Did Not Finish, page 5
I know my job dissatisfaction is growing in proportion to my word count. I want to spend more time writing so I’m starting to resent my day job. The one that pays my bills. The one I need to hold onto my studio apartment. The one I can’t afford to leave unless I sell a book for a decent advance and become a frugal, impoverished full-time author.
“See anything you like?”
I jump and whirl around, heat flushing my cheeks. Silly, because I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but a hint of gravel in Axel’s tone implies he knows I was looking at the erotica. Not a big deal, but coupled with the memory of Jace insisting I should glom Adele Lavash’s backlist to ‘get me in the mood’ I’m oddly embarrassed.
“You’ve got quite the eclectic collection.” I gesture at the shelf behind me.
He shrugs. “I may not have time to read them all but I’m a book collector and being surrounded by them is comforting.”
“I think so too.”
Our gazes lock and I’m warmed by the understanding in his. Book lovers the world over recognize a kindred spirit when they see one and knowing Axel gets me—the part of me that’s comforted around books—makes him more likeable.
He clears his throat and hands me a bottle of water. “Here. I’ll get the platter.”
“Thanks.”
I unscrew the cap and take great gulps of water to ease the sudden tightness in my throat as I watch him leave the library; more precisely, I watch the way his ass moves in the tight denim molding it. Perfection.
He’s back before I can analyze my wayward thoughts but thankfully, he doesn’t glance my way, giving me time to get my blush under control.
When he places the platter on the desk and I get a glimpse of it, my stomach rumbles. “Wow. If that’s your version of cheese and crackers, I’d hate to see a full charcuterie board.”
“Too much?” His mouth kicks into a rueful grin and I’m struck anew by how gorgeous he is when he’s not glowering at me.
“Not at all.” I cross the room to take a dried apricot and pop it into my mouth. He’s gone all out, with salami, prosciutto, olives, sun-dried tomatoes, pesto, and hummus accompanying the brie, camembert, cheddar, and gouda. “I’ll need sustenance while you give me feedback.”
One of his eyebrow’s arches. “Aren’t you the least bit concerned that what I have to say might ruin your appetite?”
“Nope. Too hungry for that.” I pop a garlic-infused olive into my mouth and sigh, and Axel laughs, a full-bodied chuckle that makes the lines around his eyes fan out in an intriguing map and my thighs clench.
I am in definite trouble.
“I’ll grab my coffee, then we can start.”
I manage a garbled “okay,” and focus on stuffing as much cheese and cured meat into my mouth as I can before he returns. The queasiness in my stomach must be from hunger and nothing to do with how darn appealing Axel is with every passing moment.
I don’t like moody men as a rule. Too much baggage. So it had been easy not to like Axel after our fraught first meeting in the living room. But here, now, surrounded by books and warmth from the central heating and an author who laughs like he means it…I’m in danger of falling for more than Axel’s way with words.
Then again, I’m sure he has plenty of other readers crushing on him. What’s one more?
“Right, let’s get down to business,” he says, closing the door and engulfing us in unexpected intimacy. Or maybe that’s just my interpretation, because when a sexy writer says, ‘let’s get down to business’ I’m thinking of more than a critique. Much more.
With my cheeks burning for the third time in as many minutes, he pins me with a curious glance. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. Fine. Thanks.”
My voice sounds strangled, so I stuff a wedge of brie into my mouth.
With a last curious glance my way, he picks up a folder from his desk and sits on the sofa. He’s holding his coffee in his other hand and takes a sip, waiting for me to sit too. Next to him. On the soft sofa that looks way too comfy. In this perfect room. With my wildly inappropriate thoughts of erotica and Axel.
Clamping down on my vivid imagination, I perch on the edge of the sofa and clutch my bottled water so hard the plastic crumples a little.
“Mediocre,” he says, flipping open the folder, and just like that the imaginary sensual bubble around us bursts.
Is a full-blown critique from one of the best thriller writers in the world on the first three chapters of my domestic suspense novel really what I want if his first impression of my writing is mediocre?
