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

Chapter 2

Logan

My arms tremble slightly as my fingers grip the floor for stability. The burn starts to intensify in my core, and I concentrate on my breathing.

Inhale, two, three, four.

Exhale, two, three, four.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been holding the plank, but I would guess only a minute or so which means I have approximately two to go. I focus on maintaining proper form, keeping my body in a straight line from head to heels.

I don’t count the seconds, instead focusing on my heartbeats. Strong, steady pulses that vibrate in my chest, reminding me I’m alive.

The urge to drop to the ground grows stronger but I push through, determined to meet my goal. Time seems to slow down as I hold this position, every muscle engaged in a power struggle with gravity. As beads of sweat form on my forehead, I go back to my breath.

Inhale, two, three, four.

Exhale, two, three, four.

The timer on my watch fills the otherwise quiet weight room and I sink to the floor, allowing myself to stay in my prone position for a few moments. After a few beats, I push myself up to stand, grabbing my phone and water bottle from a nearby bench and heading past the treadmills and stationary bikes on my way to the exit.

One of the reasons I chose this condo was the workout facility. It’s small, but it has everything I need, and the realtor assured me it was almost never used. I’ve had to share the room with very few people in the years I’ve lived here, mostly due to my early morning workouts.

Even this evening when I showed up just after six o’clock it was completely deserted. I’ve been increasingly irritable at the office as of late and I needed to work out some frustrations. While it’s not unusual for me to get overwhelmed with work from time to time, I find myself getting more worked up than normal and I’m painfully aware of the cause.

The Rilla Pine effect.

I check my phone as I walk to the elevator. No new messages. No missed calls. Sighing, I press the up button.

Two weeks of radio silence after she agreed to have a follow up meeting with me. I’ve spent the last week trying to get ahold of her and I’m losing what little fucking patience I have left for this woman.

As I’m entering my condo, my phone starts to vibrate in my hand. I know who it is before I look at the caller display. I let it ring a few times just to make him wait.

“Hello, Bryce.”

“Low-maaaan!”

Bryce Thompson is a forty-year-old frat boy with the likability of a cockroach. He’s also a publisher at Thompson and Daye. Yes, that Thompson.

Nepotism for the win.

When he messaged earlier today, I specifically said the only time I wasn’t available for a call was between six and seven o’clock. Naturally, he’s calling at six-fifty.

“So glad I caught you, my dude.” His voice sounds distorted and I assume he’s calling me while driving. “I’m on my way to dinner at Ornate. Have you been there lately? Apparently their new chef is lit.”

“No, not lately.” Truth be told I shared an almost wordless meal with my parents there two months ago. As with most meals with my parents, I couldn’t really taste anything except for their blatant disappointment.

“Look, man. I hung out with Aly earlier today and she asked about the sand book. I told her you had everything under control.” There is a weighted pause. “You do, right?”

The way he casually refers to the president of the company, Alyson Summers, like she’s his summer camp girlfriend sets my teeth on edge. I highly doubt they were socializing, but rather meeting to discuss work.

“I’ve been trying to set up another meeting with Ms. Pine, but have been unsuccessful so far.”

I hear his “tsk” on the other line and my grip tightens the phone.

“I need you to get this done, Carmichael. I can’t clean up your mess for you.”

I never should have referred to her as a mess, to Bryce of all people.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get it done.” I feel like I’m reassuring myself as much as him.

“You’ve got less than two weeks to work it out. I’ll have Tash work you both into my schedule and text you the deets. Lates.”

The line goes dead, and I’m left wondering how someone with such a limited grasp of the English language has such a high-ranking position in a publishing house before I remember that his grandfather founded it.

Tired, frustrated, and sweaty from my workout I decide to mull over my options in the shower, hoping the hot water will clear my cluttered mind. I’ve lost track of how many voicemails I’ve left Rilla in the last week. I even called her agent, Angie, to see if she could talk some sense into her.

What is her motivation for evading me? I admit, the fierce protectiveness of her manuscript is inspiring. It’s always difficult for a first time writer to give their work to someone to pick it apart. She doesn’t want it hacked up and sold for parts, and I respect that. But if she can’t learn to accept some constructive feedback, the book will never see daylight. Not with this publisher, anyway.

Not that I think for a moment that it won’t. I’d expressed interest in exploring other genres outside of my normal areas of expertise. Fantasy is dominating the market right now and I’d decided it was time to see what all the fuss was about. Rilla’s manuscript was one of a few that landed on my desk, but the minute I picked it up, all others were forgotten. I couldn’t put it down. I rearranged my schedule and canceled meetings so I could keep reading it.

I was shocked when I found out it was to be her debut. She writes like a seasoned veteran of the craft, not a novice. The world-building, the character development, the attention to detail. She could be the next big name in fantasy, and I eagerly accepted the opportunity to work with her. But after our first correspondence, it appeared that my enthusiasm over our collaboration was one-sided. She’s been less than receptive to most of my suggestions, and to be honest, I’m running out of time and ideas.

Talent or no talent, she’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of Fenway Park. While her work is good, exceptional even, it’s not without flaws and the people in charge want some things fixed. They made my role clear: Get the necessary changes made. Keep the author happy. This is what I need to do if I want to secure my promotion.

And I’m getting the goddamn promotion.

I step out of the shower, feeling a renewed sense of urgency as I towel myself off. There is a message from Bryce’s admin, Natasha, with a meeting date and time. Grabbing my phone off the counter, I make the call.

Once again, I get her voicemail. Shocking.

“Hello, Rilla,” I say, not hiding my aggravation. I’m beyond that. “It’s Logan Carmichael. Again.”