I’ve researched Axel Low thoroughly, but there’s not much about him online apart from the generic: brief bio that states he’s loved reading since he was a kid, enjoyed English at school, eschewed college to work, tinkers with cars for a hobby. The rest of his bio lists how many books he’s had published over the last ten years—forty—how many copies he’s sold worldwide—thirty-million—and how many languages he’s been translated into—twenty-nine. Impressive figures, especially the copies sold, and if I can be one-tenth as successful, I’ll be happy.
I hoist myself into the passenger seat after Cole stows my suitcase in the pickup tray. It’s comfy and considering I didn’t sleep well last night—fangirl nerves—I hope I don’t nod off.
When he gets behind the wheel, I ask, “Do you have to pick up everyone attending the retreat?”
“Yes, but the rest don’t arrive until tomorrow.”
That’s weird. Not that I think Axel’s a psychopath luring unsuspecting writers to his lair, but I realize I’ll be on my own tonight in a place I don’t know with two men who are strangers. The perfect way to start one of Axel’s thriller plots and I hope he’s not prone to doing firsthand research.
The engine rumbles to life and Cole glances over his shoulder before pulling out onto the road. “Don’t worry. Axel’s a stand-up guy, your bedroom door has a lock, and I have my own cottage not far from the main house.”
Once again, Cole’s read my mind, but he hasn’t really assuaged my doubts. It doesn’t make sense, me arriving a day early, and that’s when it hits me.
This could be a golden opportunity.
Rather than envisaging Axel to be an axe-wielding murderer with nefarious motives, I should take advantage of some one-on-one time with a world-famous crime author.
How many writers would give anything to be in my position? Countless, so I need to shelve my overactive imagination and focus on making the most of the next twenty-four hours before the rest of the competition winners arrive.
“From the research I’ve done, Axel’s a private person. I’m surprised he’s allowing us into his home and didn’t book somewhere else for this retreat. I mean, non-disclosure agreements are well and good, but still.”
Cole doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but his fingers flex a little against the steering wheel, gripping it tighter, like my question has made him uncomfortable. “He prefers to work at home, especially when he’s on deadline.”
I don’t ask the obvious, ‘he’s on deadline yet allowing a bunch of strangers into his home for a week?’ Cole seems reluctant to talk about Axel and I doubt he’ll tell me much anyway. His loyalty to his boss is admirable but I wish I could find out some useful snippet before I arrive.
“Have you been his PA and housekeeper long?”
“About five years.” He casts me a quick glance that’s more a formidable glare before refocusing on the road. “He’s a good guy.”
I don’t need the reassurance but it’s nice to hear. Before I can ask anything else, Cole turns up the radio. Surprisingly, it’s a smooth hits station—he seems more of a country and western kind of guy—and the volume is loud enough to discourage further conversation.
Hint taken, I lean my head against the window, admiring the snow-covered fields and watching flakes fall from the sky. It’s beautiful and I feel like I’m in fairyland. Complete with a secretive prince who holds the keys to the publishing castle.
I hope he’s not a toad.
Chapter Six
AXEL
* * *
The snow’s coming down hard when I spot Buzz’s pickup wending its way up my long drive. It rarely snows here late-fall, and the last time Sugar Plain had a blizzard that cut off the town had been eighty years ago. That’d be just my luck, to be marooned here with a bunch of strangers. But my obsessive checking of the weather forecast assures me this freak snowstorm will pass quickly and I hope the meteorologists are right.
It’s times like this I wish Paula was closer, but the best special accommodation for acquired brain injury patients happens to be in Connecticut so I don’t get to see her often enough. I try to chat with her twice a week but when I’m on deadline that can stretch out to once every two weeks. The sad thing is, she doesn’t seem to notice.
It guts me to see her sometimes, especially when she’s having a bad day. The doctors advised me at the start that she’d have long-term cognitive deficits—slow responses, lack of concentration, difficulty understanding speech, poor short-term memory—and some days she exhibits all of these. Not to mention her physical problems: dizziness, loss of balance, headaches, visual disturbances, chronic pain. It breaks my heart to see her suffer, a potent reminder it’s my fault she’s in that place, unable to care for herself let alone use her brilliant mathematical skills to teach the way she once had.
