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“Apologies,” I said, my voice stiff. I tried my best to ignore the tingle on my palm.
“It’s fine.” Isabella touched her wrist, her expression distracted. “Has anyone told you that you talk like an extra fromDownton Abbey?”
The question came from so far out of left field it took a moment to sink in. “I…awhat?”
“An extra fromDownton Abbey.You know, that show about the British aristocracy during the early twentieth century?”
“I know the show.” I didn’t live under a rock.
“Oh, good. Just thought I’d let you know in case you didn’t.” Isabella flashed another bright smile. “You should try to loosen up a bit. It might help with your piano playing.”
For the second time that night, words deserted me.
I was still standing there, trying to figure out how my evening had gone so off the rails, when the door closed behind her.
It wasn’t until I was on my way home that I realized I hadn’t thought about the CEO vote or its timing once since I heard Isabella in the piano room.
CHAPTER 4
Isabella
“Mom asked about you the other day,” Gabriel said. “You only come home once a year, and she’s concerned about what you’re doing in Manhattan…”
I frowned at the half-empty page in front of me while my brother rambled on. I already regretted answering his call. It was only six a.m. in California, but he sounded alert and put together, as always. He was probably on his office treadmill, reading the news, replying to emails, and drinking one of his hideous antioxidant smoothies.
Meanwhile, I was proud of myself for rolling out of bed before nine. Sleep proved elusive after last night’s encounter with Kai, but I’d thought that maybe, just maybe, the strange experience would be enough to jar a few sentences loose for my manuscript.
It wasn’t.
My erotic thriller about the deadly relationship between a wealthy attorney and a naive waitress turned mistress formed vague shapes in my head. I had the plot, I had the characters, but dammit, I didn’t have the words.
To make matters worse, my brother was still talking.
“Are you listening to me?” His voice was laced with equal parts exasperation and disapproval.
The heat from my laptop seeped through my pants and into my skin, but I barely noticed. I was too busy devising ways to fill all that white space without writing more words.
“Yes.” I selected all the text and cranked the font size up to thirty-six.Much better. The page didn’t look so empty now. “You said you finally consulted a doctor about a sense of humor implant. It’s experimental technology, but the situation is dire.”
“Hilarious.” My oldest brother had never found a single thing hilarious in his life, hence the need for a sense of humor implant. “I’m serious, Isa. We’re worried about you. You moved to New York years ago, yet you’re still living in a rat-infested apartment and slinging drinks at some bar—”
“The Valhalla Club isn’tsome bar,” I protested. I’d endured six rounds of interviews before landing a bartending gig there; I’d be damned if I let Gabriel diminish that accomplishment. “And my apartment isnotrat-infested. I have a pet snake, remember?”
I cast a protective glance at Monty’s vivarium, where he was curled up and fast asleep. Of course he slept well;hedidn’t have to worry about annoying siblings or failing at life.
Gabriel continued like I hadn’t spoken. “While working on the same book you’ve been stuck on forever. Look, we know you think you want to be an author, but maybe it’s time to reevaluate. Move home, figure out an alternate plan. We could always use your help in the office.”
Move home? Work in the office?Over my dead body.
Bitterness crawled up my throat at the thought of wasting my days away in some cubicle. I wasn’t making much progress on my manuscript, but caving to Gabriel’s “solution” meant throwing away my dreams for good.
I got the idea for the book two years ago while people watching in Washington Square Park. I’d overheard a heated argument between a man and someone who obviously wasn’t his wife, and my imagination took their fight and ran with it. The story had been so detailed and fleshed out in my mind that I’d confidently told everyone I knew about my plans to write and publish a thriller.
The day after I witnessed the argument, I bought a brand-new laptop and let the words pour out of me. Except what came out at the end wasn’t the shimmering diamond masterpiece I’d envisioned. What showed up were ugly lumps of coal, so I deleted them.
And the pages remained blank.
“I don’tthinkI want to be an author; Idowant to be an author,” I said. “I’m just exploring the story.”
