Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Muses are hard to come by.
John Kater smells like a god.
Coffee is best ingested intravenously.
“This is doable,” I mumbled the next morning, staring at the post-it notes above the desk.
Charlene had knocked on my door at a quarter to seven and handed me a fancy laptop that I would have to sadly return by weeks end.
She glanced past me into the chaos of my paper-covered bedroom, raised a brow, and wished me luck.
I’d taken a painting off the wall to make space for my twenty-chapter revision plan. I, in an attempt to be super organized and feel like a capable adult, had color coordinated the notes. By doing so, I’d turned the wall into a pride flag.
I’d read the folder with my name on it cover to cover. The first page was a letter from the board, thanking me for my proposal, listing what they loved, and—unfortunately—what needed to change. That second list? Much longer.
I wondered how long John Kater’s list was.
Probably barely a page. His whole bestselling thing was an unfair advantage.
And why was he even here? Didn’t he already have it all?
Fame, money, a hot woman on his arm? Why take this chance from people who actually needed it?
What a hypocrite—wasn’t this just fancy fan fiction, anyway?
A headache bloomed behind my eyes. I clenched my fist so hard my ballpoint pen cracked and inked my shirt.
Brilliant.
Time for fuel. I crept as quietly as I could out of my sanctuary and downstairs into the kitchen. My social anxiety sighed in relief when I found it empty. The air smelled of sweet, sticky pancakes. My stomach growled, but I ignored it. After some rummaging, I found a thermos.
“Ah, you’re making coffee. How considerate,” a woman said behind me.
I turned and nearly collided with May. I hadn’t even heard her approach.
I looked at the steaming coffee, then at her, then at the hallway. Then back at her.
A nice person would probably share. A person with better social skills than a cucumber would at least offer a cup. I remembered Otis’s words in the car. You aren’t nice to anyone.
“Plenty to share,” I said, hoping my fake smile didn’t look as scary as it felt.
“Your concept for the book sounds interesting,” May said, stretching to pick out a cup from the shelf.
“Thanks. So does yours.” And I meant it. Caruso was magic and should be for everyone. Having a book series aimed at children was a smart move.
“I’m not sure about Elaine’s direction. Or that John guy.” May filled her cup to the brim, then added an alarming amount of sugar. “I feel like I’m missing something. Is he someone I should know?”
I blew a strand of hair from my face. “Not really. Just a writer. Been on the bestseller list a few times.” I leaned in, whispering, “Highly overrated, if you ask me.”
The floorboards creaked behind us, and May’s smile dropped. I didn’t need to look. I felt the shift in the air, the heat of him at my side. His shoulder brushed my peripheral vision. My stomach flipped.
“Morning, ladies. Any coffee left?” That low voice of his tried to pull me in.
It somewhat succeeded because I turned.
“Sleep well?” he asked, reaching past me to grab a mug from the shelf behind.
“Like the bed was made for me,” I said.
His brow arched, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’ve got something. Right there.” He tapped my nose before stepping back.
My hand flew up on instinct, then froze. Ink. My fingers were stained, and—judging by the look on his face—so was my nose. Fantastic. I probably looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. Thanks, May.
“So kind of you to point that out,” I said through gritted teeth.
The smirk was unmistakable.
As soon as I shut my door, I exhaled sharply. I could not let this man get to me. Not again. I was here for one reason: to make it to the next round. To prove I deserved to be here. That I was here because I was good.
I scrubbed my nose until the skin turned pink, then sat down, pulled on my cushy noise-canceling headphones, and queued up my rain app. Thunderstorm ambience. Fitting my mood perfectly.
But as the sound of rain started to swell in my ears, my shoulders began to relax.
Notebook? Check.
Pencil? Check.
Timer? Forty-minute sprint. Let’s go.
I closed my eyes, counted to twenty, then dove in. I wrote, deleted, cursed. Rewrote, threw notes and clawed my way through revisions until my bladder was ready to mutiny and the growl in my stomach couldn’t be ignored.
The snacks I’d hidden in the dresser were demolished. I stretched my arms, blinking at the dark window. The classy clock on the bookshelf read 12:07 a.m.
How?
I shook my head, eyes blurry. I had to continue but—
I’d hit a wall. My story just... stopped.
King once said, Go find your muse.
Lew Elliot’s muse was probably haunting these halls. I pictured him now— fuzzy slippers, tartan robe, sipping scotch by the fire.
Sleep was an option. But let’s be real—if there was ever a time to stalk the halls of my literary idol, it was now.
The moonlight streamed through the ceiling windows, casting a ghostly glow. I eased open my door and crept into the hall.
First stop: the massive bookshelf lining the downstairs hallway. I swept my phone flashlight over the spines. Fantasy. Sci-fi. A wall of literary legends I’d trade my left kidney to own. Gorgeous leather-bound editions. Even a signed first edition of The Lord of the Rings.
That book alone could’ve paid off Mom’s mortgage.
Dad would’ve lost his damn mind over this collection.
One in particular caught my attention. An acid green abomination. Earth’s Core, John’s book. But when I pulled it off the shelf, I noticed the spine wasn’t cracked and the pages were pristine. Judging by the worn condition of the other books, Elliot didn’t usually treat his novels with such care.