Chapter Ten
AXEL
* * *
Trite. Clichéd. Unoriginal. Sentences too long. Verbose. Unrealistic. Reads like a soap opera. Too much tell, not enough show.
All criticisms I wanted to lay on Mia. None of them true, but to give her a taste of her own medicine, to give her a feel of what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a harsh critique.
Not that she’d understand the real devastation of a release tanking courtesy of her cutting criticism, but I want to prove a point before I tell her about Adele.
However, my plan hits a snag when I get the first word out. She visibly flinches when I say ‘mediocre’ and in that instant, I know I can’t do it.
It’s not in my nature to tear down someone’s work, because I know how hard it is to get words written on paper let alone complete several chapters. As for the synopsis that accompanied her submission, it’s far better than anything I can come up with. I loathe synopsis writing with a passion. I do it because Chrissie demands it before she pitches my next idea to my publisher, though I’m luckier than most in that my publisher knows whatever I come up with will sell a lot of books and, in turn, make us all a lot of money.
Not that Mia’s synopsis and partial doesn’t need work. It does, but the natural snark in her voice makes for compelling reading and I can’t lie to her. It wouldn’t sit well with me. Besides, the writing gods might believe in writer’s block even if I don’t and I can’t tempt fate.
So I shelve my plan to teach her a lesson by disparaging her work. I’ll come up with another way to get my point across.
“What I mean is, the motivation of your protagonist’s sister is mediocre and needs a lot of work,” I say, and her shoulders relax, the tension pinching her mouth easing. “If you want to throw suspicion on several villains and get the reader to wonder who’s behind the threats, you need to solidify the sister, because at the moment it seems obvious that she’s the baddie.”
“That sounds doable.” She points to a stack of sticky notes on my desk. “Mind if I take notes?”
“Go ahead. I haven’t marked up the manuscript because I don’t have the time to do it for all six of you, but I intend on giving detailed verbal feedback.”
Her wide-eyed stare is filled with admiration, and I struggle not to squirm in the face of her open adoration. I don’t want her to look at me like I’m about to bestow a great gift. I’m blunt at the best of times, but after seeing her visibly flinch when I said ‘mediocre’ a few moments ago, I know I’ll have to temper my critique.
I’m ashamed to think I invited her here a day early to teach her a lesson by disparaging her work. Who does that? I’m a grown-ass man, not a petulant kid. I’m under a lot of pressure, with contract negotiations looming for my next book and a hike in Paula’s fees at Sunny Pines, but that’s no excuse. Thank goodness I came to my senses before it’s too late. Buzz is right. Getting Mia Samson offside can have far-reaching consequences and I’d be better off befriending her rather than antagonizing.
“Detailed verbal feedback sounds great.” She picks a green pen from the countless colors I have in a holder on my desk and grabs a yellow sticky note pad. “What else?”
I struggle not to stare as her eyes glow with enthusiasm, lighting up her entire face and taking it from pretty to stunning. “There’s a fair bit of telling not showing in the first chapter, but that can be resolved by leaping straight into the inciting incident.”
“You think I should start the story when Brooke receives the first threatening email?”
“Exactly. Cut the intro where you tell us how she’s feeling a vague sense of menace.”
She scribbles furiously for a few moments, giving me a chance to study her. I notice there are more red streaks amid the gold in her hair than I first thought, and she gnaws on her bottom lip when deep in thought. She also has a callous on the third finger of her right hand, where the pen rests, and I wonder if she kept a journal as a teen. Paula did and she has a similar callous.
Thinking about my sister and how she can barely string two words together these days let alone write a coherent sentence makes my throat tighten.
I need to make more money to afford Paula’s medical bills and the more money Adele Lavash makes, the more money I do.
But my association with Adele is a well-guarded secret and I don’t want to tip Mia off too early. I need to gain her trust, get her to see me as the upstanding author I am, so she takes my request more seriously.
“What else?” Mia taps her pen against the sticky notes, staring at me expectantly.
