Page 33 of The Lodge

He shrugs. “I guess I don’t. Have you met them?”

“I have not. Not in person, at least.”

Something in my tone makes him laugh, and now I’m laughing, too. “What?”

Tyler shakes his head. “I just—”

He cuts himself off, his eyes locking on mine again with an intensity that burns a hole straight through me.

“It’s just that I haven’t met anyone who makes me laugh like you do in a really long time,” he says. “Not everyone is so easy to talk to.”

“Not even your client who asked to switch times with me today?”

“Brenda is seventy-three years old, has four dachshunds and a doctorate in statistics, and recently made a bucket list for herself that includes ‘ski a double black diamond’ and ‘skydive in Indonesia,’ among other things. She’s fascinating—but no. None of my other clients are like you.”

I sip my Honeybee (it’s halfway gone already—I guess it’s a house favorite for a reason), unable to hide my smile. Tyler’s known me for two days, but I’d be lying if I said he didn’t make me feel the same way. I knew Blake for years, dated him for half that time, and things never felt this relaxed, this easy. I never felt like anything but an accessory with Blake—and Blake hadendlessaccessories, replacing me in less than a month after I broke things off.

With Tyler… Tyler looks at me, and I feel seen.

“Is Indonesia a popular skydiving destination?” I ask, still processing everything he just said.

“No idea,” he says, laughing. “But she’s already booked her flights.”

“That’s amazing.” I take another sip, catching a bit of lavender sugar on my tongue.

His gaze flicks down to my mouth for a split second, then back up again. “It is.”

The intensity of his eyes, the way they linger on me—it suddenly feels like maybe we’re not talking about Brenda and her bucket list anymore. I’m about to tell him I feel the same way, that it’s been entirely refreshing and unexpected to meet someone who puts me so at ease, but then he leans in like he’s got something else to say, something I most definitely want to hear.

“Sorry for the tangent,” he says. “I never let you finish. What’s the writing process like?”

“It’s, like, ninety percent staring off into space, two percent snacks, and eight percent actual typing.”

“It’d be at least five percent snacks if it were me.”

“Two percent might be an underestimate, honestly,” I say. “But one percent is also just me banging my head on the table.”

“That bad?”

I shrug. “Only sometimes. The guy I’m writing about—he’s been kind of difficult so far.” Quickly I add, “But I didn’t say that.”

Tyler laughs, even though I really shouldn’t have said it. Anyone famous enough to have a ghostwriter writing their memoir is probably difficult to work with to some degree.

“Difficult how?”

“Oh, mostly just impossible to get in touch with. He blew off a call we were supposed to have and still hasn’t returned any of my messages.”

“Wow,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“And that’s why you’ve been banging your head on the table?”

“No one likes to be ghosted,” I say with a shrug. “But also, there are some things in his voice memos that I really need to ask him about—things that could damage his whole reputation if he actually means them the way they come across in the recording.”

Tyler’s eyes grow wide.

“That sounds… bad, yeah.”

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