Buzz pulls up in the carport and I crane my neck to get a glimpse of the illustrious Mia Samson, she of the poison pen. Mia appears suitably smug in her social media profiles, often seen with a pretzel in one hand, a notebook in the other. She’s pretty in an understated way, with shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair, big green eyes, and a wide smile, but all I see when I look at her is the enemy.
Dramatic? Maybe. But that woman is messing with my career, and I won’t stand for it. Paula receiving the best ongoing care is too important for anyone to screw that up, least of all some wannabe writer who gets off on tearing down other people’s work.
I can’t see much of her as she steps down from the truck. Jeans, white sneakers, a black long-sleeved jersey that improbably skims her midriff and exposes a flash of skin as she stretches, and a vibrant emerald scarf. She must be freezing. Impractical as well as narrow-minded.
Buzz takes her around the back as instructed to get her settled. I’ll meet her soon enough. Too soon, for my liking.
I glance around the living room, pleased with the set-up. The fire’s roaring, there’s a designated space for a charcuterie board on the coffee table, and the six makeshift desks have neatly stacked notebooks, pens, and index cards. With the low-slung caramel suede sofas near the fire—my go-to reading spot—reading lamps on handcrafted wooden tables beside the sofas, and large cushions strewn on the floor for those who prefer to sprawl, it’s a writer’s paradise.
It has to be, because the more photos the writers take of the environment, the less likely they are to hassle me.
I know they’ll ask questions about my reclusive life. I’m prepared for it. But I invent stories for a living, so I have my responses prepped. The last thing I need is loose lips flapping my secrets despite the non-disclosure agreement.
I hear Buzz clomping through the kitchen before he pauses in the doorway to the living room.
“She’s here,” he says, unnecessarily. “Getting settled in her room.”
“Thanks. Any problems?”
Buzz eyeballs me because he knows what I’m really asking: ‘what’s she like? Is she going to drive me nuts?’
“Seems nice enough. Knows when to keep quiet.” His mouth kicks up into a semi-grin. “I admire that.”
“As a man of few words, you would.”
I do too, one of the many reasons we get along so well. While Buzz doesn’t live in the house, he’s here every day in his unofficial role as housekeeper. He insisted on being given the title when I offered him a place to stay after Sue died. But he draws the line at being paid, so he lives in the cottage about a mile from the main house rent-free. He’s my PA too when my virtual assistant is swamped and I often feel guilty for taking advantage of him, though he adamantly declares I’m not.
I know it kills him to live off Sue’s life insurance policy, so I’ll never tell him I subsidize those payments. I know what he’ll say. He doesn’t need it. But I need to pay. Guilt money for causing that accident, something I have to live with every single day.
Though we never talk about our pasts much, I know Cole’s running from demons too. He used to be a lawyer in Chicago but quit a few months before his sister died. He hasn’t told me why and I don’t pry. I saw how angsty he got just mentioning his prior job as a legal eagle, so I let it be. I figure he’ll tell me when he’s ready. Considering we’ve been practically living together for five years, and he hasn’t brought it up again, that’s going to be never.
Buzz tugs on his flannel shirt and clears his throat. “Do you need anything in town?”
It looks like he can’t wait to get out of here and I’m surprised. Buzz is a loner like me and rarely makes the trip into town unless absolutely necessary.
“You were just there, now you’re heading back?”
His mouth kicks into a smirk. “You scared to be left alone with Mia?”
I scowl. Mia Samson doesn’t scare me. The sway her reviews hold does. A situation I aim to rectify when I confront her shortly.
I ignore his question. “Unusual for you to make two trips in a day, especially when you’ll be back in town tomorrow picking up the rest of the writers.”
His eyebrows squeeze together in a frown. “Just some private business to attend to.”
Buzz is a stand-up guy so when his gaze shifts away, I don’t bother asking him anything else. We’re best buddies but we respect each other’s privacy so if he won’t tell me what he’s doing in town, that’s okay. Besides, he’ll tell me eventually. We won’t get to have our usual Friday night beers watching football this week because of my house guests, which means Buzz will be keener to hang out next week. For a guy who barely speaks, give him a beer or two and I can’t shut him up. I like it, because having a garrulous friend, even for one night a week, means I don’t have to say much.
“Okay. See you later.”
He hesitates, like he wants to say more, before giving a shake of his head. “Go easy on Mia, okay?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know you.” He jabs a finger in my direction. “Having her arrive a day earlier than the others means you’re up to something.” Buzz’s eyes narrow. “I looked her up, like I researched all the attendees, so I know she’s a lauded book reviewer. What happened? Did she give you a bad review or something?”
