Did Not Finish, page 4
Pity about the deep frown grooving his brow as he glares at me like I’m an unwelcome intruder.
“Hi, I’m Mia Samson, one of the winners of the writing competition.” I sound way too perky, compounding my dorkiness when I raise my hand and wave.
His frown intensifies and his jaw clenches so hard I’m surprised I don’t hear his teeth grinding.
I have no idea who this guy is but if he’s one of Axel’s minions who’ll be around for the next week, I need to get him onside, so I flash my best smile. “Is Axel Low around? I’d like to introduce myself.”
He shakes his head and takes a few steps forward and that’s when I notice he’s limping, and one of the desks is skewed. That must’ve been the thump I heard. No wonder he’s grumpy. I would be too if I stubbed my toe.
“Ice should do the trick,” I say, eliciting an arched eyebrow. I point to his right foot. “For a stubbed toe.”
“I wouldn’t have stubbed it if these stupid desks weren’t in here,” he mutters, gingerly flexing his foot.
Ah, maybe he’s another of Axel’s housekeepers. Or another PA. Or a chef. Stands to reason a busy man would have more than Cole on staff.
“Not a fan of writing?”
“Not a fan of writers,” he says, giving me a quick perusal like I’m enemy number one.
“Hey, I have a real job too.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’m not just a writer.”
His eyes narrow, but not before I see a smolder of disapproval. “So writing isn’t a real job?”
I feel like he’s baiting me, and I’m tempted to reiterate I’m here to see/fangirl over Axel and don’t have to tolerate his grouchiness. But it’s not smart to alienate Axel’s staff when I’m out to impress the great man, so I’ll play nice.
“Not every writer is as lucky as your boss and can earn a good wage.”
His expression morphs from disdain to confusion. “My boss?”
“Axel Low. Author extraordinaire. Word wunderkind. The page-turning prince.”
I barely hear his muttered, “Save me,” before he slides a cell from his back pocket.
“Are you calling Axel?”
“I’m calling my agent and telling her I can’t do this.”
I’m about to ask if he’s a writer too when my commonsense kicks in. Nobody knows what Axel looks like and the speculation regarding his age implies he’s over fifty because of his prose. That’s why I envisaged him as a Stephen King type.
The guy scowling at me looks like he belongs in the pages of a romance novel rather than penning bestselling thrillers, and I try not to cringe at our less than stellar first meeting. I’d learned early in my career never to make assumptions, yet that’s exactly what I’ve done here, assuming a guy this hot wasn’t Axel. Could I be any dumber?
I quickly scan my brain for anything I might’ve said to offend and thankfully, come up empty. I have no idea why he hasn’t introduced himself, but I plan to get what should’ve been an auspicious first meeting back on track.
“Mr. Low?” I cross the space between us and hold out my hand. “Sorry for the mix-up. I thought you were an employee—”
“Why? Because I don’t walk around with a golden pen and a book with pages that turn themselves?”
I struggle not to gape. He’s quoted one of my reviews for his release two years ago and his sarcasm confuses me. Is he poking fun at my flowery fan-girling or making a point that authors read reviews despite all protestations to the contrary?
Before I can ask, he slides his cell back into his pocket, his scowl replaced by a grimace. “I’ve been wanting to meet you, Ms. Samson.”
He shakes my hand and releases it quickly, like he can’t stand to touch me. I wish I could say the feeling is mutual but I’m struggling to refrain from grinning like an idiot after shaking the hand of such an illustrious author.
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer immediately and his steely gaze bores into me, eliciting a slight chill despite the heat from the fire. I feel like he’s sizing me up and finding me distinctly lacking.
“Because I have a lot to say about your work, as you’ve said about mine.”
Not so cryptic after all and my heart leaps with hope. Is my partial that impressive? Did he devour my first three chapters and love them so much he’ll give me a personal critique? It’s what I hoped for but didn’t dare get too excited. Just being in the same room as this guy, spending a week in his home writing, is a dream come true. Anything else is a bonus.
Thankfully, all my reviews for his books have been raves. Except the last one, which had been well below his usual standard, but I hadn’t said anything particularly nasty. How awkward would this be if I’d said otherwise? But he’s still giving off angry vibes, like he doesn’t want me or any of the other writers anywhere near him, so I decide to try a little flattery.
“While I can’t wait for you to critique my work, do you think you could sign a few books for me first? I packed half your backlist initially, but couldn’t fit in enough clothes, so had to do a little rearranging and I’ve brought your first four releases with me. I’d love you to—”
“No.”
Short. Sharp. Rude.
His neck is corded and he’s tapping his foot, like he can’t wait to escape my presence. So much for flattery. He’s tall, at least a foot taller than me, and I hate having to crane my neck a little to stare at him, trying to get a read on my grumpy host.
When he doesn’t say anything else and his frown deepens, I add, “Maybe later?”
After an interminable moment only broken by the crackling hiss of a log, he says, “I’ll sign your copies on one condition.”
“What is it?”
“You tell me where you get off using your poisonous vitriol to ruin an author’s career.”
Chapter Eight
AXEL
* * *
I’ve come on too strong.