I know I’m petty, okay? But the idea of John Kater’s smug face lighting up at seeing his book on a much superior writer’s shelf annoyed the hell out of me. I slipped it under my arm and turned toward the cozy-looking living room.
Dying embers glowed in the fireplace. A half-empty wine glass with a lipstick stain stood forgotten on the solid oak coffee table. Next to it, an empty whiskey tumbler. Pillows were squished, blankets draped lazily over the furniture.
Looks like I missed a party.
It should’ve bugged me. But it didn’t. I knew the feeling well—being on the outside looking in. Like graduation night, when I stayed home to take care of Mom, because the absence of Dad was bigger than any pride she might have felt for me.
I wandered around the room, testing out different chairs, squishing my behind into the cushions as if trying to find a place that belonged to me. It was eerily quiet in the woods. Middleton was small, sure, but never silent. This quiet felt…loud. Overwhelming almost.
Wherever my or Elliot’s muse was, he/she/they weren’t here. I walked back, noticing an outline of a picture that must have recently been removed. Probably something too personal.
I grabbed a leather-bound copy of Elliot’s final book from the shelf and headed toward my room, hoping for some margin notes, when—
The door next to mine creaked open.
I froze.
Moonlight spilled over broad shoulders. Shadows cut across a sharp jawline. His shirt pulled taut across his chest. John looked as if he'd been caught breaking a rule. But only for a moment. When his dark eyes focused on me, he raised a brow.
“H… hi,” I stammered. Because saying nothing would’ve been worse. After, you know, the staring.
“Hey.” His voice was rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. His eyes flicked over my face. Then he leaned back against his closed door, hands slipping into his pockets, like he was settling in for a conversation.
He opened his mouth to speak, but I blurted, “Nice chat. Good night.” And reached for my doorknob.
“Can I…” His hand touched my arm—not forceful, just enough to freeze me in place. The rest of the sentence died on his lips.
I turned toward him. “Yes?”
His hand dropped, leaving a warm tingle behind. “You weren’t at dinner. We haven’t really had a chance to talk, and I’m—”
“I know who you are.” The sharp words slipped out before I could stop them.
He gave a tight nod. “Right. And I know you know.” It sounded almost exasperated. “I wanted to apologize for being late yesterday.” His jaw tightened.
God, he was insufferable. It was a miracle he and his ego fit into this hallway—which, now that I noticed, was pretty cramped with the two of us standing this close.
I took a half-step back.
His eyes dropped to the books I was holding. Crap.
I quickly shifted them behind my back.
“What’ve you got there?” His chin tilted toward me.
I took a breath—which unfortunately meant inhaling him. Woodsy and musky, with hints of leather and pine. He smelled… stupidly good.
“Nothing,” I said, backing away another step. “Stuff.”
“Stuff?” He stepped closer. The suspicion in his voice was almost playful.
I couldn’t let him see the book. His book. He’d think I was some weird fan-girl creeping around in the middle of the night for John Kater memorabilia. Like coffee cups or used tissues. Which, now that I thought about it, would probably do well on eBay.
I shook my head. “Random, unimportant things. Why? Am I under arrest?”
My bare feet hit the wall behind me. I’d literally backed myself into a corner.
There was the ghost of a crooked smile before it vanished again. Or maybe I imagined it.
He stopped when his feet brushed mine. “I’m not a cop, as you know. But if you’re stealing things from Lew’s house, I might have to call in backup.”
There was a spark in his eye that told me he was enjoying this. My brain spun. What if he did think I was stealing? Would he tell the organizers? Could I get kicked out?
“I wasn’t stealing. Just… borrowing. For inspiration.” I lifted my chin.
John slid his hands back into his pockets like we were talking about the weather instead of standing toe-to-toe in a dark hallway.
He tilted his head. “Then why the hiding?”
“Fine,” I muttered and handed him one of the books.
He looked down at Elliot’s title, raising an eyebrow. Come on, it seemed to say. Then he stretched out his hand. “The other one.”
My pride wasn’t worth being disqualified. I shoved it at him. He flinched slightly when my fingers grazed his chest. I recoiled as if I’d touched a hot stove. It felt like one.
He caught the book, glanced at the title, then turned the cover toward me.
“Weird thing to steal.” But instead of smugness, his face showed confusion.
I crossed my arms. “Didn’t steal it. Just…”
My eyes flicked upward, as if a less-cringy answer might be written on the ceiling. No such luck.
“This one isn’t even signed,” he said, flipping through the first few pages. “Unlike the one I gave you.”
I met his gaze. My stomach dropped.
He was looking at me from beneath his lashes. One heartbeat passed. Then another.
“You…” I began, fumbling for words. “I thought you didn’t…I mean, what do you mean by…” Wow. Pulitzer-worthy stuff right there. Clearly, I was killing it.
His head tilted slightly, a faint crease forming between his brows. Almost like… surprise.
“I didn’t think you remembered me,” I finally managed. A full sentence. Someone alert the press.
John’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“Of course I remember you, Nora,” he said. A soft laugh curled around the edges of my name. The way he said it echoed in my head like a song I hadn’t heard in years.
His lips parted like he was going to say something else, but then he seemed to think better of it. Instead, he placed both books back into my hands, turned, and disappeared into his room.
The door creaked shut.
And I stood there, clutching the books like an idiot in the dark.