Chapter 4
4
I almost wonder if he has a twin. We’ve never shared personal information, obviously, so I would never know if Scott has an identical sibling who lives in North Carolina. Who loves Elytheum enough to dress in an elaborate costume.
Yes, it makes perfect sense. Perfect sense they would be opposites, even. Wasn’t Lord Valance’s late brother considered everything Val wasn’t when they were young, leading Val to emulate his sibling’s nobility when the elder was slain? Lord Resten was upstanding, where young Valance was cunning. Not-Scott evidently values the greatest fantasy series ever written, where his benighted brother doesn’t.
I venture closer. I look hard, my heart sinking.
No. No sibling switcheroo.
It really is Scott. My Scott.
How? His absence from work checks out. His excuse doesn’t. He said he was going to a friend’s wedding. And, I remember, when I strode eagerly into my supervisor’s office eight hours ago, pitching my weeklong adventure as research in case we ever want to organize something like this for one of our titles, she didn’t say she’d already sent Scott.
He’s here, and he’s kept it a secret from everyone. Not just from me. Why?
Concentrating on the question instead of the displeasure of seeing him, I walk closer, curiosity compelling me.
More proof it’s really Scott waits for me. I notice he looks—out of place.
I mean, of course he’s out of place. He looks like he knows it , though.
His costume is right, I’ll grant him, sinisterly formal with the vaguely period flair of Elytheum. Yet the man inside looks like he’s…posing. He’s standing with stiffness his leather pants do not entirely explain. He holds his jaw tight, his eyes on the middle distance in wistful, wary concentration.
When Scott joined Parthenon, I thought we could be friends.
Until Scott made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with me. I’ve been rejected romantically probably hundreds of times. But rejected for friendship ? That was a new low, even for me.
The weeks went on, and I couldn’t help standoffishness in the office. Scott returned the same, which was entirely unnecessary and unfair given he was the one who rejected me .
Ultimately, I found myself grateful we never got closer. I quickly realized how incompatible we are.
Namely, I realized how disdainful Scott is of the stories I love. I’ve unashamedly used my work at Parthenon to promote and legitimize my favorite genres. Why shouldn’t romance and fantasy get the prestige marketing and universal renown general and literary fiction does? There’s nothing wrong with loving them, and many, many readers do.
Then along came Scott. From his first grimace when I invoked Elytheum, or The Crimson Rose , or Iron Clad —I don’t even remember—to repetitions of how he “didn’t get the hype,” he’s waged petty war on my passions, my fandom, for the past year.
I could have gotten over Scott rejecting my overture of friendship. I really could have, even when his conversational manners left much room for improvement. I could have patched up my pride and determined to make aloof colleagues with my new coworker.
What I cannot forgive, however, is Scott rolling his eyes whenever I would summarize my newest reading obsession to Amelia in the pre-meeting minutes in the conference room. Or murmuring how people shouldn’t just read one genre when I presume to push two romantasy titles in one month.
When I prevailed in my yearlong campaign to push Elytheum to the top of our colleague Raymond’s Tbr, only for Raymond to come in on Monday raving about Val and Kethryn’s first night together, what did Scott say? Repetitive.
How dare he!
Now the pain in my professional ass props one foot up on the dining hall bench. Leaning forward awkwardly—like he’s recovering from leg day at the gym—he’s engaged in, well, flirtatious conversation with the woman next to him. She’s pretty. Her Western Court costume is perfection.
I can’t even enjoy the pained exertion in Scott’s posture, or admire the details of his counterpart’s cloak. His very presence, not to mention his chatting with attractive other guests, feels vindictive. Uninterested in fantasy and then intruding on mine? Pick one, please.
Frustration rises in me, urgent and uncontrollable. On the drive down, I’d really hoped this week could provide the healing respite I needed from the end of another relationship. I just wanted to forget the embarrassment, the hurt, with my favorite escape from reality’s disappointments. Now I’m supposed to let Scott ruin my real-life daydream?
No. I need to hold my ground. The way Kethryn would.
Steeling myself with the strength of the warrior queen, I march right up to him.
“I knew you didn’t have friends who would invite you to a wedding,” I say with no waver in my voice.
I’m gratified when Scott startles. Less when he immediately recovers—plastering on a smooth, oil-slick smile I’ve literally never seen from the precise and polished, notebook-obsessed marketing coordinator I know.
