Muses are hard to come by.
John Kater smells like a god.
Coffee is best ingested intravenously.
“This is doable,” I mumbled the next morning, staring at the post-it notes above the desk. Charlene had knocked on my door at a quarter to seven and handed me a fancy laptop that I would have to sadly return by weeks end. She glanced past me into the chaos of my paper-covered bedroom, raised a brow, and wished me luck.?
I’d taken a painting off the wall to make space for my twenty-chapter revision plan. I, in an attempt to be super organized and feel like a capable adult, had color coordinated the notes. By doing so, I’d turned the wall into a pride flag.
I’d read the folder with my name on it cover to cover. The first page was a letter from the board, thanking me for my proposal, listing what they loved, and—unfortunately—what needed to change. That second list? Much longer.
I wondered how long John Kater’s list was. Probably barely a page. His whole bestselling thing was an unfair advantage. And why was he even here? Didn’t he already have it all? Fame, money, a hot woman on his arm? Why take this chance from people who actually needed it? What a hypocrite—wasn’t this just fancy fan fiction, anyway?
A headache bloomed behind my eyes. I clenched my fist so hard my ballpoint pen cracked and inked my shirt.
Brilliant.
Time for fuel. I crept as quietly as I could out of my sanctuary and downstairs into the kitchen. My social anxiety sighed in relief when I found it empty. The air smelled of sweet, sticky pancakes. My stomach growled, but I ignored it. After some rummaging, I found a thermos.
“Ah, you’re making coffee. How considerate,” a woman said behind me.
I turned and nearly collided with May. I hadn’t even heard her approach.
I looked at the steaming coffee, then at her, then at the hallway. Then back at her.
A nice person would probably share. A person with better social skills than a cucumber would at least offer a cup. I remembered Otis’s words in the car.You aren’t nice to anyone.
“Plenty to share,” I said, hoping my fake smile didn’t look as scary as it felt.
“Your concept for the book sounds interesting,” May said, stretching to pick out a cup from the shelf.
“Thanks. So does yours.” And I meant it. Caruso was magic and should be for everyone. Having a book series aimed at children was a smart move.
“I’m not sure about Elaine’s direction. Or that John guy.” May filled her cup to the brim, then added an alarming amountof sugar. “I feel like I’m missing something. Is he someone I should know?”
I blew a strand of hair from my face. “Not really. Just a writer. Been on the bestseller list a few times.” I leaned in, whispering, “Highly overrated, if you ask me.”
The floorboards creaked behind us, and May’s smile dropped. I didn’t need to look. I felt the shift in the air, the heat of him at my side. His shoulder brushed my peripheral vision. My stomach flipped.
“Morning, ladies. Any coffee left?” That low voice of his tried to pull me in.
It somewhat succeeded because I turned.?
“Sleep well?” he asked, reaching past me to grab a mug from the shelf behind.
“Like the bed was made for me,” I said.
His brow arched, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’ve got something. Right there.” He tapped my nose before stepping back.
My hand flew up on instinct, then froze. Ink. My fingers were stained, and—judging by the look on his face—so was my nose. Fantastic. I probably looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.Thanks, May.
“So kind of you to point that out,” I said through gritted teeth.
The smirk was unmistakable.
As soon as I shut my door, I exhaled sharply. I could not let this man get to me. Not again. I was here for one reason: to make it to the next round. To prove I deserved to be here. That I was here because I was good.
I scrubbed my nose until the skin turned pink, then sat down, pulled on my cushy noise-canceling headphones, and queued up my rain app. Thunderstorm ambience. Fitting my mood perfectly.
