“By mocking me?” I say, tossing the empty cup at him like it’s a dodgeball and I want to pummel his face with rubber.
His reflexes are quick, and he catches the paper cup. “By observing. Like a good writer.”
I cross my arms. “Sounds a little like stalking.”
Evan gives a reserved chuckle. It’s weird and forced. “You know, your social media doesn’t exactly line up with your fanfiction.”
I blink. “Excuse me.”
“Your fanfic,” he repeats as if I don’t know what he’s talking about, as if that’s not the exact reason he is here.
“What about it?” I ask.
“It’s…emotionally honest, although I think you called it messy and real in my office the other day. It doesn’t match your online sarcasm on social media and, well, lack of experience in the romance department. Did you have a traumatic breakup? Sworn off men so you prefer to write about them?” he asks.
I stare at him blankly while my insides squirm. “So, you’re here to ask about my relationship status?”
He smiles again, and I hate his smile. It’s the kind of smile that says he knows something you don’t, and he wants you to be miserable wondering what it is. That, and it makes my kneeswobble even when I’m sitting down, which is extremely annoying since he’s the worst.
“Your profile said ‘single’ and I’m assuming that it hasn’t changed. But that’s not why I’m here,” he says smoothly.
“Oh good,” I deadpan. “Because that would’ve been a hard no.”
He raises a brow. “Really what I want to know is what kind of person can make my brooding detective—” he points at me—“kiss someone named Willow Starborn under a waterfall of glitter.”
I groan and bury my face in the quilt. “It was adream sequence!She got knocked out during the chase through the art gallery, and the glitter was metaphorical…sort of.”
“Oh no, it was very literal. You described it in…painful detail.” He reaches inside his inner jacket pocket and pulls out a dog-eared printout of what I’m assuming is my story. “Listen to this: ‘A thousand sparkles rained from the skylight, catching in his hair like fallen stars, but all he saw was her.’”He looks up at me, one eyebrow raised. “Stars in his hair?”
I feel my face warm from Evan Michaels readingmywords. “Yes,stars in his hair.”
“And the name Willow Starborn?” he asks.
I peek over my quilt. “So, let me get this straight, you came here to make sure I don’t bring things like feelings and glitter into your precious books?”
He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Not at all. I’m just trying to get a sense of your process.”
Now he’s smug again, and something about the way he says the wordprocesssets off a tiny alarm bell in the back of my mind—a subtle jingle along with my swirling thoughts of how calm he looks while accusing me of literary sabotage.
“Speaking of,” he continues, too casually, too calculated, “your fanbase is…intense. Their comments are heated. But would they be so interested in what you write if they knew who the real person was behind the username? Someone who has eight million locks ontheir apartment door? Someone who posts lattes, sticky notes with motivation quotes, and pictures of their bare feet?”
“Okay, now this does sound like stalking,” I say.
He shrugs. “Public knowledge mostly from your own social media.” Then he tilts his head. “But how do you manage to work a full-time job while writing seven-thousand-word romantic side quests for my main character? It’s impressive, really.”
I force a tight smile. “I multitask.”
“But how do you have the time?” he asks.
I open my mouth, then close it. My brain starts replaying the conversation. Slowly. Word by word. And that’s when I realize…
He’s been collecting data.
Like I’m a witness. Or a suspect.
“Wait,” I say slowly. “Is this…Are you interrogating me?”
Evan stands and stretches. “Nope. Just visiting my new partner in crime.”
