The Write Off: An Enemies To Lovers Romantic Comedy (Love In 2C Book 3)

Chapter 1

Rilla

“You’re going to be late.” Betty looks positively stricken at the thought. Her green eyes plead with me as she bustles around the kitchen, tidying up the mess I made making my lunch.

“According to whom?” I ask before returning my gaze to my phone. “Time is a human-made construct. Einstein once said, ‘The past, present, and future are only illusions, even if stubborn ones.’ At any given moment I could be considered on time, late, or even early.”

I watch my friend approach out of the corner of my eye. She drops my leather messenger bag in front of where I’m sitting and leans down so she’s at eye-level. Her stare is intense and I focus on her freckled nose instead. “Well, Einstein also said ‘If you don’t move your ass, you’ll be late for your first meeting with your editor.’”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “I’m pretty sure Albert Einstein never said that.”

“Well, it’s too bad he’s dead.” Her smile is equal parts maniacal and angelic. “Guess we’ll never know. Move. Your. Ass.”

“Okay, okay.” I offer no resistance as she hauls me to my feet. She’s several inches shorter than me, but deceptively strong. “I don’t remember you being this scary before you started sleeping with my brother.”

“It must just be a positive side effect.”

I take my winter coat from the closet and shrug it on, then sling my bag over my left shoulder. Grabbing my scarf I head for the door. “Wish me luck.” The bright red scarf feels constricting, more like a noose as I wrap it around my neck.

My oldest, dearest friend throws her arms around my waist and hugs me tightly. I typically only hug people when I’m drunk and respond by awkwardly patting her on the head.

“You don’t need luck, you just need to—”

“Move my ass. Yeah, I got it, St. Claire.” I head down the hallway feeling suffocated by the wool scarf and the meeting that looms above me.

“You’re sure you remember how to get to the publishers?”

“I’ve lived here for six weeks; I’m not a tourist anymore. His office is four blocks that way.” I confidently point both my index fingers in the direction of the elevator doors as I walk away from her.

“It’s four blocks that way,” she corrects me, motioning in the opposite direction.

“That’s what I meant.” It’s not what I meant, but I’m sure I would have figured it out. Eventually.

I give her a final wave and disappear into the stairwell. I let my feet hit each stair heavily, like I’m marching to my doom as I stomp my way down to the main level of my building. I’ve already started to sweat in my wool coat and I speed walk through the lobby and out into the brisk February air. I inhale deeply, enjoying the burning sensation that spreads through my lungs, before exhaling through pursed lips. The white air curls around my face like a 1920s starlet.

I walk quickly on the freshly salted sidewalks. I don’t want to go to this meeting, but I can’t put it off any longer, and despite my earlier actions I actually don’t want to be late. You know, first impressions and all that bullshit. Given the number of emails we’ve exchanged, I’m sure Logan Carmichael has already made up his mind about me.

I know I have about him.

In the six months the man has been my editor, we’ve found very little common ground. I miss Tanya, my old editor. She got it. She understood and shared my vision. So far, Logan has only pointed out the flaws.

The man wouldn’t know a good fantasy novel if it bit him in the ass.

I arrive at Hilltop Plaza, still feeling like I’m overheating. It must be a combination of the heavy coat and the ridiculous silk blouse and blazer Betty insisted I wear.

It’s not because I’m nervous. I don’t do nervous.

As I peel off my coat and scarf on my way to the elevator, I spot a coffee shop in the corner of the lobby. I’ve only had three cups today and could use a pick-me-up to make sure I don’t fall asleep in my meeting. I’ve spoken to Logan on the phone several times, at his insistence. The combination of his baritone voice and his complete lack of a personality makes him the human embodiment of a white noise machine.

“What can I get you?” the bored-looking teen asks from behind the counter.

“A small black coffee, please.”

He gives the almost empty coffee carafe a sideways glance. “I made that a while ago. I can make a fresh pot if you’ve got a few minutes.”

“I really don’t.” I wince, checking the time. “My meeting starts in two minutes. As long as you haven’t spit in it, it’s fine. Hell, even if you have spit in it, I’m good.” I pay for the coffee while the kid prepares my to-go cup. He passes it to me, and I accept it absent-mindedly as I check the time again.

1:59 p.m.

I thank him and quickly turn on my heel. Too quickly.

“Watch it!”

With lightning speed I pivot to avoid the man standing directly behind me. In my panic I tighten my grip on the paper cup, causing the lid to pop off and the contents to fly right at me. It sloshes up and hits me in the chest, like a sniper’s kill shot. Letting the cup drop from my scalded hand, I attempt to hold the blouse away from my chest to prevent my skin from being burned by the hot liquid.

“You should be more careful,” the middle-aged man says unhelpfully. “You almost spilled coffee on me.”

I stare at him, momentarily unable to respond. He’s got a spare tire and a hairline that looks like it’s about to throw in the towel. His eyes remain glued to the coffee stain on my blouse. When he doesn’t look away, I begin to suspect that he’s not looking at the stained shirt, but more how the doused fabric clings to my breasts.

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll work on that.”

I gratefully accept a stack of napkins from the annoyed coffee shop kid, who waves away my attempts to help clean up the spill. “Don’t you have a meeting to get to?”

Shit.

During the short elevator ride I attempt to clean myself up with the napkins, but I’m fighting a losing battle. The blouse is stained beyond repair. I’ll have to buy Betty a new one.