I recognize the slight glaze in her eyes; I sport something similar when I’m in the zone, when the ideas can’t come quick enough, and I jot down random plot points and twists and scenes that need to happen.
It’s disarming, seeing how enthused she is and that we share a common bond: a love of creating. I don’t want to like Mia too much. She’s already caught me off guard with how attractive she is and the last thing I need is to find more things to like about her.
“Right, here’s what I think.”
My gruff tone doesn’t deter her and she continues to stare at me, pen poised, so I proceed to outline exactly what I think does and doesn’t work in the first three chapters of her manuscript. Her pen doesn’t stop, flying across the sticky notes, until she has a decent stack in front of her.
I should hate doing this. I hadn’t been looking forward to critiquing the winners’ manuscripts at all. But turns out, I get so absorbed in giving feedback and debating changes with Mia, I lose track of time and the only way I know a few hours have passed is by the twinge in my lower back. It’s the same twang I get when I’m in the zone and having a rare day of countless pages, when eight thousand words pour out of me and I can’t stop.
I stand and stretch, unable to stifle a groan. Man, I’ll be forty in two years and I’m starting to feel it. In comparison, Mia leaps off the sofa and bends her back in an elegant arch that reminds me of Mr. Darcy, Buzz’s cat, who spends more time in my house than Buzz’s cottage.
“That was amazing, and I can’t thank you enough…” she trails off, surprise raising her brows when she glances over my shoulder. “Uh, how long have we been doing this?”
“Why?”
“Because fall has turned to winter.”
I turn to see what she’s pointing at, and I’m shocked to see the snowstorm obliterating the view that’s as familiar to me as my favorite keyboard with the E, T and S keys worn away.
“The forecasters mentioned the possibility of an unseasonal blizzard but…” I shake my head. “I’ve never seen anything like this in the years I’ve lived here.”
She cocks her head. “I can’t hear a thing. Looks like the wind’s howling out there.”
“Double-glazing and concrete walls covered by bricks. Great insulators.”
“It’s like being shut off from the world,” she says, a small smile playing about her mouth, and as my gaze lingers there, I have an insane urge to kiss her.
Rattled, I take a few steps away from her and pat my back pocket; to find my cell missing, belatedly realizing I left it in the kitchen. “I need to check in with Buzz and see how bad the blizzard is in town.”
“Okay. I might go to my room and start inputting some of these changes into my manuscript.”
My nod is brusque. The sooner I get rid of her the better, because once the impulse to kiss her lodged in my brain, I can’t shake it. It’s off-putting because I haven’t dated since Paula’s accident let alone thought about a woman. My days are spent hunched over my keyboard, writing as many words as humanly possible, my nights too. Buzz has dragged me into town for a beer at the bar a few times, but I hate being surrounded by people who expect me to be sociable.
I have no time for small talk. I have a low tolerance for BS, and it shows. Even if a woman was interested in me, she’d take one look at my permanent glower and run for the hills.
It makes me wonder, what is it about Mia that had me letting down my guard for the last few hours to the extent I lost track of time?
Writing is my passion, so it figures I like talking about it, but what I enjoyed most about critiquing her work is the back and forth we did, the debating of ideas, the challenge of finding flaws and solving problems. It’s unnerving, to realize I might not be such a hermit after all.
She hasn’t moved a step and is staring at me, and I figure she’s waiting for a response.
“Sure. Buzz should be back soon, so we’ll have dinner in an hour if that suits?”
She glances at her watch. “You eat at five-thirty?”
“Too early?”
“Not if you’re a fan of early bird specials.”
“Well, I’m probably a decade or more older than you.”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
“Yep. I’ve got ten years on you.”
An impish gleam lights her eyes. “Positively ancient.”
She’s joking but, in that moment, I feel that decade between us stretching interminably. What would it be like to be twenty-eight again, without a care beyond bugging Chrissie every five minutes to ask if the publishing houses who entered a furious bidding war for my first book had made their final offer?
