Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“Plus Dog likes to sleep on the couch sometimes,” I explain easily. “You were in his way.”
She smiles. “Right, well, I won’t make a habit of falling asleep down here.” Then she looks down at her notes. “Now, add two minutes to the timer.”
“There is no timer.”
She rolls her eyes. “I was being facetious.”
“We never did address the chocolate. Aren’t you even going to apologize?”
She lets her true feelings show for a second but then tucks them away and steadies her smile once again. “Yes, I’m sorry. I’ll get you a new one. Now will you please focus? I don’t think you’ve sent us a draft or summary for book three. Is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“Where are you with the story?”
“Haven’t started.”
Her eyes widen in alarm. “You mean you haven’t started writing? Or you haven’t started an outline?”
“Either or. Doesn’t matter.” I point at the booklet. “What do you have in that thing?”
She shakes her head as she looks down at it, answering with an impatient tone. “Notes. Descriptions. Names. Everything.” Then she looks up at me with an imploring gaze. “Why haven’t you started?”
Why is the sky blue? Why do McDonald’s fries taste better than Burger King’s? Why do I wake up every morning with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach?
These seem like questions better aimed at someone else. God, perhaps. Or at least a shrink.
When I don’t give her a reply, she grabs a pen and quickly uncaps it then recaps it, over and over again, pushing it up and back down with the tip of her thumb while she thinks. I can’t help but feel like she doesn’t fully understand the severity of the situation she’s walked in on. She seems to think this can be solved if only we put our heads together, if only we try harder.
“Did InkWell tell you I worked with the same editor on The Last Exodus and Echo of Hope?” I ask, using the question as bait to see how much she knows.
“Yes, sure.” She frowns in confusion. “Someone mentioned her. Elaine something? She left to work at Black House after Echo of Hope. They poached her.”
Black House is InkWell’s biggest competitor. I still can’t believe Elaine jumped ship and joined the enemy.
I clear my throat and look at a spot just over Summer’s shoulder. “Yes, right. Without getting into the gritty details of all that, Elaine was by my side through the first two books. She had a huge hand in my success.”
Summer nods eagerly as if I’m going to continue on. I’m not. Surely the ten minutes is up.
I scoot back my chair.
“So what? She’s gone and you need a new editor. InkWell has sent quite a few your way, right? Noel and Kent, and who was the other one?” She’s rushing now, trying to keep me hooked on her line.
“Suzanne,” I supply.
“Suzanne. And now me.”
“And now you. Time’s up.”
I take a last big gulp of coffee as I stand and take it to the sink.
“What do you mean time’s up? Nate! We have to work.”
“No, actually we don’t. Not today.”
I head toward the back door. I don’t have a specific task on my agenda, but around here, there’s always something that needs doing, even in the dead of winter. Upkeep on a place like this is a full-time job. At least, I make it one. That way I can avoid the big looming problem hanging over my head. The problem Summer seems so intent on fixing.
“I have a supervisor, you know. People who want to know how I’m spending my time! I can’t just hang out in this cottage all day, wiling away my life like—”
I turn around and aim daggers at her. “Like me?”
She gulps and looks down. I know she regrets her words, but they’re already out there, a bullet flying through the air.
“Seriously, just…sit down.” Her tone is gentle now; she’s trying to salvage this. “Let’s figure this out.”
“What do you not understand?!”
“Nothing apparently!” She explodes, matching my energy. “You make no sense! You blew up at me the other day about the fan mail. Is it the pressure from the readers? Because if it is, we can—”
I don’t let her finish the sentence. I whip open the door and leave without even grabbing my coat. I don’t care to go back and get it. I don’t even feel the chill anyway. I’d rather sit out in my shed all day than confront the conversation Summer’s trying to have with me. I won’t do it. I’ll call Patrick. God, the temptation is there. It’d be so easy to walk away. I could tear up the contract and pay back the advance. I haven’t touched the money. In fact, I’ve kept it in a high-yield savings account that’s been earning me interest. What do I need with more millions?