Chapter 6
Chapter Six
I’d rather be in an X-Files fanfic than here.
John Kater is just like the rest of us.
And is in no way—even slightly—hot.
“Sorry, am I late?”
He stepped into the cabin with heavy thuds, shook snow from his coat, hung it and his scarf on the rack, then offered the group a polite smile.
I felt like I’d lost twenty minutes of time. Like I’d been abducted by aliens and plonked back down, missing the crucial part that explained where and how John Kater fit into this scene. Was he another organizer? Had his car broken down and he was just here to borrow a phone like it was 1992?
Wait—were we in 1992? Would Mulder and Scully bust in and interrogate me in a sexy, intense way?
Rewind.
Any of those explanations were better—far better—than the one that popped, unwelcome and terrifying, into my head.
But… that couldn’t be.
One after the other, the rest of the group excitedly shook John’s hand or kissed him on the cheek.
“Nora, you ok?” May, the older contestant, touched my shoulder. “You’ve gone all pale.”
Before I could respond—or faint—John turned to me and held out his hand.
“Hi, I’m John.” His large fingers closed around mine.
I wanted to say something. Like, I know, because the last time I saw your face, you were lying to me and ditching my manuscript like it was trash. Or maybe, Oh hey, John. I’m the woman who really wants to stab you right now.
But before I could crush his fingers into dust, he said, “And you are?”
What in the actual fuckery?
I waited for the punchline. But his expression was sincere.
I was shocked he didn’t burst into flames from the rage radiating off me.
He forgot me? After what he pulled—making me pitch my work in front of an entire crowd like a contestant on Middle-earth’s Got Talent?
Of course. Just another Tuesday for him.
I was still holding his hand. Still hadn’t decided whether to call him out or play along.
Jeremy made the choice for me.
“Looks like someone’s a little star-struck,” he said, clapping me on the back.
I yanked my hand away like it burned. “That’s not—”
“This is Nora.” Jeremy spoke for me like I was a five-year-old meeting Mickey Mouse, and it blew my tiny brain. “We’re all so excited to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Nora.” John smiled. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. I could swear I saw a dimple. He flexed his hand. Apparently, I hadn’t broken it. Tragic.
Whatever his expression was, it quickly shifted into something I could only call a press-smile.
Jeremy launched into how much he adored John’s last series.
“Positively splendid.” And Elaine didn’t hold back her praise for his work.
And how crazy it was that we were all competing for the same thing now.
And how wonderful this week was going to be.
I wanted to throw up.
He really was here to compete. New York Times bestselling author John-freaking-Kater.
When Haller & Mark said everyone had a chance, they weren’t kidding.
“Please don’t feel like I have any kind of advantage,” John said, hands in his pockets. “My books are very different from Lew Elliot’s work.”
No shit.
“And the panel will have no idea who has submitted them,” John spoke to the room as if he was holding a TED Talk about how humble he was.
May crossed her arms and leaned toward me, her dangly earring catching the light. “Who is that guy?”
I liked her.
The fog in my brain cleared—replaced by something sharp and furious. I tried to calculate how little sleep I could survive on this week. Tried to remember the last time I read one of his books. Tried to figure out what the hell his angle was.
I caught him staring. Those eyes—dark, almost black.
He looked away first.
He wore a thick cable-knit sweater that looked like it cost more than my rent. The sleeves were rolled up just enough to show off the same fancy watch he wore to comic con. His hair was slightly disheveled, damp from the snow, one strand melting onto his forehead.
Elaine stepped closer, laughing at something he said. Her hand brushed his arm. If she wanted to keep him busy this week, then by all means—be distracting, tiny model.
“Anyone have any dietary restrictions?” Charlene asked, right as the cork popped from a bottle of wine she was holding.
But I’d already turned back to the stairs. “I’ll go find a room,” I mumbled.
And just as I started up the steps, I met John’s eyes again.
