Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
I’m very photogenic.
Absolutely no man-candy around here.
I have zero Photoshop skills.
Hours ticked by. The lack of caffeine had me yawning nonstop.
At one point, I leaned toward the espresso machine just as Elaine joined me in the kitchen.
“You sure?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You still look pretty awful.”
Thanks a lot, Elaine.
A few well-timed coughs on my part had her packing up and leaving the room quickly. Jeremy and May headed off for another walk. I had no idea what John was up to, but the promise of an empty living room, writing by the fire, and an endless supply of coffee made me not care.
I sank into a deep leather chair, ready to dig into chapter seven. The room smelled of burning embers, old leather, and pine. Beneath it all was another scent—dark, musky—something that made my head spin in the best possible way.
My apartment usually smelled like ink and stale Chinese food.
I closed my eyes and counted down from twenty, letting the numbers drop, one by one. Then I opened them and started to write. With each click of the keyboard, my shoulders eased.
I made it halfway through the first act before my phone buzzed. But it wasn’t Mom asking for a couple’s photo, thank Bowie.
Hey Loca, where have you been?
I grinned at the Twilight reference.
I made a total fool of myself this morning.
Excellent. So it’s going as expected.
I thought about asking Otis to check in on Mom. I also thought about telling him about the weird hallway moment, but some odd mix of embarrassment and... not guilt exactly, but something, held me back.
As if reading my mind:
Any man-candy around? How’s John?
My eyes are firmly on my work.
Well, technically, they’re on my phone.
No man-candy. I’m by far the prettiest.
Boring.
Actually, Jeremy’s cute. But not your type.
Do tell.
Nothing to tell. We don’t date the competition.
Fine. See you Friday.
The editors’ notes still grated on me. They wanted more from my main character—something was missing. I just couldn’t figure out what.
The sun was starting to set. The later it got, the more anxious I became about Mom. Of course, I’d completely failed to send her a couple-y photo of John and me.
I could picture her now: elbow-deep in flour, Helene Fischer blasting from her kitchen CD player, an open bottle of orange schnapps on the counter, waiting for a reply from her daughter. Her terrible daughter who had forgotten one of the most painful days of the year.
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I was alone. Then I did something I really, really didn’t want to do:
I googled John.
There were so many photos.
John at a gala in a sleek black suit, his bombshell fiancée on his arm.
John at a book signing, grinning at fans.
John in a still from an interview.
John at a whiteboard, mid-lecture, arm raised.
My stomach clenched. I recognized the crest of the university. The layout of the hall. I scrolled away quickly.
I found one photo of him with a fan who barely reached his biceps, and attempted to crop her out using my limited editing skills. Then I pasted in a picture of myself. Adjusted the saturation, the lighting. Added a bit of contrast.
The result?
Laughable. Even my mother would see through it in a second.
The back door opened and a gust of cold air rustled my notes. In came two red-nosed writers.
May wore a thick beanie; her purple hair poked out of the knit like baby bird feathers. Jeremy looked like he just stepped out of a British rom-com. They grinned at each other, clearly in on some private joke.
“You look cozy,” Jeremy said, unwrapping his scarf.
“And you two look like popsicles.”
May smiled. “We saw three squirrels. Love those little rascals.” She untied her boots and let out a satisfied sigh as the fire warmed her feet.
“What’s ‘squirrel’ in German?” Jeremy asked, already holding a mug of tea like some sort of wizard.
“Eichhornchen,” I said, then laughed as he attempted to pronounce it.
“Interesting,” said a dark voice directly beside my ear.
I nearly jumped out of my seat.
John stood behind my chair, close, his face caught between surprise and amusement.
He wasn’t talking about the German language.
He was staring at my laptop.
Mortified, I slammed it shut.
Too late.
He’d seen the hideous, humiliating photo montage of me and him.
I wanted to vanish into the floor. I wanted to die. I wanted to leave earth right that second.
“If you want a picture of the two of us, you just have to ask,” he said.
Burning shame climbed up my neck. I opened my mouth, searching for a witty comeback—any comeback.
“Ooh, that’s a great idea,” May said cheerfully, catching only part of the conversation. “We should take a group photo when Elaine gets back.”
Salvation. Maybe.
I nodded, avoiding John’s gaze.
May perched on the arm of my chair and showed me a picture of a squirrel on her phone. I tried to look remotely interested while blood rushed hot in my ears.
There was no easy way to explain myself out of this.
No way to spin it into a joke.
Maybe if I was really lucky, I could just avoid John for the rest of the retreat.
Or the rest of my life.
Elaine stepped into the room, saving me.
She looked like she’d just walked out of a spa. Draped in a silk lounge set, long blonde curls still damp and brushed back, her skin glowing. We didn’t even have to ask her twice to take a photo.
“This was your idea?” she asked as I positioned my phone on the window ledge.
“I thought it’d be fun,” I said, every syllable a lie. “You know… for social.”
John leaned back against the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching me with mild suspicion.
“I’m ready,” Elaine announced. She’d angled herself toward the window just enough to catch the light—her cheekbones gleamed like they could fry an egg. Otis would’ve wept.
“You coming?” I asked John, my voice a full octave too high.
“Only because you asked so nicely.” He smirked. Insufferable man. He probably thought he had something on me now—a little story he could drop at any moment to make me look ridiculous. I lifted my chin, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
“Cool,” I said, trying to position myself near him without it seeming obvious. But as soon as I hit the timer and turned back, I realized I’d completely miscalculated.
John was already flanked by Elaine and Jeremy. Her hand had vanished behind his back. Jeremy, on his tiptoes, tried to match John’s height.
May sat beside Jeremy on the arm of a leather chair. That left me the only available spot—right next to Elaine. I had five seconds to wedge myself in.
My god did this woman smell good.
I crossed my fingers, hoping I could crop her out later, send my mom the doctored version, and drown my shame in gin. I smiled—forced and too wide—just as the shutter clicked.
Elaine lunged for my phone.
“Oh my god, we look amazing. Tag me when you post it.” She immediately started snapping more selfies with her own phone. Apparently, the lighting was just that good.
I scanned the shot.
Elaine did look amazing. Of course she did. Soft curves, perfectly posed hands, the barest suggestion of cleavage—she looked like she belonged on John’s arm.
Jeremy looked like himself. Big grin. Pure joy.
May had been distracted by something outside, most likely another squirrel.
John Kater, New York Times bestselling author, looked ready for a magazine shoot. Long legs, smug grin. Fucking dimples.
And me?
I had my eyes closed.