Chapter 8
Archer
Itap my quill lightly on the table. “I thought perhaps we could straddle our two genres and do a dark mystery with a romance subplot. The elements of the story…”
She’s bending over to pick up her quill, and her breasts swell over the edge of her corseted dress. They look so soft, and I would give both my kidneys to nibble my way across them. Blood rushes to my groin. I fight a growl that builds in the back of my throat.
When she rises, her lopsided grin tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I look away and attempt to gather my thoughts.
Aside from the fact that she is not at all my type, I can’t get involved with her because of the work project, and more importantly, my hideous betrothal. I would be putting her at risk.
“As I was saying,” I continue at last, hoping I didn’t just hear the quiet giggle that I think I heard, “oftentimes there is a mystery element to my thrillers so I can wrap my head around that. You’re obviously the romance expert.
” Is she laughing at me? “Basically, there is a couple who end up trapped in a wine cellar beneath a manor house during a robbery. They have to figure out how to escape before the group of thieves burns the place to the ground to cover their tracks.”
My gaze drifts to her fingers wrapped around her retrieved quill. Her hands are fair and slender and I wonder if her fingers are cold or warm right now.
She bounces in her chair. “Ooo, I like it. They’re scared, but also, they’re surrounded by wine so it’s not all bad.”
I snort a laugh. “Yes, I…” Her happy bouncing and smiling oddly make me want to gather her up into a hug. I’m not much of a hugger, so I have no idea where that idea came from. “But you do like the premise?”
“Yes. Now, let’s try to write a messy draft and see what happens.”
I flinch. “Messy draft? We haven’t even started an outline, let alone the color coding I like to do to ensure we cover proper character development and pull our theme all the way through.”
Her grimace tugs at her rounded lips. “Ew, color coding.”
She stands and paces between our work spots, her dress whipping against her body with each quick turn. Her scent envelopes me and I attempt to hold my breath.
Continuing, her brow wrinkles. “I like starting with the spark of an idea, a scene, or a small moment, and then writing on through to the end.” A flush rises over her lovely face.
“I love when that spark grows into a wildfire that illuminates the entire story,” she says, spreading her arms wide and smiling so hard that dimples appear in her cheeks, “and flings our characters into exhilarating situations that push their buttons in all the right ways.”
I raise my eyebrows, impressed at her passion. But she must be reined in if we are to finish this short story before our deadline.
“Can we compromise?” I ask.
She sits again, her hands on her jiggling knees and the feather of her quill dancing as she holds it tightly. “Oh, of course. That’s a lovely idea.”
Her polite words don’t match her expression though. She’s frowning like I told her she can’t keep a cave lizard she found in the forest.
“We will do a loose outline, all right?” I say. “Then we can draft. You can draft the female lead’s chapters and I’ll pen the male’s.”
“Like a skeleton draft? I’m open to trying that.”
“A what?”
“When you draft fast and just set up the most important bits,” she says. “Then you go back and fill it in.”
My stomach rolls. I imagine my characters slipping from one scene to the next like they’re on the cracking surface of an icy pond. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No skeleton drafts.”
A sparkle dances through her eyes like she’s up to something. “Fine. A loose outline, it is.”
I glare. “And you’re fine with doing the female lead? I would be happy to write the female and you write the male. It would stretch me, but I like challenges.”
“No, I’d prefer we stick to your first proposal,” she says.
I nod. “Perfect.”
She chuckles, laughing at me again. “People don’t usually wrinkle their noses when they say Perfect.” Her smile lights the room. “Sorry. I will try to compromise.”
“I will as well. This isn’t going to be easy for either of us,” I say, trying to sound less irritated. It’s not her fault she operates in a manner so different than me.
“But we can make it as fun as possible,” she adds.
“Fun?”
“Yes! At the end of every day of drafting, we can meet for a treat at Two Cats Bakery.”
I hate the idea of writing being fun. For me, it’s about digging deep into the pain of human existence, but… “It would be criminal to argue against baked goods.”
“Shocking, truly.”
“Agreed.” I feel a grin stretch my mouth and I’m surprised by it. I can’t help but soak up a measure of her enthusiasm. She must grow some cynicism before it’s too late and life stomps on her.
We throw a few ideas around, never agreeing on much. We fight about chapter titles—yay or nay—and character arcs. But after all the arguing, we finally have a sad, sad outline inked out. It’s lacking the heart, the guts, but we must begin somewhere.
“How about I write a short scene,” I suggest, “then hand it to you to weave your elements in with your character?”
