Page 11 of The Write Off

“That’s what you’re choosing to focus on?” I force an incredulous laugh. “Yes. I heard you. And I wasn’t eavesdropping, just so you’re aware. I realized I forgot my scarf in your office and was coming back for it.”

“I’m sorry you heard that.” He says it so simply. Like he’s saying “Good morning,” or commenting on the weather.

“Not sorry you said it?”

“Rilla, you’d shown up in my office covered in coffee and ready for battle. I’d never met someone so instantly hostile towards me. I half-expected you to challenge me to a wrestling match.” He leans forward, his hands resting on his knees. His proximity to me, the nearness of him, overwhelms my already overwhelmed state. So much so that I want to lean back in my chair, but I don’t.

“Maybe it was my intuition telling me that you don’t know anything about fantasy novels. What is your usual genre, Logan? Historical fiction? True Crime? Dinosaur Erotica?”

“That last one isn’t real.”

“It very much is, but that’s beside the point,” I huff.

“Look, it’s very common for editors to explore books from other genres. I mostly work with mystery and thrillers, but I wanted to broaden my horizons. Yours wasn’t the first fantasy manuscript I was offered, but it was the first one I connected with. Something about it…it hit differently. I wanted to work on your book. I still do.” Maybe it’s the sincerity in his dark eyes or what looks like genuine concern on his face, but I believe him.

“I thought you didn’t like it,” I hedge, doubtfully. “The book.”

“Well, then I haven’t been communicating effectively at all. The book is extraordinary, Rilla. Truth be told, it was the first thing to come across my desk in months that made me feel something.”

“What did it make you feel?” I lean forward in my chair, practically begging for scraps that will make me feel valued.

He arches an eyebrow. “Does someone need their ego stroked?”

Prick. I choose to ignore the way my core clenched at the way he said “stroked.”

“Yes, Logan. I’m a temperamental artist. We’re essentially house cats. Pet me, feed me, and tell me I’m pretty.”

He huffs a laugh, resting his hands on the tops of his thighs. “I like that the story isn’t clear cut. You’re able to demonstrate the points of view of all the parties involved in the conflict so well that you’re not entirely sure who to root for. I myself found my loyalties changing often. Your characters are not one-dimensional. They’re complex, even very early on. I mean, I thought I had a fairly firm grasp on where things were headed, but you’ve just informed me I don’t.”

He really doesn’t. But I like that he wants to. The man should be a hostage negotiator. This is the second time in as many encounters he’s brought my boiling temper to a simmer with a few sentences.

“The battles are realistic, the interpersonal conflicts are compelling, and the sex scenes are…” The muscle in his jaw flexes and I find myself leaning forward in my chair, desperate to hear what will come out of his mouth next. He clears his throat. “Stirring.”

I’ll take stirring.

“I admit that I don’t have any experience with fantasy novels, but I do have lots of experience. I’ve been the editor on dozens of novels that are now best sellers. I do know what I’m doing.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t.”

“You did, not three minutes ago.”

“No, I said you didn’t know anything about fantasy, which you admitted to yourself.”

He sighs again. The man looks beyond frustrated and almost ready to accept defeat. I wanted so badly to break Logan, but now that I’m succeeding, it’s not the payoff I thought it would be.

“I’ll step down, if it’s what you want. You’ve spent years on the book and you deserve to have more of a say in who helps you get it to the finish line. I will tell Bryce that he should find someone else, with your input this time. He won’t be thrilled, but I’m sure he’ll make it work.”

For the last six months, all I’ve wanted was a new editor, but this doesn’t feel like a win. It feels like failure. Like quitting.

And I don’t quit.

“That won’t be necessary,” I say, straightening in the chair. “You don’t know much about the genre, but you seem invested and quite frankly, I don’t feel like breaking in someone new.”

“Are you sure?”

“Always.”

A relieved smile flashes on his face so briefly I wonder if I imagined it. A moment later, he’s schooled his features back into their usual controlled state.

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