Chapter 13
Logan
“You killed him?”
The gray-haired man sitting across from me doesn’t look up from the New York Times Crossword he’s puzzling over when he answers. “You told me to raise the stakes.”
Tossing the manuscript across the diner table, I pick up my now empty cup of coffee. “I meant for you to increase the tension. Build the suspense. Not start killing off main characters.”
Stuart gives me a sheepish smile. “Change is good.” A waitress approaches the table and he gives her a grin that is surprisingly boyish for a seventy-six-year-old man. “Florence, could we get a refill on our coffees, dear? Maybe switch my young friend to decaf.” He whispers the last part, earning a giggle from Florence and a scowl from me.
“Regular is fine, thank you.” I reach for the thick stack of paper and start thumbing through it again. Stuart is the only author I work with who gives me physical drafts. It used to irritate me, but I’ve come to appreciate the simplicity of ink and paper. I like leaving physical notes in the margins with my red pen like a grade school teacher. It’s surprisingly satisfying. “Don’t you think your readers are going to be upset when they find out that you’ve killed off their favorite constable?”
“Sometimes the story that needs to be written isn’t the story people want to read.” Stuart has returned his attention to his newspaper. The collar of his heavy flannel shirt is flipped up on one side, making him look slightly disheveled. I know if I were to point it out he’d tell me that’s how he likes it. He frowns at the paper in front of him. “‘Animated British piglet of kids TV.’ Five letters.”
“Peppa,” I answer without hesitation. Anna went through a major Peppa Pig phase a few years ago. At one point, she spent half her time speaking with a British accent. “Your publisher is more concerned about what people want to buy.”
This earns me a guffaw. “Since when have sales been a concern, Logan?”
He’s got me there. The grandfatherly man has turned out two detective mystery novels a year for the last two decades, and every one of them has been a bestseller. I read my first Johnny North novel when I was fourteen years old and it changed my brain chemistry. Suspenseful storylines that keep you on the edge of your seats with twists and turns that rival Agatha Christie. One of the primary reasons I started working at Thompson And Daye was because Stuart Maxwell was on their roster. I never thought that just a few years later he’d not only be my most important client, but also my mentor and best friend.
One would think that a guy in his twenties would not have much in common with one in his seventies and they would be wrong. Stuart and I have very similar tastes in books and television shows. We follow the same sports and cheer for the same teams. And now that I’m in my thirties, I’d much rather share an early dinner and a conversation with my good friend than go to an overcrowded bar with a bunch of people my own age.
College had been painful for me. Once I switched majors, I enjoyed my courses, but the social aspect felt like a never-ending job interview for a position I was not qualified for. I could show up to parties, drink the flat beer, and damage my eardrums from the unrelenting bass-filled music, but I couldn’t pretend I was enjoying it.
I can’t laugh at something I don’t find funny, and I’ve never been able to act like I care about something I don’t. With Stuart, I don’t have to.
“I just want to keep your fanbase happy.”
“Sometimes people don’t want to read something that will make them happy; just something that will make them feel.”
The heavy manuscript drops back to the table with a thunk. “Someone’s feeling very philosophical this morning.”
“And someone else seems even more uptight than usual.” He pauses for a moment when Florence returns with hot coffee. “What’s wrong, Logan? Stop me when I guess it. You’re having difficulty sleeping? Suffering from gastrointestinal discomfort? Are you sexually frustrated?”
I choke on the fresh coffee I’m attempting to swallow, coughing and sputtering as it burns my esophagus on its way back up. I watch Florence and Stuart exchange a knowing look as though they’ve discovered the root of my problem.
“Who is she?” he asks, finally moving his newspaper to the side and giving me his full attention.
“She isn’t…there isn’t anyone…I’m not…” I feel my protests would hold more weight if I weren’t coughing my lungs up while struggling for air.
“How long has it been since you and Viper broke up?”
“Her name was Piper.”
“She dumped you two weeks after your brother died. Viper suits her better. Now, that was well over a year ago, if I’m not mistaken. She must have done a number on you.”
“Hardly.” While it’s true Piper could have waited for the dust to settle after Eric’s untimely death, she didn’t break my heart when she packed her things and left. If anything, her presence was one less thing to worry about. I was already working sixty-hour weeks. Throw in the fact that I was doing everything I could to support Shannon and the kids, I didn’t have time for anything else.
