Page 111 of The Lodge

Every seat I could take would result in him looking down on me, and the barstools are a bit too far away for conversation, but the pool table looks more than sturdy enough to hold my weight and then some. I climb up and make myself comfortable, crossing my legs and letting them dangle over the edge.

“Busy day for you,” I comment.

He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I’m used to it.”

“Have you seen everything that’s happening online?”

“My manager called, yeah. To talk about Jett.”

His expression is hard to read. It’s hard, period—steely, impenetrable.

“And?” I say.

“And I told him to piss off.”

If I had a drink, I’d be choking on it.

“He can tell I know something,” Sebastian says, shaking his head. “He wants me to talk—to confirm the rumors about Jett. He’s gotten a lot of calls today, a lot of interview offers.” He makes a gesture with his fingers that can only be interpreted ascold, hard cash.

Ah.

“And… are you going to?”

It’s not like he needs the money—but then again, his constant jet-setting has got to be burning a hole in his pocket. The fact that he seems to be on the fence gives me hope.

In all likelihood, Tyler’s peaceful days of hiding out at the lodge have ended. Until one of us confirms he’s really Jett Beckett, though, there’s a chance—however small—that the truth might remain a mystery. Maybe the fandom will decide he doesn’t look similar enough or that it’s too unlikely that he’s flown under the radar for this long. Maybe it will all blow over.

“Maybe?” he says. “Probably. I don’t know.”

He shifts, and it sounds like plastic crinkling.

I think it’s his pants.

“I can’t decide if it makes more sense to take the cash today,” he goes on, “or make them wait to read the whole story in the book.”

“I’d rather not writeanythingabout Jett’s secret life in the book, honestly.”

“It isn’tyourbook,” he counters. “It’s my story to tell.”

“Not this part—this part is Tyler’s.”

“Who’s Tyler?”

I guess he hasn’t readeverythingbeing said online, only the broad strokes.

“That’s the name Jett is going by now,” I say.

His eyes light up with recognition. “Huh. Well. I think the publishing house would agree it’s relevant to my story.”

It would sell books, I’ll give him that.

A pit forms in my stomach.

When it comes down to it, is this not what I signed on for? To write Sebastian’s story in the most accurate way possible—which, I reluctantly admit, might include this week’s compelling turn of events?

I don’t think there’s any way out of this: my only options are to break my contract or to write the book however Sebastian and our editor see fit.

It’s an impossible choice.

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