Life had been simpler then. I’d been in demand as a carpenter, building boutique homes for people who couldn’t afford the big-name architects, while writing on the side, something I’d done since my late teens when pouring my thoughts onto paper was the only way I coped with my grief after my folks died. Never in my wildest dreams had I thought I’d land an agent, let alone a six-figure advance for my first book after a rigorous auction. I’d been flying high then, fueled by my self-importance.
But it had all come crashing down the night I signed my first contract and Paula had suffered the fallout. It became imperative to keep my identity secret to protect her. Ironic, that I’m still doing it, but for a different reason.
“You know I’m kidding, right?” Mia touches my arm and I jump as if short-circuited. “About you being ancient?”
Once again, I’ve drifted off, lost in my thoughts, and I grit my teeth against the urge to blurt an unnecessary apology. “I eat early because I like to get another four hours writing done after dinner. While you and the others are here, I’ll expect you to fit in with my schedule.”
“Of course.” The gleam in her eyes fades and I inwardly curse for being so curt. “Do you really write all day, then do another four hours after dinner?”
“Yes. That’s what real writers do.”
The implication is clear—she’s doing this as a hobby—and my barb hits home if the stiffening of her shoulders and the compressing of her lips is any indication. I feel like a jerk for demeaning her like that, but I need to do something to re-establish distance between us; before I do something crazy and ask her to come back here after dinner and we can do some more brainstorming together.
“I’ll see you later,” she mutters, and I watch her go with a bewildering mix of regret and yearning.
Chapter Eleven
MIA
* * *
I stomp to my room, torn between wanting to march back to the library and give Mr. High and Mighty a verbal spray he’ll never forget, and kicking something. I settle for slamming my bedroom door.
I turn, to find a black cat sitting on my bed, wearing the same supercilious expression Axel had when he dismissed me a few moments ago.
I hate cats. Though hate may be too strong. It’s just that Mom loved them and lavished a hell of a lot more affection on the two tabbies we had than she ever did on me. And those two smug creatures knew it. Incongruously named Spot and Rover—Mom had a warped sense of humor too—they would wind their way through my legs whenever I got home from school and I would grit my teeth against the feel of their fur tickling my skin, because I knew they were faking it. The minute Mom turned her back they’d be swiping at me with their claws unsheathed, like they knew I was competing with them for attention.
I swear Mom fed them better too. While I’d be lucky to scrounge up a frozen meal, those darn cats ate the best tinned tuna. And Mom cried buckets when they both died within a month of each other, while she waved me off to college without a hint of a tear.
“Shoo.” I wave my hands in a pinwheeling motion and the cat’s smirk intensifies.
It doesn’t move a muscle and I approach warily, not liking the gleam in its amber eyes one bit. Feral doesn’t come close to describing how this cat is staring at me, like it’s about to take a flying leap and land on my face.
“Go on, scram.” I clap my hands and it stands, arches its back in a stretch, and daintily leaps off the bed, stalking toward the door without a backward glance.
I open the door to let the cat out, to find Axel standing on the other side with his hand raised as if he’s about to knock.
The cat lets out a plaintive meow and rubs itself against Axel’s leg, and for an insane moment I’m jealous of the feline. Then I remember how moody Axel is, how he morphs from sexy enthusiastic writer to rude grumpy guy in a second, and I harden my heart against the teensiest shimmer of a crush I developed while he’d spent the last few hours giving me an invaluable critique.
“I see you’ve met Mr. Darcy,” he says, eyeing the cat with the same mistrust I had a few moments ago.
I nod. “Aren’t you taking the writer cliché to extremes, with the cat and the name?”
“He’s not my cat.” He gives a mock shudder. “I can’t stand cats, but he belongs to Buzz, and Buzz spends more time here than in his cottage during the day, so Mr. Darcy makes himself at home. As for the name, Buzz rescued the cat not long after he moved into the cottage and said the name is a reminder of his past. He didn’t elaborate and I didn’t push.”