“Yes, I think that might be a good idea rather than going from chapter to chapter so the story feels cohesive,” she says.
I nod, appreciating her moment of reason.
She rises and heads for the door. “Take your time. I’ll give Dew a break and check some folks in.”
With her distracting presence gone, I’m able to write what could be a moment in the first act of the story.
The candle guttered, shadows bleeding along the stone. Each breath he drew tasted of dust and despair. Somewhere above, laughter—sharp as knives—cut through the silence. The cellar was their tomb, carved in secrecy and regret.
I finish the scene, adding in her character and leaving room for change.
Colette returns. She’s pulled her hair up and one golden lock falls across her cheek. While she tells me about the goat shifters who just checked in, I hand her the scene. Thoughtlessly, she drags a fingertip over her collarbone. Back and forth. I swallow
“This is great,” she says, startling me. “Maybe too dark, but great.”
I gesture to her desk. “Go ahead and destroy it.”
She laughs, eyes sparkling. “I’ll do my best.”
I watch her as she works. She doesn’t pause as often as I do. Is she even considering word choices thoroughly enough? I wish she would take this seriously. This co-written short story won’t make or break her career, surely, but it might be the final nail in my career’s already well-crafted coffin.
Whirling around, she shoves the parchment into my hands. “I couldn’t weave them together so I just did my version.”
Some is the same, but when I get to the female character, the story careens off the road.
She sneezed. Loudly. So much for stealth. The bottle she’d grabbed for courage turned out to be mulled wine, not poison—not that she was picky at this point.
“If they find me,” she whispered, “at least I’ll die warm and slightly spiced.”
Blessed Runestones, the tone is painfully light. I don’t see how this is going to work.
She snatches the parchment from my fingers. “Let me try to blend them.”
Before I can agree, her quill is bobbing again and she’s biting her lip in concentration. I tap my foot on the flowered rug. This is truly a nightmare. There’s no way we can write a story together and have it make any sense at all. It will be drivel.
“Read this. It’s more of a continuation. Be honest.” She shoves her work at me.
I read a few lines and then come to this bit.
And when the footsteps drew near, she steadied herself, heart pounding—not from fear, but from the absurdity that her last stand might reek of cinnamon.
It’s nothing like what I want to produce, but I guess that’s how this project is going to go. The writing isn’t bad; it’s just that the tone is such a departure from my usual.
“Well,” I start, trying to find a less terrible thing to say than everything going through my mind, “I do enjoy using self-deprecating humor in my real life, so I suppose we can try that with our heroine as well. But I think our male lead might be more responsible for the theft than our female lead knows. This needs to have more tension. If it’s this light, we’ll diffuse the tension right when it’s time to build it.
I don’t want to make light of the pain of his backstory either. ”
Her eyebrows bunch and she studies my face, her gaze peppering my cheeks, mouth, and eyes. She asks me a few questions about the male character, and we exchange ideas about his backstory and how it might relate to the female’s history. But we are butting heads.
“Humor is healing, Archer. And why would we want to focus on a painful backstory?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. We are so far apart in writing philosophy that I don’t even know where to begin. She slaps my arm, and I wonder why we are suddenly physically fighting until I see her beaming smile.
“I have a plan!” She is bouncing again. “Let’s do a public reading. If the crowd likes it, then we will know we’re on the right track.”
Absolutely not. “I’m not doing that.”
“Yes, you are,” she says in a singsong voice.
“No, really. I’m not.” I stand and gather my things. “Let’s take a day to digest what we have discussed so far. I’ll come back when I’m ready to do more drafting.”
“What about going for pastries?” Her sad face tugs at me, but I ignore it.
“Next time, for sure.”
Her lips bunch and her eyes narrow, but she nods. “Fine.”
I give her a bow. “Thank you, Colette. I do appreciate the fact that you’ve been dragged into this as much as I am. I’m sorry you’re saddled to this sad horse.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m going to cheer you up, horse.”
I open the door. “I’ll attempt to let your magic work, my lady.”
I don’t look back. I can’t stand the optimistic expression she surely has on her beautiful face.
This is a disaster, and I feel like I’ve been flung to the farthest reaches of the world without proper gear.
The wild animals (aka the ignorant masses) will gnaw my bones here in this dark, cold world of pleasing a crowd.
Well, I bet Colette can handle the naysayers.
She has been in this town for a handful of days and has already befriended the baker and started a charity drive for a neighboring town.
I want nothing to do with this project, but I have to admit Colette is pretty wonderful.
She just isn’t meant to be my co-writer.