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

Chapter 11

Rilla

“Think you can remember all that, Kitten?”

I created a fictional universe with a complete history, geography, and ecology. I’ve developed dozens of characters of different species and races. I’ve plotted and written half a dozen novels with intricate, overlapping storylines.

I think I can handle a three-drink order.

Smiling as demurely as I’m physically capable, I say, “I’ll try,” before backing away from the three Chads who’ve claimed one of the prime booths. The bar is busier than I expected given the fact it’s Sunday. Maybe the February blahs are forcing people out of their houses. Sarah is on break and Phil is working in the back, so I’m manning the front on my own.

I avoid looking where Logan sits at the bar as I head back to it, but I feel his eyes on me. He was here when I got here, as if to show me he could be on time. In a show of maturity, I didn’t even make fun of him for it. Much.

“I may not have as much time to talk revisions as I thought,” I tell him as another two men enter the bar, stomping the snow from their boots as they do. I nod at them and tell them to sit anywhere.

“That’s fine,” he says, glancing at me and then scanning his surroundings. His dark brown hair looks a bit more unkempt today. Almost like he’s been running his long fingers through it. “The hockey game is about to start. Feel free to ignore me.”

Logan in a well-fitted crew neck sweater and jeans is very difficult to ignore. And the eyeglasses? Fuck me. Where did they come from? I wonder if they’re prescription or he just knows how they look on his already gorgeous face.

“Who are the Bruins playing?” I grab a glass and place it under a selection of draft beer. The liquid flows from the stainless steel nozzle like an amber waterfall.

“I thought you didn’t follow sports.” He’s taken out a Macbook Pro, but hasn’t opened it. I stare at it in disgust.

“You brought a laptop to a bar? This isn’t a Starbucks, Carmichael. You can’t write your screenplay here.” He ignores me, but the corner of his mouth quirks. “And I don’t follow sports, but I tolerate hockey. I will go to a Bruins game with my dad or brother once a year. I like it when the game turns violent.”

“Your bloodlust aside, I find it hard to picture you enjoying hockey.”

“Maybe you should stop picturing me so much.” I grab my tray of drinks and saunter away, knowing full well how these jeans make my ass look: Phenomenal.

“Hampus Lindholm wasn’t worth the money. We should have kept Torey Krug. Then we could have afforded some decent defensemen,” Chad number one is arguing to his friend when I arrive back at their table. He talks to his merry band of “I just bathed in Axe body spray” men using his hands, moving them in front of their faces like an illusionist trying to distract his audience from his next trick.

All three men fall silent as I approach. They look me over like I’m something they can buy. When you’ve worked in a bar for as long as I have you become an excellent judge of intentions. There are some customers you can have a friendly, even flirty, back-and-forth with, all in good fun. And then there are the guys that look at you like they’d like to chain you to their side wearing only a metal bikini like Jabba the Hut. These bros are Jabbas.

And I’m not about to be their Leia.

“Here is your Pilsner…this is your IPA…and a stout for you. Let me know if you need anything else,” I tell them, backing away. I don’t want to give them the same view of my ass I so freely offered Logan.

“Don’t go too far, Kitten,” their leader says, watching me as I go.

I retreat back to the safety of the bar, its tall oak structure acting as my trench and barricade. The two men that entered earlier have chosen to sit at the bar. I take their order, two Bud Lights, their eyes never leaving the highlights reel on the widescreen tv.

“Kitten?” Logan has opened the laptop and actually has the audacity to appear to be working on it. His narrowed gaze moves to the men in the booth as he raises his beer to his mouth.

“Are you implying I’m not a ‘Kitten?’” I feign offense. “I’m adorable and not above scratching someone’s eyes out if they piss me off. Don’t worry about me. I can handle Alvin and The Pimpmunks.”

Logan narrowly avoids doing a spit-take, setting his beer down and coughing out a laugh. I feel I’m seeing a different side of himself tonight. A crew-neck-wearing, relaxed version of Logan. I hate to admit it given how much I’ve lamented his very existence over the last several months, but I like it. He’s human.

And hot. Like, wow. So, so hot.

He wipes his eyes under his glasses. “So you have a brother?”

“I do indeed. He’s almost two years older than me. Lives in the apartment next to mine with the short girl you met at my place earlier. What about you? Any siblings?”

He takes a long pull on his glass of Pilsner and then sets it on the bar. “I had a brother. He died last year.”

“Logan, I’m so sorry.” Losing a sibling would be heartbreaking. I can’t imagine life without Josh. I don’t want to.

“Thank you,” he nods at me and looks back to his computer screen. “It was very unexpected.”

I’m dying to pry, but I don’t want to make him uncomfortable or sad. “Your niece and nephew? They’re his?”

“Yes. I help my sister-in-law, Shannon, a lot with them, especially on weekends. She’s a nurse in the emergency department of Boston Medical Center.”

“Oof. Being a single mom and a nurse has got to be tough. It’s great of you to help her.”

“It’s not a big deal. They’re good kids and I love hanging out with them. Plus, aside from work, I don’t do much on the weekend.”

I’m guessing there’s no girlfriend in the picture then. I file that tidbit of information away.

“Does she have any other support?”

“Not really. Her parents live on the west coast. They stayed with her for a month when Eric died, but they moved back after that. They visit when they can, but with her work schedule she needs more frequent help than they can provide.”

“And your parents? Are they around to help?”

