Chapter 4
Logan
I check my watch for the fourth, or fortieth, time this hour. Six minutes. Six minutes until Rilla Pine arrives.
Or doesn’t.
As relieved as I was to get her text on Saturday night, part of me still expects her not to come at all. I’m sure she’d have a good reason. She might get taken hostage in a bank robbery or carried away by a stampede of wild boars. I wouldn’t put either scenario past her. I’ve only met her once, but something tells me wherever this girl goes, chaos follows close behind.
Yet, she doesn’t seem to mind it in the least. She’d landed in my office late and doused in coffee like she didn’t have a care in the world. Unapologetic and unbothered. Her indifference to the first impression she was making was remarkable. She couldn’t care less what I thought of her.
My eyes are drawn to her forgotten scarf that sits folded on the edge of my desk. It’s been there for weeks, a constant reminder that she didn’t make good on her word to schedule a follow-up meeting. The red wool material suited her. Fiery and abrasive.
The office phone rings and I answer.
“Ms. Pine has arrived.”
Well. I stand corrected.
“Thank you, Ingrid. Please send her down,” I tell her before placing the phone back into its cradle and standing. I contemplate putting my suit jacket on, but decide my dress shirt is fine. After all, there is a decent chance my guest will barge in covered in marinara sauce and speaking in tongues.
Glancing at my watch I’m surprised to see that she’s not only here, she’s two minutes early.
I cross my office to open the door to find Rilla standing on the other side. If I hadn’t been expecting her, I’m not sure I would have recognized her. She’s different today. Her hair, worn up at our last meeting, is down, falling well past her shoulders. Volume-filled curls that appear to be the exact shade of brown as her eyes. She’s in a simple long-sleeved shirt and jeans this time, her winter coat draped over her arm as she holds a coffee cup in each hand.
Beyond her change in appearance, she comes across as though she’s feeling more comfortable than the last time she was here. She seems completely relaxed and in her element.
The small smile she gives me looks forced, but she’s not baring her teeth at me so I take it as a win.
“Morning, Logan. Coffee?” She extends a coffee cup to me and I take it from her, involuntarily brushing her fingers as I do. I meet her eyes briefly before she looks away.
“Thank you,” I say, clearing my throat. “Please come in.”
She walks past me and I smell a faint scent of something sweet. It’s not strong enough to be perfume. Maybe the soap she uses, or her shampoo? The scent is familiar, but I can’t quite place it. She sets her coat down on a chair and then sits in the one next to it. I close the door and walk around the desk to my chair. I expected her to come in with her fists raised, ready for battle, so I want to proceed with the utmost caution.
“I appreciate the coffee.” I pause. “I trust that you haven’t poisoned it?”
“If I were going to kill you, Logan, I’d choose a much more violent method.” She deadpans with a wink. “In all honesty, I bought two in case I spilled one on myself again.”
I feel the corners of my mouth involuntarily curving upward. Her timing and delivery are impeccable. If writing doesn’t pan out for her, she would probably do great at improv.
“That’s a very practical approach.”
She says nothing, but the look she gives me implies she wasn’t looking for my opinion on the matter.
Her eyes narrow as she spots her scarf on the corner of my desk.
“You forgot that the last time you were here,” I say, nodding at it.
She gives me a rather disdained look, as though she suspects me of stealing it so she’d need a reason to come back. “So I did. Thank you for holding on to it for me.” Her light tone doesn’t match the hardness of her glare.
Okay.
“Have you given any thought to what was discussed the last time we met?” I hate tiptoeing around what I’m trying to say, but I don’t know how else to proceed. The woman has shown that she does not react to criticism well, regardless of how constructive it is. I note she’s made no apology for agreeing to set up a follow up meeting and then ghosting me for weeks.
I watch her jaw tense and brace myself. She may not care about what I think of her, but her book? It’s clear that she cares very much about that.
Rilla looks at me for a long moment before bringing her coffee cup to her mouth and gently blowing on it. I ignore the way my chest tightens at the sight of her full, puckered lips. She may be a mess, but she’s a stunning one. Wide eyes and high cheekbones that make me want to grab a sketchbook and draw her, despite having zero artistic ability. She takes a sip from the cup before bringing it back to rest on her crossed legs.
“I can understand how you could perceive a few small gaps with the storyline. I believe I can fill them in without jeopardizing future storylines and character arcs. With that said, some of the changes that you requested will interfere with the main and sub plots for the subsequent novels in the series.”
This is going to be like pulling teeth.
“I can work with that,” I say with more enthusiasm than warranted. At this point, I have to take any crumbs she decides to throw in my general direction just to keep the conversation moving. “Why don’t we start with what we can fix?”
She raises a wary eyebrow at me. “Nothing is broken. Let’s use the term ‘adjust.’”
Well, now she’s just being petty. Frustration needles me and I arch an eyebrow right back at her. “We’re not going to get very far if you keep interrupting me to criticize my choice of verbs, Rilla.”
Her eyes widen in mock surprise and she tilts her graceful neck ever so slightly to the side. “Now Logan–are you telling me you don’t enjoy having your words picked apart and judged?”
Touché.
The muscles in my jaw tense involuntarily and I force myself to relax them. “Not at all. Let’s start over. This is your manuscript, so why don’t you run point on this?”
Her face scrunches in distaste. “I don’t follow football, nor do I understand the terminology.”
“Basketball,” I correct.
“Same thing.”
“Very different, actually.”
She shrugs. “Agree to disagree.”
What?
“How can you possibly disagree with me on that? They are completely different sports.”
She takes another long drink from her coffee before shrugging again. “If you say so.”
“I do say so. Everyone says so. Basketball and football are different sports. This is not up for debate.”
“And yet, here you are debating me about it.”
Jesus, she’s right. I’m sitting here arguing with her like a fucking child.
But she started it. Wow, I really just illustrated my own point perfectly there.
I close my eyes and take a deep, centering breath. I’m not a person who is easily rattled. I was raised to always keep my emotions in check and to be professional at all times. But five minutes with this woman and my blood pressure has skyrocketed. As I exhale through flared nostrils, I open my eyes and find Rilla watching me with the smallest of self-satisfied smiles.
She’s been irritating me on purpose. And I played right into her hands.
I sit back in my chair and force my face into what I hope is a neutral expression. “Where would you like to start?”
She leans forward and places her empty coffee cup on the edge of my desk. Then, after kicking off her hiking boots, she pulls her long legs underneath her on the chair, resting one elbow on the armrest while she appears to think my question over. “I think the most sensible place to start is with the civil unrest amongst the elves.” She runs her thumb over her full bottom lip while she mulls it over and my breath hitches.
Christ. She is beautiful. I find myself tuned into her every move, every slight change of expression on her face. My body may react to her like she’s a living fantasy, but thankfully my mind recognizes her for the walking nightmare she is.
She pushes her hair back from her face and meets my eyes again. “I’m not saying I need to change anything, but I admit that some aspects could be filled in and others tightened up.”
This is as close to a collaborative compromise I’ve gotten with her in the months I’ve been attempting to work with her. Fuck it. I’ll take it.
“Alright then,” I say, accepting my fate and settling in for a very long afternoon. “Let’s get to work.”