C’est la vie.

The doors slide open and I walk into a reception area, shoulders back, head held high. I smile broadly at the slack-jawed receptionist.

“Rilla Pine for Logan Carmichael.” When the young woman doesn’t respond to my words, I add, “I’m his two o’clock.” She pastes on an unconvincing smile and directs me down a narrow hallway. The fluorescent lighting in this place is starting to make my head ache and I desperately wish that I was drinking my coffee instead of wearing it. When I reach the office at the end of the hall, the gold nameplate on the partially open door confirms I’ve reached my destination.

Here we go.

“Knock knock,” I say without actually knocking as I enter the office. The man sitting behind a large desk looks up at me and the joke I’d been planning to lead with evaporates into nothingness. Thick dark hair and eyes to match. Broad shoulders, broad chest, broad everything. A jawline like I’ve never seen outside of a movie theater. He’s beautiful. Like, actually, objectively beautiful.

There is no way this man is Logan.

“You’re late.”

It’s Logan. I’d recognize that deep voice and boring tone anywhere.

“Ah,” I say as I regain my momentarily lost senses, “but according to Tolkien, wizards are never late. They arrive precisely when they mean to.”

His expression doesn’t soften. His dark eyes flit to the mess that is my shirt and then return to my eyes without a trace of humor. “Do you think you’re a wizard?”

“What? No, it’s a Gandalf quote.” I don’t bother waiting for him to extend an invitation to take a seat. Draping my coat and scarf over the back of a padded armchair, I collapse into it with a sigh. We’re past decorum here and I just want to get this over with. “How are you, Logan?”

He briefly glances at my ruined blouse again before cocking an eyebrow at me. “Better than you, I imagine.”

“What this?” I point to my chest with a shrug. “This is nothing. Just your average Thursday afternoon for me.”

“Today is Saturday.”

“Is it?” Huh. Now that I think about it, that checks out. Why else would Betty be around to mother me into making it to my appointment on time? Not that it helped in the end.

If Logan is attempting to mask the look of disdain on his face, he’s not trying very hard. “Let’s get right to the point.” He leans forward in his chair, his forearms resting on the desk. “You have been less than receptive to my requests for changes to Of Cinder And Sand.”

More like demands.

“That’s because I disagree with them.” I fight to keep my tone light and unaffected. “The changes you requested are not only unnecessary, they also interfere with several storylines planned for future books in the series.”

“There aren’t going to be future books in the series if you don’t fix the flaws with the first one.”

“Your perceived flaws with the story are nonexistent. I have a plan.”

“A plan you refuse to share with me.”

“Why would I share it with you just to have you shit all over it?” The air between us is thick with hostility as we both try to incinerate the other with our glares. He looks away first, running a large hand through his perfect head of hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a sigh. “I’m not being fair to you.”

Wait—what? He looks genuinely remorseful, but I’m not ready to take off my armor yet.

“Look,” he levels me with his blunt gaze. “The company loves your novel, but they won’t move forward with the release until they’re completely happy with it. And right now they’re not. They offered it to me because they think I can help you take it from good to great. But in order to do that, we need to learn how to work together. Can you work with me, Rilla?”

A swell of heat starts in my stomach and travels south when he says my name. I squeeze my thighs together in a vain attempt to make it go away.

“I can try.”

He considers me for a long moment before giving me the slightest of nods. “It’s a start.” Without breaking eye contact, he leans back in his chair. “Why don’t you take the weekend to work on the points outlined in my last email. We’ll meet first thing next week and tackle each issue, one at a time until we can come up with an outcome we’re both happy with. Agreed?”

Why do I feel like I’m making a deal with the devil?

“Agreed.”

“Great.” He pushes himself back from the desk and we both stand. God, he’s even bigger than I thought. I’m five foot eight and he towers over me as he hands me my coat on the way to the door. “You can make an appointment with Ingrid on your way out.”

“Will do.” I linger in the doorway, trying to think of a witty one-liner to exit on. I’ve got nothing. “I will see you next week.” I turn and start to walk down the hallway.

“See you then. And Rilla?” I turn to see him leaning against the doorway, his hands in his pockets. “Try to be on time?” The first glimpse of his sense of humor flashes momentarily in his eyes before he disappears back into his office.

I retrace my steps back down the long hallway, putting on my coat as I go. He’s somehow not what I expected and exactly what I expected at the same time. As I’m rounding the corner, I realize I don’t have my scarf. Shit. I walk quickly back to Logan’s office, pausing before I get there at the sound of his voice.

“I’ve got another meeting in ten minutes and then I’m done for the day.” Silence. “Yes, I can work that in early next week. I’ll put it on my schedule now.” He must be speaking to someone on the phone. Maybe I should just get my scarf another day. “No, I just finished meeting with Rilla Pine.” My ears perk up at my name and I linger outside his office, unable to help myself. “She’s…” He pauses before letting out a heavy sigh. I stop breathing entirely. “She’s a bit of a mess.”

I don’t stay to eavesdrop on the rest of his conversation. I storm down the hallway breezing right by Ingrid’s desk, and head straight for the elevator. I can’t believe I was even considering making compromises for that asshole. I hit the button for the lobby with more force than necessary.

The rickety bridge that we just built is officially on fire and I won’t rest until it’s nothing but smoke and ash.

I’m a mess? Oh, Logan. You have no fucking idea.