Chapter 5
Rilla
Click.
Click click click.
Click.
Click click click.
Logan sits calmly at his desk, completely at ease, reading over part of my manuscript on his computer screen. All the while, he clicks his pen.
It’s not always the same number of clicks, but there does appear to be a rhythm to it. Morse code maybe? Is he sending an encrypted message? Sharing my manuscript secretly with pirates? Whatever it is, this form of psychological torture is about to break me.
Click click click.
“Have you considered changing Cyprian’s response to Annora’s defense of the elves?” Logan asks, interrupting my thoughts. Considering that I was wondering if I could plead insanity if I took the pen and attacked him with it, it’s probably for the best.
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t think his reaction suits his character. I’d expect him to be more empathetic to the elves’ cause. He’s the hero type, as well as the romantic lead.”
Oh, Logan, my pretty pawn.
“Is he, though?” My tone is all innocence and it causes him to tear his eyes away from the screen and focus on me.
“Isn’t he?” His usual stoney expression is filled with doubt. I fight to keep a straight face, but my inner self is jive dancing.
“I suppose.” I take a long sip of my coffee as my eyes scan the office. It’s nicely decorated, but not over the top. The only thing on the walls is his degree which is mounted in a frame that looks more costly than my monthly rent. There’s a single photo frame on the desk, but it’s facing away from me. Wedding photo? He’s not wearing a ring. Kid?
When I’m done judging my surroundings, I find his gaze again and add, “For now.”
He stares me down and I stare back, unblinking. I’m not sure how much time passes, but if he wants to win a staring contest, he shouldn’t have challenged someone with an older brother and a stubborn disposition.
“You’re planning on changing Annora’s love interest?” He says it plainly enough, but there is a spark of surprise on his face.
“Of course.”
“Since when?”
“Since always.”
“But…” He runs his long fingers through his thick, dark hair. “You’ve clearly framed Cyprian to be the love interest.”
I try to keep the mocking edge out of my tone. “I’m not sure how many books you’ve edited, Logan, but have you ever heard of a plot twist?”
The left corner of his mouth curves up. “Of course I’ve heard of a plot twist, Rilla. I just didn’t see that one coming.”
Satisfaction floods my body like a post-sex endorphin rush. “Well, I think that means I’m doing it right.”
“I’d have to agree.” He’s impressed. I’m not sure why that pleases me so much, but it does.
“Don’t beat yourself up. It’s not going to happen until halfway through book three.”
“Right.” He leans back in his chair, scratching the side of his jaw. There’s a hint of dark stubble in stark contrast against his complexion. “A six book series. A lot can happen before you wrap that up.”
Believe me: A lot does.
“How detailed are your outlines for each novel?”
“Extremely.” It’s kind of the truth and I don’t feel the need to elaborate further.
“I keep forgetting that there’s a much bigger picture to keep in mind.”
“Well, of course. It’s the same with most fantasy novels.” I don’t tell him that I’d originally plotted the Primordial series to consist of eight novels before condensing the storylines until they fit into six. The series spans almost a decade and I didn’t want it to feel dragged out.
He’s back to frowning at his desktop screen. “I guess I haven’t read many.”
Excuse me?
“I don’t understand.”
He looks up, one dark brow raised. “You don’t understand what?”
“What you meant by the words that your mind formed and your mouth spoke.”
“This isn’t the genre I typically work in. Bryce said that you were aware of that.”
“Well, get the fire department on the line, because his pants are on fire.” I unfold my legs and push myself up to stand. I place both hands on his desk and lean in. “Are you telling me you’ve never edited a fantasy novel before?”
He doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Mild confusion is all I’m reading on his annoyingly handsome face. “Yes, that’s correct.”
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. My brain is broken. Logan has broken my brain. I start to pace around the small office, letting my inner monologue have free reign with every negative inner thought that’s been just waiting to be heard.
They gave my book to someone who doesn’t understand the genre.
“Rilla?”
They don’t care about it enough to give it a fighting chance.
They are setting me up for failure.
“Rilla?”
Why? Why would they buy my manuscript if they had no intention of having it succeed?
My parents will buy copies. My handful of friends. Everyone will tell me that it’s good. They’ll praise my creativity, my dedication to finishing it.
“Rilla?”
But they won’t mean it. I’ll amount to exactly what everyone has always expected from me: nothing.
I hear Logan talking, but his low voice is drowned out by the static in my ears. I know I should try to understand what he’s saying, but I am too busy trying to keep up with my racing mind. I feel like I’m chasing it, breathlessly like Alice chased the White Rabbit down into Wonderland.
I’m still moving aimlessly around the office until I stop in my tracks. Or I should say, I’m stopped in my tracks. I’ve run into the brick wall that is Logan Carmichael. I stare up at him, his normally stoic expression showing traces of concern.
“Are you okay?”
