Page 14 of The Write Off

I scoff into my bagel. While I no longer want to stick him with pointy objects, I definitely do not love Logan. I don’t hate the way that chiseled jaw clenches when I’m intentionally irritating him. And at one point during our latest meeting, he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, exposing thick forearms. I may have loved that.

I stuff the rest of my bagel into my mouth and stand, walking to the counter to start another pot of coffee. As I scoop the fresh coffee beans into the grinder, I mull over Josh’s suggestion. He’s right. I’ve always been fiercely independent, preferring to work alone than in groups. Even as a kid, I was happy to do my own thing and not worry about fitting in with the herds of sheeple around me.

Logan has years of experience in an industry I’ve barely dipped my toes into. I need to stop viewing him as an obstacle and start using him as a resource whose job it is to help me. At this stage, I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

“I’ll message him and set up another meeting.” Leaning back on the counter, I add, “Thanks for helping me talk through this. And for the snack. I know I tend to get cranky when I’m hungry and I’m sorry for it.”

Betty beams at me while my brother just smirks. “Are you saying you’ve just been hungry for the last twenty-seven years?”

I didn’t want to do it, but he forced my hand. I grab a bagel from the paper bag and throw it hard, right at his head.

There are poppyseeds everywhere.

Chapter 7

Logan

“What are you wearing?”

I peer down at myself before answering the offended party. Both my shirt and tie are from Ted Baker’s fall collection. The charcoal gray slacks are Harry Rosen.

“Why? You don’t like it?”

“You look like my principal.”

“Ouch.” I happen to know that his principal is pushing sixty and not what you’d call a style icon. You can always count on a nine-year-old for unflinching honest opinions. “Does it really look that bad?”

“Yes,” my nephew answers at the same instant his younger sister says “No.” Neither of them take their eyes off of the cartoon they’re watching. Travis sits hunched over the bowl of cereal he’s balancing on his lap while Anna lies on her stomach, cuddling a decorative pillow like it’s her favorite stuffed animal.

It’s been a busy day since their mom dropped them off at my condo on her way to work. Even though they’re only two years apart in age, they almost never want to do the same thing at the same time. As a result, I’ve taken to letting them each pick an activity on our days together. We spent the entire morning at the New England Aquarium at Anna’s request. That girl loves animals more than life itself and it broke my heart to tell her she couldn’t have a sea otter as a pet.

“So why are you dressed like school?” Travis asks. A piece of cereal falls from his mouth right back into the bowl, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He finished lunch an hour ago, but he always needs something sweet to feel satisfied. Just like his dad.

“I have to do some work after I drop you two off at your grandparents.” Maybe I am dressed too formally.

“I think you look nice,” Anna says, smiling up at me sleepily. Her blonde bangs are in her eyes, like usual. “Like you’re going to a wedding.”

“More like a funeral,” her brother mutters. I shoot him a look to let him know I caught that and he averts his eyes, looking down at his cereal. He knows better than to mention funerals around his sister. Thankfully, Anna doesn’t seem to have heard him. “You work all the time on weekends, but never in clothes like that.”

He’s not wrong on either count. I do work on weekends, probably more than I should. It’s a fast-paced industry, and it’s not enough for me to simply keep up; I need to stay ahead of the competition. There always seems to be a new manuscript to read or emails to answer. My typical weekend uniform is my most worn-out pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Especially when I’m working from home. But I’m not working from home today.

No, today I will be meeting with none other than Rilla Pine. And, for once, not at my insistence. It felt great when she texted earlier asking to meet up and work on the manuscript. I’ve been feeling optimistic about our working relationship since we met on Monday. Since then, she’s not only sent me updates, but responded to my suggestions. It’s the first real indication that we’re finally starting to get on the same page. Or at least on the same bookshelf.

I grab my phone from the coffee table and check my messages again to confirm it wasn’t just a beautiful fever dream.

Rilla: Hey Logan. Not sure how to proceed with some of these revisions. Would appreciate your insight. If you have time.

A second message followed immediately after.

Rilla: Or whatever.

I wrote back immediately, telling her I was available this evening. I’d hoped it didn’t sound too desperate and I’d held my breath as the three little dots appeared on the screen. She told me to come by anytime after six-thirty, then sent her address.

I’d been making lunch for the kids when I got it and actually fist-pumped like I’d just won Wimbledon. I regretted it immediately, as Travis saw the whole thing. He teased me mercilessly and I know he’s never going to let me live that one down.

But that’s fine. I can endure the relentless bullying of a fourth grader if it means I’m one step closer to that promotion.

My promotion.

---