Page 10 of Fighting Words

I wait for him to call me out for the lie, but he doesn’t. Patrick is likely picking his battles with me these days.

I have to be his most difficult client. I’m impossible to reach, for one. For two, I’ve forced him into playing middleman between InkWell and me, a position no one would covet at this point. If it weren’t for the money, he would have pushed me out of his agency a long time ago.

“As you know, Nate, InkWell has been lenient with you. Withus,” he amends, linking us as a team, likely so I don’t go on the defensive. “However, they made it clear to me in our last meeting that they’ve reached the end of their rope.”

“Is that why they sent Summer?”

“So she arrived?”

“Last night.”

Patrick sighs. “What do you think of her?”

The question feels loaded in a way he didn’t intend. I recall the image of Summer sitting curled up on my chair in front of the fire last night. What I think of her—the honest truth—feels inappropriate.

I refocus on what’s important. “I won’t work with her. I’ve told you I’m uninterested in teaming up with someone on this.”

Patrick sighs, and then there’s a tense silence. I brace myself for what’s to come, suspecting the worst even before Patrick speaks with a somber tone.

“The contract with HBO fell through.”

It’s like he’s just laid a bomb at my feet.

“Dan sent word last week,” he continues. “They were tired of waiting to see if you were going to finish the series before filming.”

I wince and then wipe my hand down my face, scrubbing my jaw.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Inwardly, this news resonates on every level. On the outside, I try to keep it together.

“Okay.”

I won’t apologize even though I know that deal likely lost Patrick a good bit of money.

“We promised to deliver the third book to InkWella year and a half ago,” Patrick stresses. “The fans are—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I snap.

He thinks I don’t know how angry they are? There are hundreds of pages of Reddit forums dedicated to tearing me apart. My readers feel entitled to the third book and they do deserve it, but thinking about it doesn’t help me. The weight on my shoulders is crippling, more and more so each day. Another day without any written words is another day I’m failing myself and everyone else. No pressure, right?

“Right well, Nate, I’ll be honest with you. InkWell has tried to be understanding, but they’ve made themselves perfectly clear.” His tone hardens with his next words. “Work with Summer.”

“Or what?”

Patrick groans, sounding tired. “You already know. You pay back the advance, public apology, ridicule—the worst happens, okay? But let’s not go there. There’s no need to tarnish our relationship with InkWell permanently. They’ve been good to you over the years. Just get that manuscript in tip-top shape and everything will get resolved.”

CHAPTER 5

SUMMER

When Nathaniel returnsto the cottage, groceries in hand, I’m sitting on the edge of the sofa, holding a plastic bag filled with letters. He kicks the door closed with his foot and looks over to me. Relief—or what I think could be relief—flits across his face for only a moment before he turns away. He has two or three bags loaded up, enough that I want to rush over to help him, but I know he wouldn’t accept it.

Nathaniel drops the grocery bags onto the kitchen table, and I look at the room with renewed attention. Ilovethe kitchen, especially now in the light of day. It’s a tidy square absolutely brimming over with charm and character. On the far wall that faces the living room, a large stone fireplace is topped by two long open shelves. Beside it, there’s the oven and a window that looks out onto the snow-capped hills. The cabinets are painted a pale blue-gray color that contrasts nicely with the stone walls and the dark wooden beams on the ceiling.

There’s a lot tucked into the space, but everything has its designated spot. Copper pots hang off the wall, in a line beside the window. On the open wooden shelves above the fireplace sit mismatched pottery and plates, a lamp, and beautiful antique china that likely never gets put to use. In the center of the kitchen, a round wooden table is topped with an empty fruit bowl. That’s where Nate unloads his groceries while I watch.

Today, he’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that rides up to reveal a sliver of his back—toned and muscular—when he hangs his coat on the kitchen door. I look away with wide eyes, like I’ve just seen something X-rated.

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