I’d planned on being more circumspect in my approach; win Mia over, lull her into a false sense of security, then move in for the kill. But entering my living room to an impressive eyeful of denim-clad butt as she’d been bending forward to scope out my bookcase…I’d tripped over a desk and my mood had gone downhill from there.
I’m not a people person at the best of times. Grumpy. Recalcitrant. Moody. Labels I’m used to—courtesy of Buzz. Nobody else calls me out on my cantankerous demeanor because I don’t socialize. The only people I speak to on a regular basis are Noni, Paula’s aide, and my sister. Most of my dealings with Rolf, my editor, and Chrissie, my agent, are done via email. I rarely head into town so Buzz is it for human interaction. And it shows, considering my first awkward meeting with Mia.
To catch Mia off guard, I’d hoped to quash my inner grouch and lure her in with my scintillating charm.
Who am I kidding?
She’s staring at me in open-mouthed shock after I’ve accused her of ruining authors’ careers with her venomous reviews. Either she’s never been called out before—which I find hard to believe—or it’s my delivery that sucks. Probably the latter.
“Nothing to say?”
It’s foolish to bait her, but I can’t help it. I don’t react well when I’m disarmed, and Mia Samson has done that; and how. She’s prettier in person—hair the color of a Sugar Plain prairie in fall, all golds and russets, big green eyes, friendly smile—than online. While she has casual profile pics online for all to see, her social media accounts are private. Considering how she tears apart some authors’ books, I’m not surprised. She’d be a prime target for nasty trolls.
“I’ve never said anything bad about your books.” She’s eyeing me with blatant confusion, like she can’t figure me out. Join the club. It has many members, and I don’t care.
“Doesn’t mean you haven’t ruined other writers’ careers.”
A tiny dent appears between her brows. “It’s my job to review books and I’m as objective as I can be. It’s a simple fact that not every book published is good. And I owe it to the New York Press readers to give my honest opinion.”
It sounds like a spiel she’s recited many times before. Which means I’m not the first author to confront her.
“I’m in publishing. I know how reviews work.” I stalk to the fire and grab a poker. Her logic accentuates how unreasonable I’m being, and I need something to jab at, so I start prodding at the smoldering logs. “But your words hold more sway than most. Books you pump up go gangbusters, books you trash end up languishing. Surely you know that?”
For the first time since we met, I glimpse an angry spark in her eyes. She’s obviously trying to impress me, to stay calm, probably with the aim to suck up. But I’ve hit a nerve and her eyes drift to the poker in my hand for a moment, like she’s imagining skewering me with it.
“Readers are discerning. Some may value my reviews but for the most part, they can make their own decisions.”
“Decisions heavily influenced by you.”
She rolls her eyes and it’s so cute I stifle a laugh. I don’t want to be amused by her. I want to teach her a lesson.
“May I remind you, I’m here as a writer, a writer you chose as being worthy of this retreat because of the partial I submitted.” She folds her arms, completely unaware it creates a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage that I struggle not to glance at. “So how about we focus on that, rather than my job as a reviewer?”
She pauses and the fire in her eyes flares into an inferno. “A job that pays the bills while I follow my real passion, writing.” Her glance flicks around the room. “We can’t all be as lucky as you to earn a living from something we love doing.”
Okay, so she has a point. I’m so hellbent on chastising her that I forget she obviously enjoys writing—and is good at it, by what I’ve read. I’m annoyed that we have something in common, because I’ve been focused on disliking her and now, she’s humanized.
“I’ve put in the hard work to get where I am.”
“I’m sure you have. If anyone knows how tough it is to make it in this industry, it’s another writer.”
I’m intrigued against my better judgement. “Is that how you see yourself? As a writer?”
I’ve struck a nerve, as she squares her shoulders and those indigo flecks in her eyes glow with anger again. “Just because I’m not published yet doesn’t make me less of a writer than…the next person.”
Her pause implies she was going to say, ‘less of a writer than you’ and I wonder why she changed it. But I’m not here to delve into the machinations of Mia’s mind. I have an agenda and the rest of the day to get my point across before the others join us tomorrow.
“I didn’t say you need to be published to be a writer.”
“The implication was there.” She lets out an exasperated huff almost as cute as her eye roll. “Look, I feel like we’ve got off on the wrong foot and you’re misinterpreting everything I say. I’m thrilled to be here, and I can’t wait to work with you, so how about we start again?”
She holds out her hand. “Hi, I’m Mia Samson. Fellow writer. And huge fangirl, though I’m trying to hide that part. Nice to meet you.”
She has a point. I have more chance of getting her to change her mind about certain reviews if she’s onside and I stop treating her like the enemy. But I’m not good at faking it so this will be tough. I must try, though. For Paula’s sake.
“Axel Low. Writer. Recluse. Antisocial. Cynic.” I take her hand to shake it and when our palms graze, there’s a surprising zing of heat.
She feels it too, because her eyes widen imperceptibly, and she stares at our hands like she can’t quite believe it.
That makes two of us. I have no room in my life for complications. And as Mia’s big green eyes lock onto mine, I know she’s one giant complication waiting to happen.
