Page 2 of The Write Off

I thank him and quickly turn on my heel. Too quickly.

“Watch it!”

With lightning speed I pivot to avoid the man standing directly behind me. In my panic I tighten my grip on the paper cup, causing the lid to pop off and the contents to fly right at me. It sloshes up and hits me in the chest, like a sniper’s kill shot. Letting the cup drop from my scalded hand, I attempt to hold the blouse away from my chest to prevent my skin from being burned by the hot liquid.

“You should be more careful,” the middle-aged man says unhelpfully. “You almost spilled coffee on me.”

I stare at him, momentarily unable to respond. He’s got a spare tire and a hairline that looks like it’s about to throw in the towel. His eyes remain glued to the coffee stain on my blouse. When he doesn’t look away, I begin to suspect that he’s not looking at the stained shirt, but more how the doused fabric clings to my breasts.

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll work on that.”

I gratefully accept a stack of napkins from the annoyed coffee shop kid, who waves away my attempts to help clean up the spill. “Don’t you have a meeting to get to?”

Shit.

During the short elevator ride I attempt to clean myself up with the napkins, but I’m fighting a losing battle. The blouse is stained beyond repair. I’ll have to buy Betty a new one.

C’est la vie.

The doors slide open and I walk into a reception area, shoulders back, head held high. I smile broadly at the slack-jawed receptionist.

“Rilla Pine for Logan Carmichael.” When the young woman doesn’t respond to my words, I add, “I’m his two o’clock.” She pastes on an unconvincing smile and directs me down a narrow hallway. The fluorescent lighting in this place is starting to make my head ache and I desperately wish that I was drinking my coffee instead of wearing it. When I reach the office at the end of the hall, the gold nameplate on the partially open door confirms I’ve reached my destination.

Here we go.

“Knock knock,” I say without actually knocking as I enter the office. The man sitting behind a large desk looks up at me and the joke I’d been planning to lead with evaporates into nothingness. Thick dark hair and eyes to match. Broad shoulders, broad chest, broad everything. A jawline like I’ve never seen outside of a movie theater. He’s beautiful. Like, actually, objectively beautiful.

There is no way this man is Logan.

“You’re late.”

It’s Logan. I’d recognize that deep voice and boring tone anywhere.

“Ah,” I say as I regain my momentarily lost senses, “but according to Tolkien, wizards are never late. They arrive precisely when they mean to.”

His expression doesn’t soften. His dark eyes flit to the mess that is my shirt and then return to my eyes without a trace of humor. “Do you think you’re a wizard?”

“What? No, it’s a Gandalf quote.” I don’t bother waiting for him to extend an invitation to take a seat. Draping my coat and scarf over the back of a padded armchair, I collapse into it with a sigh. We’re past decorum here and I just want to get this over with. “How are you, Logan?”

He briefly glances at my ruined blouse again before cocking an eyebrow at me. “Better than you, I imagine.”

“What this?” I point to my chest with a shrug. “This is nothing. Just your average Thursday afternoon for me.”

“Today is Saturday.”

“Is it?” Huh. Now that I think about it, that checks out. Why else would Betty be around to mother me into making it to my appointment on time? Not that it helped in the end.

If Logan is attempting to mask the look of disdain on his face, he’s not trying very hard. “Let’s get right to the point.” He leans forward in his chair, his forearms resting on the desk. “You have been less than receptive to my requests for changes to Of Cinder And Sand.”

More like demands.

“That’s because I disagree with them.” I fight to keep my tone light and unaffected. “The changes you requested are not only unnecessary, they also interfere with several storylines planned for future books in the series.”

“There aren’t going to be future books in the series if you don’t fix the flaws with the first one.”

“Your perceived flaws with the story are nonexistent. I have a plan.”

“A plan you refuse to share with me.”

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