Page 2 of Fighting Words

“Are you lost?” he asks, his voice full of concern.

It’s absolutely ridiculous, but I suddenly regret not taking better stock of how I look before I knocked on his door. Is my hair okay? I have it clipped half-up half-down with a barrette, but it’s long and unruly at times. Now, it’s likely covered with snow flurries. I’m wearing a pair of jeans that have been on my body for over twenty-four hours and my silly puffer jacket—the one I picked up because it was cute and cheap—is not nearly as warm as I need it to be. I shiver then fix my smile.

“Hi, I apologize for the late arrival. I’m Summer Collins.” I put my hand out for him to accept. “From InkWell.”

It’s like I just performed an unintentional magic trick, that’s how swiftly his expression tightens with annoyance. A snap of my fingers and he’s a hardened man.

“I had planned to come tomorrow morning,” I continue with a hesitant tone, “but I got delayed at the airport. This woman tried to take my luggage and then the zipper finally busted on my suitcase and they had to help me tape it shut—”

He shakes his head. “What are you on about?”

His accent is mostly American, but I can hear traces of something distinctly British—no doubt a side effect of him having lived here for so many years.

I lift my hand a little higher, willing him to accept it. “Sorry. Long story. But like I said…I’m Summer Collins.From InkWell.”

His brows tug together. “What are you doing on my doorstep,Summer Collins from InkWell?”

I try not to bristle at the viciousness behind his words.

“It’s a little complicated, actually. I-I’m here to work with you.” I point over my shoulder, in the general direction of where I think Crown House sits abandoned and derelict. “Only the thing is—”

He comes out of his surprised stupor in time to cut me off again. “Workwith me?”

“On your manuscript.” My words come out squeaky high, like a mouse.

His clear blue eyes, the ones I thought were so gentle, now harden to ice. “You have to be kidding me. Do you people ever listen?”

BOOM.

The door slams in my face, and I stand there blinking awkwardly, trying to wrap my head around the last few hours and how it’s possible I could have such insanely bad luck.

I turn back to look at the winding lane that leads back to the main road. It’s empty now, of course. No cab in sight.

Well that’s just great. What am I supposed to do?

I realizenowas I stand on Nathaniel’s front stoop, stranded in the English countryside with no car, no cell reception, and no plan, that the situation is much more dire than InkWell let on. Our most beloved author—the man keeping the lights on at corporate—just might be past the point of saving.

There’s no denying Nathaniel is one of the most famous authors alive today. His science fiction series is wildly popular—beloved by loyal fans of the genre and new readers alike—but unfortunately, he’s blown his last three deadlines, and InkWell is more impatient than ever for his next manuscript. The release date for the final installment in theCosmostrilogy has been pushed back twice, and there’s a very real fear that he’ll do what so many greats have done before him and leave the series unfinished forever.

I knew the situation was bad if InkWell was willing to send me across the pond. I’m the newest employee on the payroll—young, inexperienced, and the only one willing to play the role of sacrificial lamb.

I thought at worst, I’d fail and head home with my tail between my legs, and at best, I’d do the undoable: ease Nathaniel’s writer’s block, help him wrap up his award-winning trilogy, and return to America a national hero.

Turns out my worst-case scenario didn’t account for the harsh English winter. Mynewworst fears involve frostbite and a slow agonizing death.

Someone could have warned me that Nathaniel had gone full recluse. With his bad attitude and all that scruff, he’s practically part werewolf. Who slams the door on someone like that?!

It’s clear he wants nothing to do with me, and that’s fine. I need a plan and I need it now. I’m still on his doorstep, hovering awkwardly. It’s best that I go. Only…that damn cab is long gone by now, and my phone doesn’t have service, and I can’t quite remember which way I’m supposed to head on the main road. Did we come from the left or right?

Despite being unsure, I walk down to the short gate in front of the cottage. I’m prepared to trudge down the long path and wheel my crappy suitcase along the moonlit fields for as long as I need to until I find a solution to my problem.

Once I’m at the gate though, I can’t make myself take another step. Self-preservation kicks in, and my feet stay rooted in place. There’s no way I can leave here. I have no idea where to go. I want to turn back and ask Nathaniel for help, but I’m scared I’ll get my head bitten off again. I try my phone then curse under my breath when the Maps app won’t load.

I’m stuffing it back in my purse when I hear feet crunch in the snow behind me, and I turn to see Nathaniel coming out of his cottage, wrapped in a thick winter jacket, so much sturdier than my silly puffer. His long strides make it easy for him to reach me in no time, and then he’s standing there, a brick wall between his cottage and me.

“What are you still doing on my property?” he demands rudely.

My jaw drops at his audacity, but I recover quickly. Does he have absolutely no compassion? No heart? “I’mtryingto leave! My phone isn’t working though. Can I borrow yours?”

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