“So sorry,” he says to the Western Court woman. “Would you excuse me?”
The woman evidently intuits our conversation is not part of the Experience. She nods, slipping politely from our presence.
Scott’s gaze shifts back to me. He isn’t wearing his glasses, I notice. “What,” he says with controlled frustration, “are you doing here?”
I gape. “This is my favorite book series, Scott. What are you doing here?”
He shakes his head, stubborn. “No,” he insists. “When I arranged my time off, I was told you would be covering my titles.”
I take a deep breath, fighting to control my racing heart. I should be admiring the enormous, intricate map of Elytheum on the wall, or speaking to the character actors right now. It’s just utterly, damnably Scott to make a sticking point of who’s covering whose titles . Could you drop it for one minute, Sir Organization?
“My trip was very last minute,” I explain in exasperation. “Let me guess,” I go on. “You’re here for work research, but you were too embarrassed to admit it to everyone after insisting you would never get the Elytheum appeal. Finally realized you should pay attention?”
While Scott returns my glare, he has nothing to say in his defense. Finally, he looks away, which is perversely satisfying—almost enough for me to miss the unreadable flash of something crossing his features.
I also notice we’re unfortunately starting to draw stares. Even Val himself is watching us with interest I consider, frankly, not character consistent.
It robs me of fight, the perfect reminder of how Scott’s presence here cannot help messing everything up. “Forget it,” I say, hiding my impatience. “I’m here now. I’ll do the market research. You just—go home. Enjoy your week off.”
Not understanding the imperative, Scott eyes me like I’m some particularly neat handwriting in his fucking notebook.
“You want me to leave,” he clarifies.
“Obviously.” Now I know Scott hears the frustration in my voice. The Lord of Night over there probably hears it. “I came here to escape my ordinary life. To live out a fantasy. You do not fit in.”
When Scott’s eyebrows rise, I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. “I don’t fit into your fantasies?” he replies, sounding more amused than insulted.
“You’re the antithesis of my fantasies,” I inform him.
My irritation only increases when—instead of looking wounded, or perhaps combusting into nothingness like he’s been struck by a foul curse—Scott looks…interested? “How, exactly?” he asks me earnestly.
I narrow my gaze. I’m here for the Elytheum Experience, not the Scott Daniels Experience. No, every second I spend stuck in some ridiculous feud with him is stealing from the week I wanted for myself. I redirect. “Look,” I implore. “If you leave, it’s a win– win. I’ll share my ideas with you. You can even take credit for them. Just…go home, and let me enjoy my fantasy week.”
He regards me for a long moment, and I’m surprised to find he really looks conflicted. Despite the easy out I’m offering him, something keeps him in place.
Finally, he replies. “I…can’t.”
“You can’t ?” I repeat. “Why?”
“It’s personal,” he grinds out.
My eyes widen. Unfortunate as his arrival is, I’m curious now. The man I know is one-dimensional, an avatar of meetings and emails. Yet in this moment, Scott Daniels is wrestling with himself. It’s admittedly intriguing. “Are you here to enjoy the Experience? Are you secretly a fan?” I goad.
“No,” he replies without resentment.
“You do understand what this week is going to entail, right?” I charge on. “Whatever your personal reason, surely you can ignore it and go home.”
Finally, he sighs, defeated. “I wish I could,” he confesses. “But if my presence here ruins your week, Jennifer, then please, by all means, leave.”
I wish I could?
I don’t have the chance to decipher Scott’s inexplicable determination. Long horns, impressively designed to look sculpted of ivory just like in the series, held to the mouths of impeccably costumed court footmen, call the room’s eyes with deep, vibrating notes. With them, Kethryn steps onto the stage. Val follows her, evidently remembering himself despite my distracting work feud.
“Everyone be seated,” he orders. No please . Val doesn’t say please . Except, ugh, one incredible scene in Crimsonfell when—“Your queen wishes to address you,” Val interrupts my fan-spiraling.
I hesitate. Does part of me want to drag Scott into the courtyard and figure out why he’s really here so I can find a way to convince him to leave? Hm, I don’t know—do demons cherish shards of fae souls?
Yes. Yes, very much.
The greater part of me, however, refuses to forgo even a second of the once-in-a-lifetime Elytheum Experience.
Ignoring his cryptic remark, I turn from Scott and take my seat, ready to listen to my favorite character in real life.