Page 24 of The Write Off

“Not really. Her parents live on the west coast. They stayed with her for a month when Eric died, but they moved back after that. They visit when they can, but with her work schedule she needs more frequent help than they can provide.”

“And your parents? Are they around to help?”

“Around? Yes. Helpful?” he trails off with a chuckle. I know that the subject matter isn’t ideal, but I’m enjoying seeing Logan with his guard down. He’s normally all starch and protocol. I feel like I’ve gotten to know him better today than I have in the entire time we’ve worked together. “Anyway,” he drags a hand through that hair I’d so like to tug on, “maybe we should go over what you’d like to work on most before our meeting with Bryce.”

My shoulders sag as I would very much like to do anything but right now. “I guess my main issue is that they want me to change the elven revolution.” He starts to object, but I put a hand up to stop him. “I get it. From your vantage point it doesn’t add up, but if I alter it too much I’m going to have to rewrite half of the fourth book.”

He stops, his beer glass halfway to his mouth, eyes locked on me. “You’ve already written the fourth book?”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“I meant to say rewrite the outline,” I say, searching the bar for a customer who might need something. Any excuse to cut this conversation short.

Logan appears thoughtful as he sips his beer, his large hands easily wrapping around the glass. “Rewrites or revisions are all a part of the process. I’ve worked with authors who’ve added entirely new characters after several drafts of their manuscripts. That’s part of the beauty of what we do. You build something, change it, build it again. You shouldn’t feel like you’re handcuffed to a particular storyline several books down the road.”

My thighs contract involuntarily when he mentions handcuffs.

I nod, like I’m considering his point of view, when in reality, I’m desperately trying to clear my head of lewd thoughts.

“Hey. Kitten.”

I turn around to see the alpha-Chad standing at the bar. The way his eyes have to move up to my face tells me he’d been staring at my ass before I turned.

“Did you need a refill?” I ask with a strained smile.

“Not yet, but I want you to kill the music and turn up the tv. We want to hear the game.”

The large flat screen in question shows an in-progress game between the Boston Bruins and the Toronto Maple Leafs. It’s early in the first period and the Bruins are already up by one.

“Oh, that screen is like a 1950’s housewife: Meant to be seen, not heard.”

My joke lands flatter than his personality. “Well, we want to hear the game.”

And I want to spend my Sunday evening not placating a walking two hundred dollar haircut, but here we are.

“It’s not even hooked up to speakers.” I swear I might need to get out a dry-erase board and start drawing stick figures until this man-child absorbs what I’m telling him.

“For fuck’s sake,” he fumes. His body radiates frustration and instinct tells me to take a step back, but stubbornness wins out. “Why the fuck even have it?”

“Because people come to a bar to enjoy food, drink, and conversations. If you want to hear commentary and play-by-plays, you could have stayed at home.” Logan’s voice is deep and even. It calms my fight-or-flight response like a reassuring touch.

“Who the fuck asked you?” I can tell that Mr. “The Customer Is Always Right” isn’t used to being challenged. He squares his shoulders and puffs out his chest like the primates we evolved from.

“No one,” he answers lazily. “But you seem to have a problem and I’m offering a logical solution. If this bar doesn’t have what you want, find one that does or go home.”

“You can take your logical solution and shove it up your ass. Unless you think you can make me leave?” He starts towards Logan. From my peripheral vision I see his lackeys exit the booth. This is escalating quickly. I should run out to the back to grab Phil, but I don’t want to leave Logan alone with them. Before I can move, Logan closes his laptop and stands.

Logan sitting on a bar stool is impressive enough; when he stands to his full height, his broad figure is staggering. All three men stop in their tracks.

“I’m not going to make you do anything,” he says evenly. “I was merely offering a suggestion. You’re free to do what you like. Unless that happens to be harassing the people who work here.” His jaw hardens as he stares down at them. “That you cannot do.”

I try not to gape at what may have been the hottest thing I’ve ever encountered.

The ring leader glances back to his friends, who are giving him serious “let it go” vibes. Without another word, he pushes by them on his way back to his booth where he drains the rest of his beer, slamming the glass down on the table. He grabs his coat and heads for the exit, his friends not far behind. Before they reach the exit, one of them turns suddenly and speed walks back to the bar, wallet in hand.

“Come on, Chad,” his friend calls to him on his way out.

Chad drops two twenty dollar bills on the bar in front of me with sort of an apologetic nod before jogging away to catch his companions. He’s barely made it out of the bar when I double over laughing.

---