Our three-year courtship was mostly built on convenience. We were introduced by our mothers at a charity dinner. She was completing her residency in obstetrics, working long hours and often on call. We had little in common aside from coming from medical families and having hectic work schedules. We saw one another when we were both free and didn’t get upset at how infrequent that was.
One mutually beneficial perk of being in a relationship was that our parents stopped attempting to set us up with other romantic partners. We lulled them into a placid state where they felt their children were on the path to marriage and children. They didn’t care if we were happy, just that we were settled.
“You haven’t met anyone since?” Stuart’s question brings me back to the present.
“No, I haven’t. But I also haven’t been looking.” I haven’t had the time, nor the inclination. If Piper taught me anything it’s that I don’t want to be with someone for the sake of being in a relationship. The next time I date someone it will be because I want to.
I’m not sure why, but the memory of Rilla laughing at the bar pops into my head from out of nowhere.
“Well, maybe it’s time you used those eyes for something other than reading books. Speaking of which, how are you and that new writer getting along? You appear to still be in one piece, so that’s promising.”
Sometimes the man can read my mind.
The last time I met Stuart for coffee, things were not going well with Rilla. I’d spent the better part of our meeting venting my frustrations to him, much to his apparent delight. “Excellent, actually. We got off to a rocky start, but I think we’ve worked through it. The revisions for her first novel are pretty much complete. She’s one of the most talented writers I’ve ever worked with. I know that you’re not a fan of fantasy novels, but the world she’s built, the characters she’s created, and the story she’s telling? It’s brilliant. She’s brilliant. You’d love her.”
I drink my coffee, thinking about how happy she’d looked after our meeting with Bryce last week. Well, after the Bryce part of the meeting. She’s sent me some updates on her revisions as well as several memes, most of which I did not understand.
“Well, that is a surprising turn of events.”
“You’re telling me.” I check my watch and see that it’s almost noon. I hadn’t planned on eating lunch here, but I’m starting to get hungry. I pick up one of the menus Florence left for us and start to look it over.
“So you like her?”
“I do.” I’m only half paying attention to him, distracted by my increasing hunger.
“Is she around your age?”
“No, she’s in her mid-twenties.” I wonder what the daily lunch special is today.
“Pretty?”
“Beautiful.”
“Single?”
“I’m not sure. Wait. What?” I look up from the menu to find Stuart looking at me expectantly.
“You’ve met a brilliant, beautiful, age-appropriate woman that you like. Why haven’t you asked her out?”
I stare at him blankly. “I’m her editor. That would be inappropriate. Unprofessional at best.”
“Lots of people in relationships work together. Besides, you said you were pretty much done with the book. You don’t have to continue working together if it makes either of you uncomfortable.”
“I…a relationship?”
“Sure.” He rests his elbows on the table as he leans forward. “You said you like her.”
“I do like her.” I like working with her. Talking with her. Looking at her. Hell, I even enjoy arguing with her. I’ve never met someone who challenges me like she does. She says what she feels and doesn’t apologize for it.
In truth, my attraction towards Rilla is an unforeseen distraction that occupies my thoughts more with every moment we spend together.
“Do you think she likes you?”
Attempting to figure out what’s going on in Rilla Pine’s mind is like trying to cross an active minefield on the back of a seasick elephant. It’s dangerous and messy.
Yes. I think she does like me. I could be projecting and maybe she just considers me a work friend. An ally in an industry full of Bryces. But lately our back-and-forth has bordered on being flirtatious.
“It’s possible,” I admit. “But liking me and wanting to be in a relationship with me are not necessarily the same thing.”
Rilla is a free spirit. A live grenade in human form. She probably dates rock stars or entire biker gangs, not guys with an app on their phone that reminds them which of their house plants needs to be watered on what days.
“I’m not telling you to show up at her door with a dozen roses and a ring.” Stuart chuckles as he sips his coffee. “But you like her and you think she likes you. Maybe explore that outside of work. Ask her to do something. See what happens.”
I can’t believe I’m considering taking dating advice from a man who was alive before Queen Elizabeth the second ascended the throne.
“What would you suggest?”
“Does she like hockey?”