Priscilla takes a slow sip of her coffee. “Don’t worry about them.”
Sienna studies the other woman, marveling at how calm she is. Maybe Malcolm was right. Maybe she simply knows she doesn’t have a shot. After all, romance is a far cry from crime. But there’s something about Priscilla, her placid-lake poise, that makes Sienna nervous. She must be staring outright, because Priscilla finally looks away from the map, one brow lifting behind her pink frames, and the question spills out.
“Do you even want this?” Sienna says, and Priscilla inclines her head. “I mean, Fletch was a thriller writer, which is about as far from your genre as it gets. And I’m not saying that romance is easy, or anything like that, but—I mean—it’s sodifferent, and—”
“You don’t think I deserve to be here?”
Heat rushes to Sienna’s face. “No, no, that’s not what I mean.”
Priscilla looks at her, clearly content to let her dig her own hole. Sienna feels herself getting flustered.
“It’s just—you’re so calm.”
Priscilla shrugs, turning her gaze mercifully back on the map. “You know, the best piece of advice I ever received was to keep my eyes on my own paper.”
Which is a nice idea, thinks Sienna. But—
“Easier said than done,” she murmurs. “Especially when there’s so much at stake.”
Priscilla nods. “It is, but don’t you see? That’s when it matters most.”
Sienna sighs, trying to breathe the way she learned in yoga—slowly, like the sea is there in the back of her throat—to imitate the other woman’s stillness, as if the calm beneath will rub off too. She tries, she really does, but every time she blinks, she sees the blank sheaf of paper stacked neatly beside the untouched typewriter in her room, hears her pulse ticking like a clock, along with the echo of someone else’s keys, and—
“I need coffee,” she says, escaping down the hall, away from Priscilla and her maddening poise.
On the way to the kitchen she passes Fletch’s office, the time blinking on the safe now down to52. Sienna groans inwardly. The ticking clock is one of the most popular tools in a writer’s shed, a surefire way to create narrative tension, but it turns out it’s the kind of thing that may work betterinsidea novel than in the making of one. The weight of it looms over her, makes her skin prickle with nerves and her mind begin to race, because she doesn’t have a solve, not yet, and—
“Get it together,” she mutters, forcing herself on, past the office door and into the kitchen, where Kenzo, hands braced on either side of the espresso machine as if to guard it, is being accosted by Jaxon, who’s traded his boxers and robe for a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie with the sleeves hacked off.
“I don’t know why you drink that stuff.”
“Because it fuels me,” says Kenzo, as the machine grinds and brews.
He spots Sienna and smiles, obviously thrilled to have backup. “Morning,” he says. “Kettle’s hot, I think, if you’re the tea type.”
“Actually, I’d kill for a coffee. Strong as you can make it.”
“A woman after my own heart,” he says with a wink.
“Your gut biome deserves better,” warns Jaxon.
“Mygut biomedoesn’t write books,” counters Sienna, opening the fridge. “And my brain doesn’t work without caffeine, so I think I’ll take my chances.”
“Actually,” says Kenzo, “numerous scientific studies have shown that—”
“—you should bite me?” offers Jaxon.
Sienna finds a selection of pastries and tarts in the fridge. “Speaking of biting,” she says, setting the tray of goodies on the counter before snagging a croissant.
“Oh, yes please,” says Kenzo, laying claim to an apple tart and eating half in one go. He sighs and stands, eyes closed, coffee in one hand and pastry in the other, looking like a saint.
After a long moment, he opens his eyes.
“You want one?” Kenzo holds the plate toward Jaxon, who physically recoils, as if the calories might leap out and attack him.
“No way.” He waves his hand. “No food before noon. I do intermittent fasting.”
“Of course you do,” says Kenzo around a mouthful of tart.