“No.” I take a step back, putting some much needed distance between us. “No, I’m not okay. Seven years. Seven years I’ve given to this series. I’ve sacrificed my twenties writing novels no one will read. I put my faith in a publisher that promised to take care of my manuscript like it was their firstborn, and what did they do instead? They gave it to a man who not only thinks I’m a mess, but doesn’t know the first thing about fantasy.”
Suddenly, I’m unsteady on my feet. I feel as though the ground might rise up to say “hello.” I wobble my way to the chair and collapse into it.
I need a solution. An escape plan. I could break my contract with them. It might be messy and will likely cost me a lot of money, but it’s better than just letting them steam roll me.
“You heard me?”
I look up and find him perched on the corner of his desk, regarding me. “What?”
“You heard me the day we first met. I was on the phone and I called you a mess.”
“That’s what you’re choosing to focus on?” I force an incredulous laugh. “Yes. I heard you. And I wasn’t eavesdropping, just so you’re aware. I realized I forgot my scarf in your office and was coming back for it.”
“I’m sorry you heard that.” He says it so simply. Like he’s saying “Good morning,” or commenting on the weather.
“Not sorry you said it?”
“Rilla, you’d shown up in my office covered in coffee and ready for battle. I’d never met someone so instantly hostile towards me. I half-expected you to challenge me to a wrestling match.” He leans forward, his hands resting on his knees. His proximity to me, the nearness of him, overwhelms my already overwhelmed state. So much so that I want to lean back in my chair, but I don’t.
“Maybe it was my intuition telling me that you don’t know anything about fantasy novels. What is your usual genre, Logan? Historical fiction? True Crime? Dinosaur Erotica?”
“That last one isn’t real.”
“It very much is, but that’s beside the point,” I huff.
“Look, it’s very common for editors to explore books from other genres. I mostly work with mystery and thrillers, but I wanted to broaden my horizons. Yours wasn’t the first fantasy manuscript I was offered, but it was the first one I connected with. Something about it…it hit differently. I wanted to work on your book. I still do.” Maybe it’s the sincerity in his dark eyes or what looks like genuine concern on his face, but I believe him.
“I thought you didn’t like it,” I hedge, doubtfully. “The book.”
“Well, then I haven’t been communicating effectively at all. The book is extraordinary, Rilla. Truth be told, it was the first thing to come across my desk in months that made me feel something.”
“What did it make you feel?” I lean forward in my chair, practically begging for scraps that will make me feel valued.
He arches an eyebrow. “Does someone need their ego stroked?”
Prick. I choose to ignore the way my core clenched at the way he said “stroked.”
“Yes, Logan. I’m a temperamental artist. We’re essentially house cats. Pet me, feed me, and tell me I’m pretty.”
He huffs a laugh, resting his hands on the tops of his thighs. “I like that the story isn’t clear cut. You’re able to demonstrate the points of view of all the parties involved in the conflict so well that you’re not entirely sure who to root for. I myself found my loyalties changing often. Your characters are not one-dimensional. They’re complex, even very early on. I mean, I thought I had a fairly firm grasp on where things were headed, but you’ve just informed me I don’t.”
He really doesn’t. But I like that he wants to. The man should be a hostage negotiator. This is the second time in as many encounters he’s brought my boiling temper to a simmer with a few sentences.
“The battles are realistic, the interpersonal conflicts are compelling, and the sex scenes are…” The muscle in his jaw flexes and I find myself leaning forward in my chair, desperate to hear what will come out of his mouth next. He clears his throat. “Stirring.”
I’ll take stirring.
“I admit that I don’t have any experience with fantasy novels, but I do have lots of experience. I’ve been the editor on dozens of novels that are now best sellers. I do know what I’m doing.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t.”
“You did, not three minutes ago.”
“No, I said you didn’t know anything about fantasy, which you admitted to yourself.”
He sighs again. The man looks beyond frustrated and almost ready to accept defeat. I wanted so badly to break Logan, but now that I’m succeeding, it’s not the payoff I thought it would be.
“I’ll step down, if it’s what you want. You’ve spent years on the book and you deserve to have more of a say in who helps you get it to the finish line. I will tell Bryce that he should find someone else, with your input this time. He won’t be thrilled, but I’m sure he’ll make it work.”
For the last six months, all I’ve wanted was a new editor, but this doesn’t feel like a win. It feels like failure. Like quitting.
And I don’t quit.
“That won’t be necessary,” I say, straightening in the chair. “You don’t know much about the genre, but you seem invested and quite frankly, I don’t feel like breaking in someone new.”
“Are you sure?”
“Always.”
A relieved smile flashes on his face so briefly I wonder if I imagined it. A moment later, he’s schooled his features back into their usual controlled state.
“Alright,” he says, moving around his desk and sitting back down in his leather chair. “Back to the elven unrest.” His brow furrows as he looks from his screen to me. “Just to clarify, dinosaur erotica isn’t really a thing, right?”
“You’ve got a lot to learn, Logan.”