And promptly tripped over my own feet.
I swore under my breath and hurried the rest of the way up, cheeks burning.
The first empty room was the size of my studio: a cozy small double bed with cream-colored cushions, a desk with an old green reading lamp, a cedar wardrobe, and a bookcase. Its window overlooked swooping pine hills that were nauseatingly beautiful.
I shut the door behind me and collapsed onto the softest bed I had ever touched.
Then I texted Otis.
John Kater is here. I repeat. J Douchebag K. is IN the competition. This is NOT a drill.
Three dots appeared.
Two words. Pepper spray.
I snorted, kicking off my boots. The clatter of kitchenware echoed from below.
More dots.
Also—WTF.
I know.
I demand a full report of every second. Starting with: what’s he wearing?
Stop lusting after random men. He’s the enemy, remember?
Honey, the fact that you’re denying yourself the pleasure of looking at his flaming hotness is your cross to bear.
Also, yes. He is a terribly naughty man. He should be punished.
I rolled over and stared at the ceiling, a single thought stuck on loop:
What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.
My phone buzzed again.
I believe in you. You’ve got this.
Then another text popped up right underneath:
Remember to be nice to people.
I barely picked at my food while Charlene rattled off the agenda she’d scrawled on the chalkboard behind the kitchen door. My concentration had seen better days—mostly because my treacherous eyes kept drifting back to John.
Every time our eyes met, he looked away. Sharply. Then he went right back to chatting with the others like nothing had happened.
It shouldn’t have bothered me. He probably met a hundred new people every week. And yet, I felt dismissed. Insulted, even.
We each shared a bit about what brought us here. Elaine came from marketing, her take leaned commercial and current. Her deep knowledge of BookTok had inspired a project based entirely on readers’ demands.
Jeremy was a classic sci-fi and fantasy guy. Big Terry Pratchett fan. Definitely an interesting direction for Caruso. His version would be charming and wholesome, just like Jeremy.
May adored cozy fantasy and was obsessed with the found family dynamic aboard the HMS Samurai. Her version would be full of talking animals and aimed at a slightly younger audience.
Then John spoke. I tried so hard not to roll my eyes, I thought I might give myself an aneurysm. Of course he went the popcorn-cinema route: high-action, military edge, fast-paced, forgettable.
When it was my turn, I hesitated. I mentioned my inspirations—Brazil, Blade Runner, Alien—but also said I wanted to keep that vintage sci-fi charm, à la Flash Gordon or Forbidden Planet.
What I purposely didn’t say was that my Captain was a woman.
It felt weird that in this day and age—when we’ve finally gotten a female Doctor Who—I’d be the only one to go there.
But if that was going to be my unique angle, I’d keep it close to my chest. At least until we had to post our blurbs on social media at the end of the week.
John had hung on my every word like he didn’t already know my elevator pitch. By the time we wrapped up the mandatory introductions, my nails were chewed to a tragic state.
Charlene went on to explain how the week would work.
Writing would start tomorrow at 7 a.m. Each day, there’d be a coaching session, optional social activities, then dinner—and our stories had to be submitted by midnight Friday.
After that, our blurbs would be posted online for the public to vote on which one they’d most want to read. Social media presence, apparently, was part of the whole deal. I grimaced. There was a reason my fan fiction moderator profile was anonymous.
After that, each manuscript would be judged on five criteria: writing quality, character, plot, pacing, and world-building. Haller & Mark editors would rate every entry, and the combined scores from the panel and the public would determine the top three moving to the next round.
“We want to see how your work fits into the future we envision for the Lew Elliot series,” Charlene said, munching on a slice of pizza. “Remember, it doesn’t have to be perfect yet. Some of you got more notes than others.”
She rested a hand on the ominous stack of folders in the center of the table.
“Just do your best.” She smiled, dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin, and finally began handing out our revision notes.
I didn’t even finish chewing. I bolted upstairs.