I know.
I demand a full report of every second. Starting with: what’s he wearing?
Stop lusting after random men. He’s the enemy, remember?
Honey, the fact that you’re denying yourself the pleasure of looking at his flaming hotness is your cross to bear.
Also, yes. He is a terribly naughty man. He should be punished.
I rolled over and stared at the ceiling, a single thought stuck on loop:
What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.
My phone buzzed again.
I believe in you. You’ve got this.
Then another text popped up right underneath:
Remember to be nice to people.
I barely picked at my food while Charlene rattled off the agenda she’d scrawled on the chalkboard behind the kitchen door. My concentration had seen better days—mostly because my treacherous eyes kept drifting back to John.
Every time our eyes met, he looked away. Sharply. Then he went right back to chatting with the others like nothing had happened.
It shouldn’t have bothered me. He probably met a hundred new people every week. And yet, I felt dismissed. Insulted, even.
We each shared a bit about what brought us here. Elaine came from marketing, her take leaned commercial and current. Her deep knowledge of BookTok had inspired a project based entirely on readers’ demands.
Jeremy was a classic sci-fi and fantasy guy. Big Terry Pratchett fan. Definitely an interesting direction for Caruso. His version would be charming and wholesome, just like Jeremy.
May adored cozy fantasy and was obsessed with the found family dynamic aboard the HMS Samurai. Her version would be full of talking animals and aimed at a slightly younger audience.
Then John spoke. I tried so hard not to roll my eyes, I thought I might give myself an aneurysm. Of course he went the popcorn-cinema route: high-action, military edge, fast-paced, forgettable.
When it was my turn, I hesitated. I mentioned my inspirations—Brazil, Blade Runner,Alien—but also said I wanted to keep that vintage sci-fi charm, à laFlash GordonorForbidden Planet.
What I purposelydidn’tsay was that my Captain was a woman. It felt weird that in this day and age—when we’ve finally gotten a female Doctor Who—I’d be the only one to go there. But if that was going to be my unique angle, I’d keep it close to my chest. At least until we had to post our blurbs on social media at the end of the week.
John had hung on my every word like he didn’t already know my elevator pitch. By the time we wrapped up the mandatory introductions, my nails were chewed to a tragic state.
Charlene went on to explain how the week would work.
Writing would start tomorrow at 7 a.m. Each day, there’d be a coaching session, optional social activities, then dinner—and our stories had to be submitted by midnight Friday.
After that, our blurbs would be posted online for the public to vote on which one they’d most want to read. Social media presence, apparently, was part of the whole deal. I grimaced. There was a reason my fan fiction moderator profile was anonymous.
After that, each manuscript would be judged on five criteria: writing quality, character, plot, pacing, and world-building. Haller & Mark editors would rate every entry, and the combined scores from the panel and the public would determine the top three moving to the next round.
“We want to see how your work fits into the future we envision for the Lew Elliot series,” Charlene said, munching on a slice of pizza. “Remember, it doesn’t have to be perfect yet. Some of you got more notes than others.”
She rested a hand on the ominous stack of folders in the center of the table.
“Just do your best.” She smiled, dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin, and finally began handing out our revision notes.
I didn’t even finish chewing. I bolted upstairs.
Chapter Seven
