Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
“So, Noah, why don’t you go ahead and tell Georgia—and Ava, of course—why they should trust you with Scarlett Stanton’s unfinished masterpiece,” Chris urged.
I blinked. “I’m sorry?” I was here to take delivery of the manuscript. Period. That had been the only condition of me nearly jumping out of my skin to say yes. I wanted to be the first to read it.
Adam cleared his throat and sent me a pleading look.
Was he serious?
“Noah?” His gaze darted meaningfully toward the women.
Guess so. I was caught somewhere between laughing my ass off and scoffing. “Because I promise not to lose it?” My voice pitched up at the end, turning my obvious statement into a question.
“Comforting,” Georgia remarked.
My eyes narrowed.
“Noah, let’s step out into the foyer,” Adam suggested.
“I’ll get everyone some drinks!” Ava offered, rising quickly.
Georgia looked away as I followed Adam through the French doors of the drawing room and into the vaulted entryway.
The house was modest for what I knew of Stanton’s estate, but the craftmanship in the woodwork of the crown molding and the banister of the curved staircase spoke for both the quality of the build and taste of its previous owner. Just like her impeccable, captivating writing had been detailed without falling into frilly, the house felt feminine without stumbling into the floral-print-from-hell category. It was understated and elegant…reminding me of Georgia, minus the temper.
“We have a problem.” Adam ran his hands over his dark blond hair and gave me a look I’d only seen once before—when they’d found a typo on one of my covers that had already gone to print.
“I’m listening.” I folded my arms across my chest. Adam was one of my closest friends and as level-headed as they came in New York publishing, so if he thought we had a problem, we did.
“The mother led us to believe that she was the daughter,” he blurted.
“In what way?” Sure, both women were beautiful, but Ava was easily a decade or two older.
“In the who-has-the-rights-to-this-book way.”
My stomach threatened to heave up my lunch. Now it made sense—the mother wanted me on the book…not Georgia. Holy shit.
“Are you telling me that the contract we’ve spent weeks negotiating is about to fall apart?” My jaw clenched. I hadn’t just made time for this project, I’d canceled my entire life for it, come home from Peru for it. I wanted this damn book, and the thought of it slipping through my fingers was inconceivable.
“If you can’t convince Georgia Stanton that you’re the perfect author to finish the book, then that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“Fuck.” I lived for challenges, spent my free time pushing my mind and body to the limit through rock climbing and writing, and this book was my mental Everest—something to push me outside my comfort zone. Mastering another author’s voice, especially one as beloved as Scarlett Stanton, wouldn’t just be a professional feat, either. There were personal stakes for me here, too.
“Pretty much,” Adam agreed.
“I met her earlier today. She hates my books.” Which didn’t bode well for me.
“I gathered that. Please tell me you weren’t your usual asshole self?” His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Eh, ‘asshole’ is a relative term.”
“Awesome.” His tone dripped sarcasm.
I rubbed the skin between my eyebrows as my mind raced, thinking of some way to change the mind of a woman who’d obviously sealed her opinion of my writing long before we’d met. I couldn’t remember the last time hard work or a little charm hadn’t gotten me something I wanted this badly, and it wasn’t in my nature to back down or concede defeat.
“How about I give you a minute or two to gather your thoughts, and then you come back in with a miracle?” He slapped my shoulder and left me standing in the entry while Ava puttered in the kitchen.
I slid my phone from my back pocket and dialed the only person I knew would give me unbiased advice.
“What do you want, Noah?” Adrienne’s voice came in over the cacophony of her kids in the background.
“How do I convince someone who hates my books that I’m not a shit writer?” I asked quietly, turning toward the office doors.
“Did you really just call so I could stoke your ego?”
“I’m not kidding.”
“You’ve never cared what people thought before. What’s going on?” Her voice softened.
“It’s ridiculously complicated and I have about two minutes to figure out the answer.”
“Okay. Well, first, you’re not a shit writer, and you have the adoration of millions to prove it.” The background noise quieted, as if she’d closed a door.
“You have to say that—you’re my sister.”
“And I’ve hated at least eleven of your books,” she responded cheerfully.
I huffed a laugh. “That’s an oddly specific number.”
“Nothing odd about it. I can tell you exactly which ones—”
“Not helping, Adrienne.” I studied the small collection of photographs on the table, mixed in with a variety of glass vases. The one shaped like an ocean wave looked to be hand-blown, and it sat beside the picture of a young boy probably taken in the late forties. There was another shot that looked to be a debutante ball…Ava’s, maybe? And another of a child who had to be Georgia in a garden. Even as a kid, she’d looked serious and a little sad, like the world had already let her down. “I somehow don’t think telling Georgia Stanton that my own sister doesn’t like my books is going to get me far.”