Chapter Nine
MIA
* * *
I’m mortified. Axel Low doesn’t like me.
He’s rude, condescending, and prickly, and I can’t wait for the rest of the competition winners to arrive so I can blend in. So much for making the most of some one-on-one time with a bestselling author. The way he’s staring at me, tomorrow can’t come quick enough. Until then, I can sneak food from the kitchen and hide out in my room. Once I make a gracious escape now, that is.
“Want to know what I liked about your partial?” He shoves the poker back in its stand too hard and the contraption almost tips over, and by his scowl I assume spending time with me is the last thing he wants to do.
But his offer is too good to pass up. How many writers would give anything to have a one-on-one critique with this guy? Besides, I think it’s his version of an olive branch and I’m glad I confronted the tension between us with that re-introduction, rather than continuing with the awkward accusation/defense thing we started with.
I have no idea where his animosity springs from because I’m right about one thing. I’ve never written a bad review about any of his books. I love them too much. He has a way of sucking the reader into a story that makes his books incredibly hard to put down. So, I’m assuming I’ve shredded one of his friend’s tomes and that’s what has him so angsty.
As for that spark when we shook hands, not going there. Nope. No matter how hot Axel is and how much he reminds me of Alex O’Loughlin, my favorite Aussie actor. I’m here to get a leg up in publishing and kickstart my writing career, not get a leg over him.
“I’d love to hear your feedback,” I say in my best demure voice, but he eyes me suspiciously, like he’s waiting for me to get snarky again.
“I have notes in my library.”
“Library?”
He has a library? Oh my. Sexy best-selling author plus library equals I’m in so much trouble.
Libraries have been my go-to space since I was a child. They’re the only place I felt truly safe. Hunkered down in a carrel or squeezed into a corner between bookshelves meant security for me. I know Mom tried her best after Dad died but when she started taking solace in a never-ending string of boyfriends who creeped me out, I’d get scared. Escaping in the pages of a book in the library a few doors from our apartment was the only way I could deal with my life.
“It’s not that big,” he says, and I hope I haven’t been drooling over the thought of his library while lost in my memories.
“Lead the way.”
He casts me one last confused look, like he can’t work me out, before heading for the hallway. It’s huge, with a skylight that casts everything in a whitish glow. It’s still snowing outside and while I’d like to explore, I’ll need a warmer coat and don’t fancy asking my host for a loan of one of his or a lift into town to buy one.
We cross the hallway, and he opens a door. “Head in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll get us something to eat. Cheese and crackers okay? Coffee?”
He’s making an effort and I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m probably the only writer on the planet who doesn’t drink coffee. Love the aroma, hate the bitter aftertaste.
“Cheese and crackers sound perfect, but I’d prefer a water please.”
“Cheap date.”
When I bark out a laugh, he rears back like I’ve poked him in the eye, with a muttered, “Be back in a sec.”
Shame the hot author doesn’t have a sense of humor. Then again, if he did, I’d be a complete goner, because nothing turns me on as much as a killer wit. Swapping banter with a cute guy is my version of foreplay.
I step into the room and all the air in my lungs whooshes out in a rush.
Axel’s library is breathtaking.
Pristine white bookshelves line three walls from floor to ceiling, packed with color-coded book spines, ranging from ebony to violet to crimson and every color in between. An expansive window, complete with reading nook covered in plump peacock blue velvet cushions, overlooks the snow-covered plain bordering the side of the property. And a huge glass-topped desk takes pride of place in the middle, like Axel enjoys being able to spin in his fancy ergonomic chair and survey all he has. There’s a three-seater deep purple suede sofa complete with blanket behind his desk and I wonder if that’s where he takes naps, waiting for his muse to arrive.
Unable to resist checking out the books, I start at the black spines first, expecting a mix of fantasy and paranormal. All the classics are there, along with a few additions that make me lean forward to investigate further. Names famous in erotica, along with several prominent indie authors who’ve made a name for themselves in the genre. Including Adele Lavash.
Publishers send prominent authors ARCs all the time to build hype for a release. But I can’t imagine a best-selling crime author like Axel accepting a smutty advance reader copy from an indie like Adele. Bizarre.
Unless…is he a fan? Does he actually like her work? I know reading is subjective but…I suppress a shudder. Adele churns out smut because it pays well, and it shows. Her prose is lacking. Her plotting minimal. She’s in it for the money. And while I have no qualms about doing what it takes to make money, it annoys me that so many more talented authors and their books go unrecognized when someone like Adele can publish anything and her avid readers will buy it regardless.
Not that I’m disparaging the genre either. I know I’ll face the same ridiculous judgment from readers and reviewers who’ve never read romance but have strong opinions regardless if my regency ever gets published.
No, my problem with Adele Lavash, apart from the shortcomings in her books, is that I’m a teeny bit jealous.
What would it be like to have the time to publish several books a year, knowing you’d make enough money from each release to live like a queen? As opposed to working in a tiny cubicle opposite Jace, who wouldn’t know brilliant literary fiction if it jumped onto his desk and danced.
