“This is Nora.” Jeremy spoke for me like I was a five-year-old meeting Mickey Mouse, and it blew my tiny brain. “We’re all so excited to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Nora.” John smiled. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. I could swear I saw a dimple. He flexed his hand. Apparently, I hadn’t broken it. Tragic.
Whatever his expression was, it quickly shifted into something I could only call a press-smile. Jeremy launched into how much he adored John’s last series. “Positively splendid.” And Elaine didn’t hold back her praise for his work. And how crazy it was that we were all competing for the same thing now. And how wonderful this week was going to be.?
I wanted to throw up.
He reallywashere to compete.New York Timesbestselling author John-freaking-Kater.
When Haller & Mark said everyone had a chance, they weren’t kidding.
“Please don’t feel like I have any kind of advantage,” John said, hands in his pockets. “My books are very different from Lew Elliot’s work.”
No shit.
“And the panel will have no idea who has submitted them,” John spoke to the room as if he was holding a TED Talk about how humble he was.?
May crossed her arms and leaned toward me, her dangly earring catching the light. “Whoisthat guy?”
I liked her.
The fog in my brain cleared—replaced by something sharp and furious. I tried to calculate how little sleep I could survive on this week. Tried to remember the last time I read one of his books. Tried to figure out what the hell his angle was.
I caught him staring. Those eyes—dark, almost black.
He looked away first.
He wore a thick cable-knit sweater that looked like it cost more than my rent. The sleeves were rolled up just enough to show off the same fancy watch he wore to comic con. His hair was slightly disheveled, damp from the snow, one strand melting onto his forehead.
Elaine stepped closer, laughing at something he said. Her hand brushed his arm. If she wanted to keep him busy this week, then by all means—be distracting, tiny model.
“Anyone have any dietary restrictions?” Charlene asked, right as the cork popped from a bottle of wine she was holding.
But I’d already turned back to the stairs. “I’ll go find a room,” I mumbled.
And just as I started up the steps, I met John’s eyes again.
And promptly tripped over my own feet.
I swore under my breath and hurried the rest of the way up, cheeks burning.
The first empty room was the size of my studio: a cozy small double bed with cream-colored cushions, a desk with an old green reading lamp, a cedar wardrobe, and a bookcase. Its window overlooked swooping pine hills that were nauseatingly beautiful.
I shut the door behind me and collapsed onto the softest bed I had ever touched.
Then I texted Otis.
John Kater is here. I repeat. J Douchebag K. is IN the competition. This is NOT a drill.
Three dots appeared.
Two words. Pepper spray.
I snorted, kicking off my boots. The clatter of kitchenware echoed from below.
More dots.
Also—WTF.