‘Or something’ doesn’t come close to what Mia Samson has done. “I’m not that petty.”
Though maybe I am, because if I do half as bad a hatchet job on Mia’s manuscript as she’s done on a book close to my heart to teach her a lesson, that’s exactly what I’ll be.
Not that I’ll deliberately tear down her work, but I’m going to be super critical, and I know from experience—when judging writing competitions in my early days—that not everyone handles feedback well. After receiving my first few abusive emails from disgruntled entrants, I bowed out of judging. Who needs the flack? I cop enough of that from readers every day.
“Whatever you’re up to, think long and hard before you do anything you’ll regret,” Buzz says, disapproval lacing every word. “Non-disclosure agreements may be well and good, but if you make an enemy of this woman, don’t forget she knows where you live.”
I have no qualms about decimating Mia’s manuscript. She can’t disparage me any more than she already has. And as a wannabe writer, she’d be a fool to make me angry because the publishing world is small and she wouldn’t risk getting a bad reputation.
“Stop worrying and go run your private errand.” I point at the window. “And take care out there. Looks like the snow’s coming down harder.”
Buzz gives me a salute and a final warning glance I interpret as ‘behave around Mia’ before clomping through the kitchen to the back door.
I don’t need his warnings. I’m a reasonable man. I won’t ruin Mia’s career. Which is more than I can say for her regarding mine.
Chapter Seven
MIA
* * *
My room is rustic. Wooden floors, wooden bed, wooden dresser, with a tiny brown melamine desk that looks like it’s been squeezed in as an afterthought. Then again, I’m guessing the reclusive Axel Low doesn’t entertain many house guests and he’s thoughtfully added desks to the rooms for some private writing time.
A rectangular shaggy rug in duck-egg blue covers most of the floor and a duvet in a matching shade drapes the bed. The closet is minuscule and at odds with the surprising size of the room, almost as big as my entire studio back in Manhattan. I open a door next to the closet, grateful to find a small ensuite: shower, sink, toilet. One of my pet hates in college was sharing a bathroom and I assumed I’d have to do it here.
Then again, Axel Low is a multimillionaire several times over, so it shouldn’t be a surprise he owns a massive house with at least seven bedrooms—his and one for each of his guests.
I can’t quite fathom why a recluse would open his house like this, but rumor has it his publisher is pushing for higher sales volume on his next book and in today’s age of rampant social media where one viral video can catapult an author’s backlist title from a decade ago to the top of the charts, I’m assuming they want more publicity from Axel.
I don’t bother unpacking. Cole said Axel would be in the living room and to introduce myself once I’d settled in. No time like the present. The house is blissfully warm, so I don’t need a jacket. Lucky, because I accidentally left mine at home and only have the denim one I packed. I envisage lots of indoor time over the next week, but I’ll need to buy one if I plan on exploring the town.
After a quick glance in the mirror to ensure I look presentable and not travel weary, I open my door and peek out into the hallway. I’m at the end and I pass another six doors on my way to the living room, situated at the front of the house. When I entered with Cole through the kitchen, the modern appliances, gleaming marble countertops and white cupboards had surprised me and now, walking through the house, it’s even more incongruous against the rough-hewn ranch style of the rest of the place.
When I find the living room, I pause in the doorway, and I swear I swoon a little.
It’s stunning.
Low sofas around a blazing fire, large floor cushions scattered nearby, reading lamps in various nooks, and cute little desks covered in new stationery. Bliss. As for the sweeping vista from the floor to ceiling windows—snow-covered trees dotting a virgin white landscape—could this place be any more inspirational?
I sigh and enter the room, crossing to the fire. The fireplace is surrounded by a bluestone mantel, with a mahogany bookshelf alongside it. I’m curious. What books does a bestselling author read for pleasure?
I lean forward to scan the creased spines but before I can scrutinize Axel’s reading taste, I hear a thud behind me, followed by a muttered curse. I turn and forget to breathe.
The guy staring at me is hot.
More than hot. Exceptional.
Messy hair the color of dark chocolate spiking in all directions, like he eschews a brush or comb. Eyes that shift between blue and green; or as many romance authors I’ve read would say, cobalt and emerald. Sharp jaw covered in stubble. Cut-glass cheekbones. Faintest hint of a chin dimple. Nice.
