“I think,” Vivian said, her voice strained, a stranger in her own throat, “that’s a good place to stop for the day.”
Vivian didn’t wait for a reply. She ripped off her headphones and bolted from the booth. She didn’t stop until she was back in her house. In the safety of the familiar.
From the moment she’d learned about Bryn, she’d expected to be annoyed, to be superior, to be in control. She had not expected to be so utterly and completely undone.
Well, fuck.
ChapterEleven
Bryn wokeup before the sun, ready to run into the booth. She wanted to bottle the magic coursing through her veins so she could huff a little later when imposter syndrome reared its ugly head again.
Last night’s email from Harvey was next to miraculous. Not only were there no notes, but Yenni Montoya also didn’t want to hear any more advanced tracks. She wanted to experienceMagpiesin its final polished form. Montoya was happy, and Bryn was ecstatic.
Guesthouse too small to contain the enormity of her good mood, Bryn showered and got dressed while singing “Dog Days Are Over.” She took the licorice tea that hadn’t really gotten any less gross outside.
Her vocal cords were moist and pliant, or whatever the hell words Vivian used to describe them, and her confidence irrepressible when Iris stepped out to the covered patio with breakfast. Tray in hand, Iris did a double take at Bryn already seated at the table rather than waiting for room service.
“Well, good morning,” Iris said as she set down the tray.
Bryn was still smiling when Vivian stepped outside. Vivian, who took one look at Bryn and said, “Don’t get too excited.”
With a laugh, Bryn popped a grape into her mouth. “How exactly do you know if I’ve surpassed the pre-approved threshold of excitement?”
Iris laughed.
Vivian had no visible reaction. She sat in her usual seat at the head of the table.
“Just because?—”
“I know it’s not over until the romance novelist sings,” Bryn interrupted. “But maybe we can take this little tiny win and build some momentum?”
Vivian, hair slicked back so that it was impossible to miss the perfection of her face, blinked. While Iris brought out her breakfast, Vivian didn’t speak. Each silent second drained the warmth from Bryn’s body. It was so unbearable, Bryn was ready to say anything to get out from under her microscope when Vivian reached for the honey.
“It’s unfortunate,” Vivian said, her cold-detachment digging a pit in Bryn’s previously content stomach.
Bryn swallowed but her mouth was no less dry. Her pulse no less erratic.
What did Vivian know that Bryn didn’t? It was obvious Vivian was tight with Harvey. Had he called her and told her something that wasn’t in the email? Her blood turned glacial, jagged ice freezing her arteries. Had she misunderstood? Did Montoya not want any more files because she was firing Bryn?
“Unfortunate,” Vivian continued while she stirred her tea. She looked at Bryn, taking her time while she took a sip. “That you chose Garbo as your pseudonym. After all the attention this release is going to garner, you’ll never be able to change it.”
Relief was a warm blanket and a roaring fire and marshmallow-topped hot chocolate. Bryn nearly collapsed forward and yelled at Vivian not to scare her like that again. But she’d caught something in Vivian’s expression. The ghost of something like amusement in her dark, unreadable eyes. It made Bryn recklessly playful.
“What do you mean?” Bryn asked with the most deer-in-the-headlights look she could muster.
Vivian did an incredible impersonation of a flat affect emoji before she scoffed. “You picked Garbo and you don’t even know why?”
Bryn dug her nails into her thigh to keep from laughing. From giving away the game. “Are we having two different conversations here?”
“Garbo? As in Greta Garbo?” Vivian said, like she was attempting first contact with an alien species and it was not going well.
It was all Bryn could do not to break. To keep a clueless expression plastered on her face.
“Is she an influencer?” Bryn asked, her face the picture of innocent confusion. She tilted her head, squinting slightly as if engaging every brain cell in the act of remembering. “What era is she from? YouTube or Insta?”
Vivian stared at her, expression somewhere between horror and pity.
“An influencer?” Vivian repeated like she was scaling a mountain with every consonant. “You think Greta Garbo… is a YouTuber who opens packages for gawking strangers?”
