Page 27 of Fighting Words

“That’s how long we’ll discuss the book.”

Her brows shoot up, and she grins. “Sheesh.That’s a short workday.”

“I have things to do.”

Namely, I’d like to get the hell out of the kitchen. I needed a haircut and I’m glad it’s done, but I was playing with fire letting Summer touch me like that. There’s no way she didn’t notice my reaction to her when she stood between my legs trimming my hair. I sat stock-still, barely breathing as she moved around me. It seemed like a good idea to have her give me a trim, save me the trouble of driving to Kendal, but then she wove her fingers through my hair and chills went down my spine. I chastised myself the whole time, but it didn’t help. Everything about her affects me. The smell of the shampoo she purchased at Martin’s store, the cut of her simple V-neck shirt, the little sounds she made when she was satisfied with how things were going. She’d chew on her lip as she worked, studying my hair, trying to make it look perfect.

I’m staring at her lips now when she slides a notepad and pen toward me.

“Okay then, I guess we should get started if the clock is ticking.”

Her tone is chipper; she isn’t letting my bad attitude get to her. She whips open her typed notes and starts flipping through pages like she’s on a mission.

“You ate my chocolate.”

She pauses and peers up at me from beneath scrunched brows. “Your chocolate?” Then a second later, realization dawns. Her expression turns wary. “How’d you find out?”

I sit back in my chair with my coffee. “I wanted some when I got home last night. You can imagine my surprise when there was none left.”

“Did you go looking for it after you carried me to bed?” she inquires gently. “You could have just left me there, y’know. I wasn’t uncomfortable.”

I shrug. “You were hanging halfway off the couch.”

It’s a partial lie. I got home last night to find Dog waiting for me near the back door. I let him in and gave him some food and water. I didn’t realize Summer was asleep in the living room until I was heading over to put out the fire. She was on her side on the couch, her lips parted, her hair spilling out around her. Her blanket had slipped down so I knew she must be cold. I never considered leaving her there. I finished up downstairs, walked over, and hoisted her up into my arms. She didn’t stir, and I had no trouble getting her upstairs. She was easy to carry, dead weight and all.

“Plus Dog likes to sleep on the couch sometimes,” I explain easily. “You were in his way.”

She smiles. “Right, well, I won’t make a habit of falling asleep down here.” Then she looks down at her notes. “Now, add two minutes to the timer.”

“There is no timer.”

She rolls her eyes. “I was being facetious.”

“We never did address the chocolate. Aren’t you even going to apologize?”

She lets her true feelings show for a second but then tucks them away and steadies her smile once again. “Yes, I’m sorry. I’ll get you a new one. Now will you please focus? I don’t think you’ve sent us a draft or summary for book three. Is that correct?”

“Correct.”

“Where are you with the story?”

“Haven’t started.”

Her eyes widen in alarm. “You mean you haven’t started writing? Or you haven’t started an outline?”

“Either or. Doesn’t matter.” I point at the booklet. “What do you have in that thing?”

She shakes her head as she looks down at it, answering with an impatient tone. “Notes. Descriptions. Names. Everything.” Then she looks up at me with an imploring gaze. “Whyhaven’t you started?”

Why is the sky blue? Why do McDonald’s fries taste better than Burger King’s? Why do I wake up every morning with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach?

These seem like questions better aimed at someone else. God, perhaps. Or at least a shrink.

When I don’t give her a reply, she grabs a pen and quickly uncaps it then recaps it, over and over again, pushing it up and back down with the tip of her thumb while she thinks. I can’t help but feel like she doesn’t fully understand the severity of the situation she’s walked in on. She seems to think this can be solved if only we put our heads together, if only we try harder.

“Did InkWell tell you I worked with the same editor onThe Last ExodusandEcho of Hope?” I ask, using the question as bait to see how much she knows.

“Yes, sure.” She frowns in confusion. “Someone mentioned her. Elaine something? She left to work at Black House afterEcho of Hope. They poached her.”

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