Page 32 of Wolfish Player
When I awake,Adrian is running his fingers through my hair. Through the rearview mirror, his eyes meet mine.
And they stay there for miles.
Thankfully, the driver clears his throat and begins asking Adrian about the weather, instantly siphoning some of the tension.
Well, some of it…
He makes a turn down a winding driveway and parks in front of a sleek house that overlooks a lake.
“This would be a perfect spot for a writers’ retreat,” I say, stepping out. “I think a lot of the authors would really appreciate it.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.” Adrian walks onto the veranda and unlocks the door, ushering me inside.
I’m immediately swept into a room of wooden beams and walls of windows that frame the lake like a portrait. The hallway opens into two bedrooms—mirror images of each other but dressed like opposite moods. One is all soft greys and silver, a calm retreat. The other is darker—navy sheets, low lighting, shelves lined with worn books. Each room has a writing desk pressed against the windows, the lake stretching endless beyond the glass, like the house itself was designed to strip away excuses and force the words out.
My fingers are suddenly itching to type, and I’m feeling inspired by the views.
“Okay, I approve of this location,” I say. “We can check out the next option now.”
“We’re staying here this weekend.”
“We?”
“Yes. You and I.” His voice is firm. “Why else do you think I would bring you here?”
“You said it was to look at writing retreat options.”
“Glad you’re putting two and two together,” he says. “You’re going to stay here, and you can sleep in the grey bedroom, and you’re going to keep working on your book. There’s a weekend bag for you in the closet.”
“Where will you be?”
“In the other bedroom,” he says. “I have writing of my own to do.”
As if he can tell I think he’s lying, he pulls a notebook from his bag and tosses it on the table.
The front cover readsFrom the desk of M.L. Emerson.
The name burns into my retinas. My mouth goes dry. The mysterious and prolific legend of publishing, the author everyone speculates about? It’s him?
I blink once. Twice. Waiting for the world to right itself. It doesn’t.
“You’re him?” I still can’t believe it.
“Don’t tell anyone back at the office, but yes.” He picks it up. “So, contrary to what you said a while ago, I know exactly what goes into writing a book. Get busy.”
The trees weren’t rustling tonight. They had no more answers for me…
I pauseon my book and check my word count in disbelief.
I’ve typed over six thousand words in a single writing session.
The last time I did that? Back before the book deal…
Letting out a breath, I close my laptop and venture into the kitchen.
The refrigerator is stocked with snacks and there’s a “Places That Deliver Here” list tacked onto its side.
“Making any progress?” Adrian is suddenly behind me.