“Around? Yes. Helpful?” he trails off with a chuckle. I know that the subject matter isn’t ideal, but I’m enjoying seeing Logan with his guard down. He’s normally all starch and protocol. I feel like I’ve gotten to know him better today than I have in the entire time we’ve worked together. “Anyway,” he drags a hand through that hair I’d so like to tug on, “maybe we should go over what you’d like to work on most before our meeting with Bryce.”

My shoulders sag as I would very much like to do anything but right now. “I guess my main issue is that they want me to change the elven revolution.” He starts to object, but I put a hand up to stop him. “I get it. From your vantage point it doesn’t add up, but if I alter it too much I’m going to have to rewrite half of the fourth book.”

He stops, his beer glass halfway to his mouth, eyes locked on me. “You’ve already written the fourth book?”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“I meant to say rewrite the outline,” I say, searching the bar for a customer who might need something. Any excuse to cut this conversation short.

Logan appears thoughtful as he sips his beer, his large hands easily wrapping around the glass. “Rewrites or revisions are all a part of the process. I’ve worked with authors who’ve added entirely new characters after several drafts of their manuscripts. That’s part of the beauty of what we do. You build something, change it, build it again. You shouldn’t feel like you’re handcuffed to a particular storyline several books down the road.”

My thighs contract involuntarily when he mentions handcuffs.

I nod, like I’m considering his point of view, when in reality, I’m desperately trying to clear my head of lewd thoughts.

“Hey. Kitten.”

I turn around to see the alpha-Chad standing at the bar. The way his eyes have to move up to my face tells me he’d been staring at my ass before I turned.

“Did you need a refill?” I ask with a strained smile.

“Not yet, but I want you to kill the music and turn up the tv. We want to hear the game.”

The large flat screen in question shows an in-progress game between the Boston Bruins and the Toronto Maple Leafs. It’s early in the first period and the Bruins are already up by one.

“Oh, that screen is like a 1950’s housewife: Meant to be seen, not heard.”

My joke lands flatter than his personality. “Well, we want to hear the game.”

And I want to spend my Sunday evening not placating a walking two hundred dollar haircut, but here we are.

“It’s not even hooked up to speakers.” I swear I might need to get out a dry-erase board and start drawing stick figures until this man-child absorbs what I’m telling him.

“For fuck’s sake,” he fumes. His body radiates frustration and instinct tells me to take a step back, but stubbornness wins out. “Why the fuck even have it?”

“Because people come to a bar to enjoy food, drink, and conversations. If you want to hear commentary and play-by-plays, you could have stayed at home.” Logan’s voice is deep and even. It calms my fight-or-flight response like a reassuring touch.

“Who the fuck asked you?” I can tell that Mr. “The Customer Is Always Right” isn’t used to being challenged. He squares his shoulders and puffs out his chest like the primates we evolved from.

“No one,” he answers lazily. “But you seem to have a problem and I’m offering a logical solution. If this bar doesn’t have what you want, find one that does or go home.”

“You can take your logical solution and shove it up your ass. Unless you think you can make me leave?” He starts towards Logan. From my peripheral vision I see his lackeys exit the booth. This is escalating quickly. I should run out to the back to grab Phil, but I don’t want to leave Logan alone with them. Before I can move, Logan closes his laptop and stands.

Logan sitting on a bar stool is impressive enough; when he stands to his full height, his broad figure is staggering. All three men stop in their tracks.

“I’m not going to make you do anything,” he says evenly. “I was merely offering a suggestion. You’re free to do what you like. Unless that happens to be harassing the people who work here.” His jaw hardens as he stares down at them. “That you cannot do.”

I try not to gape at what may have been the hottest thing I’ve ever encountered.

The ring leader glances back to his friends, who are giving him serious “let it go” vibes. Without another word, he pushes by them on his way back to his booth where he drains the rest of his beer, slamming the glass down on the table. He grabs his coat and heads for the exit, his friends not far behind. Before they reach the exit, one of them turns suddenly and speed walks back to the bar, wallet in hand.

“Come on, Chad,” his friend calls to him on his way out.

Chad drops two twenty dollar bills on the bar in front of me with sort of an apologetic nod before jogging away to catch his companions. He’s barely made it out of the bar when I double over laughing.

“I can’t believe one of the Chads is actually named Chad!” This might be the best day of my life.

“I thought you said Sundays were boring,” Logan says, eyeing me as I attempt to regain my composure.

“Logan…did you just make another joke?”

“Not intentionally.”

The confused look on his face sends me into another round of laughter and I lean on the bar to catch my breath. Logan watches me, looking as amused as I’ve ever seen him. I wipe my eyes as he starts to put his laptop away.

“I should get going. Do you think we could meet again before Thursday?”

Right. The dreaded meeting with Bryce. We really are on a deadline.

“I’m free tomorrow.”

“Ten o’clock, at my office?”

I nod, picking up the twenties the guy left on the bar. “I’ll see you then.”

He shrugs on his coat, but he doesn’t leave. After an extended pause he says, “Rilla, I apologize if I overstepped just now.”

“Are you kidding? That was amazing. I’ve never had my honor defended so valiantly. In fact, my ten-year high school reunion is coming up this summer. I’d love for you to come as my bodyguard. There are a few girls who were mean to me and you can overstep all over them.”

His mouth quirks, like it always does when I’m amusing him, but he doesn’t want to admit it. With a nod, he says, “Anything for you, Kitten.” And then he’s gone.