Page 1 of The Write Off

Chapter 1

Rilla

“You’re going to be late.” Betty looks positively stricken at the thought. Her green eyes plead with me as she bustles around the kitchen, tidying up the mess I made making my lunch.

“According to whom?” I ask before returning my gaze to my phone. “Time is a human-made construct. Einstein once said, ‘The past, present, and future are only illusions, even if stubborn ones.’ At any given moment I could be considered on time, late, or even early.”

I watch my friend approach out of the corner of my eye. She drops my leather messenger bag in front of where I’m sitting and leans down so she’s at eye-level. Her stare is intense and I focus on her freckled nose instead. “Well, Einstein also said ‘If you don’t move your ass, you’ll be late for your first meeting with your editor.’”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “I’m pretty sure Albert Einstein never said that.”

“Well, it’s too bad he’s dead.” Her smile is equal parts maniacal and angelic. “Guess we’ll never know. Move. Your. Ass.”

“Okay, okay.” I offer no resistance as she hauls me to my feet. She’s several inches shorter than me, but deceptively strong. “I don’t remember you being this scary before you started sleeping with my brother.”

“It must just be a positive side effect.”

I take my winter coat from the closet and shrug it on, then sling my bag over my left shoulder. Grabbing my scarf I head for the door. “Wish me luck.” The bright red scarf feels constricting, more like a noose as I wrap it around my neck.

My oldest, dearest friend throws her arms around my waist and hugs me tightly. I typically only hug people when I’m drunk and respond by awkwardly patting her on the head.

“You don’t need luck, you just need to—”

“Move my ass. Yeah, I got it, St. Claire.” I head down the hallway feeling suffocated by the wool scarf and the meeting that looms above me.

“You’re sure you remember how to get to the publishers?”

“I’ve lived here for six weeks; I’m not a tourist anymore. His office is four blocks that way.” I confidently point both my index fingers in the direction of the elevator doors as I walk away from her.

“It’s four blocks that way,” she corrects me, motioning in the opposite direction.

“That’s what I meant.” It’s not what I meant, but I’m sure I would have figured it out. Eventually.

I give her a final wave and disappear into the stairwell. I let my feet hit each stair heavily, like I’m marching to my doom as I stomp my way down to the main level of my building. I’ve already started to sweat in my wool coat and I speed walk through the lobby and out into the brisk February air. I inhale deeply, enjoying the burning sensation that spreads through my lungs, before exhaling through pursed lips. The white air curls around my face like a 1920s starlet.

I walk quickly on the freshly salted sidewalks. I don’t want to go to this meeting, but I can’t put it off any longer, and despite my earlier actions I actually don’t want to be late. You know, first impressions and all that bullshit. Given the number of emails we’ve exchanged, I’m sure Logan Carmichael has already made up his mind about me.

I know I have about him.

In the six months the man has been my editor, we’ve found very little common ground. I miss Tanya, my old editor. She got it. She understood and shared my vision. So far, Logan has only pointed out the flaws.

The man wouldn’t know a good fantasy novel if it bit him in the ass.

I arrive at Hilltop Plaza, still feeling like I’m overheating. It must be a combination of the heavy coat and the ridiculous silk blouse and blazer Betty insisted I wear.

It’s not because I’m nervous. I don’t do nervous.

As I peel off my coat and scarf on my way to the elevator, I spot a coffee shop in the corner of the lobby. I’ve only had three cups today and could use a pick-me-up to make sure I don’t fall asleep in my meeting. I’ve spoken to Logan on the phone several times, at his insistence. The combination of his baritone voice and his complete lack of a personality makes him the human embodiment of a white noise machine.

“What can I get you?” the bored-looking teen asks from behind the counter.

“A small black coffee, please.”

He gives the almost empty coffee carafe a sideways glance. “I made that a while ago. I can make a fresh pot if you’ve got a few minutes.”

“I really don’t.” I wince, checking the time. “My meeting starts in two minutes. As long as you haven’t spit in it, it’s fine. Hell, even if you have spit in it, I’m good.” I pay for the coffee while the kid prepares my to-go cup. He passes it to me, and I accept it absent-mindedly as I check the time again.

1:59 p.m.