“Everything about this place is a little much,” says Kenzo blandly.
Malcolm plucks the paper from her hand and gives it a cursory look. “Arty’s always been notoriously private,” he says.
“Arty?” says Jaxon, but Malcolm presses on.
“Besides, these salons of his are sacred. A chance to talk through ideas, past, present, and future. Wouldn’t want those secrets getting out.”
“I guess,” says Sienna, obviously looking around for something to sign with. Priscilla finally lets herself reach for the golden flower pinned to her dress, revealing it for what it is: the decorative cap of a pen.
A gift from her mom, and a nod to the fact that even when she was supposed to be off the clock, on a date, or home for Christmas, some part of her was always working.
Sienna uncaps the pen, and frowns. She obviously expected it to be black, but the tip, where the ink shows, is beaded crimson.
“What kind of serial killer writes in red?” asks Jaxon with a nervous chuckle, repeating the same line he gave her when he borrowed it to sign his own paper.
Priscilla shrugs. She knows it’s a common superstition among writers—had a friend who claimed it was the ink equivalent of a scythe, slashing through his work, that he would only accept edits done in a friendly shade of green or blue—but personally, she’s never understood the repulsion. Surely what’s being written is more important than what color it’s being written in.
Sienna and Malcolm sign, neither writing their own name. Instead, he makes two grand flourishes—aPand anS—and then Sienna does the rest, scribbling inennandtonely, their two styles locking together like hands to form the name.
Priscilla doesn’t know if it counts as legally binding, but it’s rather charming. She’s just fastening the filigreed pen back to her dress when Cate appears in the doorway, clutching a tray with a teapot and half a dozen mismatched cups.
“I found the tea!”
Priscilla’s first thought, when she met Cate, was that she didn’t look old enough to drive, let alone write crime novels. At least ones good enough to publish.
She’s small and waifish, her dark hair chopped bluntly just above her shoulders. She’s dressed in an oversize green cardigan, the sleeves so long that they keep swallowing her hands—and part of the tray—as she beelines for the table, cups and saucers rattling with every step.
Kenzo and Malcolm both twitch toward her to help, but she shakes her head.
“I’ve got it. I worked in a coffee shop. Never so much as broken a cup.” She puts the tray down on the table, careful to avoid the pile of NDAs. “I just thought—I didn’t know how long we’d be waiting... hopefully Mr. Fletch won’t mind. I raided the biscuits, too.”
She backs away from the tray of tea and contraband cookies and looks around, as if trying to decide where to perch. She ends up on the very edge of Kenzo’s sofa.
Priscilla notices that none of the men are pouring tea for themselves. She wonders how long they’ll wait for one of the women to do it—it’s not about to be her, and she’s hoping the others will hold the line—but then Sienna makes a show of playing hostess, asking everyone how they take it.
Cate takes hers with a splash of milk and a flustered thanks.
Millie starts with three cubes of sugar, then surreptitiously adds a fourth.
She doesn’t need to ask Malcolm, just passes him a cup.
Priscilla takes hers black—personally, she prefers coffee, but she’s tired enough from the flight that any form of caffeine will do.
To her surprise, both Kenzo and Jaxon pass, though for very different reasons.
“I’ll stick to espresso,” says Kenzo, while Jaxon insists that “the body’s a temple, gotta worship it.”
“Most temples appreciate offerings,” quips Kenzo.
Priscilla smiles into her cup.
Malcolm, meanwhile, has sidled over to Cate. “A fellow Brit, if I’m not mistaken?”
She bobs her head, tucks a chunk of hair behind her ear. “Yorkshire. You?”
“Why, Bonnie Scotland, of course!” he says in a heavy brogue, feigning offense well enough that Cate blushes, clearly embarrassed.
Sienna cuts in. “He’s lived in New York for more than a decade. At this point, no one can tell where he’s from.”
