“We’re all through here... thedrawing room, I guess? Priscilla said we should wait in there.”
“And who, may I ask, is Priscilla?” says Malcolm, hurrying to catch up to Millie. “Don’t tell me Fletch has finally settled down after all these years? Good for him!” He squeezes Sienna’s shoulder. “There’s nothing like the love of a good woman.”
Sienna’s smile is weaker than the Scottish sun.
“No, no,” says Millie with a laugh. “Priscilla Renée Fox. With a name like that, she’s got to be a romance writer!”
Malcolm cocks a brow. “Romance, eh? How...interesting.”
They trail Millie down a short hall, the walls of which are lined with framed reference maps of various cities—Venice, Rio, Madrid—all settings from Fletch’s backlist, small handwritten notes tacked to rivers and roads, his penmanship almost as illegible as hers.
When they reach the door to the drawing room, Sienna recoils. Even from here she can see the trophies mounted on the walls, though she’s fairly sure there’s nothing to hunt on the little island, which means these were all brought in for show: Arthur Fletch playing dress-up as a Scottish lord, when he’s as American as she is.
Sienna meets the glassy stare of a mounted stag’s head before Millie pushes the door wide, revealing three writers (all very much alive) scattered across the furniture, and flings out her hands in a grand gesture that’s meant to either introduce them to the room or introduce the room to them.
“Guys,” she says, “This is Penn Stonely!”
The Romance Writer
SHE’S HEARD IT SAID THAT IN LIFE,as in love, chemistry is everything.
And chemistry begins with first impressions.
The average person takes approximately ten seconds to form an opinion, which is why the meet-cute holds so much power. A moment of eye contact, a disarming smile, an aura of welcome, can set the tone for everything that follows.
Unfortunately, the moment Penn Stonely enters the drawing room, Priscilla’s mind is somewhere else.
Specifically, it’s on the collar of her dress, and the bit of paper tickling her neck. She can’t believe she forgot to take the tag off. It’s new. Save for the gold flower pin,everythingshe’s wearing is new, from the fuchsia dress to the matching heels to the polish on her nails.
Pink seemed rosy.
Pink seemed bright.
Pink seemed confident and approachable and all the things she wants to be.
Or at least, wants them to think she is.
Now, the outfit strikes her as a bit much, but it’s too late—too late to do anything about the color, or the tag, so she tries to ignore it, lacing her hands in her lap to keep from fidgeting as Millie’s chipper voice leads the final author into the drawing room.
Well,authors.
“A writing team,” says Millie. “How neat is that?”
She offers the two with a flourish to the three already in the drawing room, as if they’re a piece of show-and-tell.
Priscilla only half listens as Millie makes the introductions. She’s already sized the other two up. There’s Jaxon, a jockish white guy with a faint Texas twang. He’s in his mid-thirties—though the sweatpants, cropped brown hair, and hipster glasses say he’s trying to pass for younger.
And Kenzo, an Asian guy—Japanese, if she had to guess—around the same age, and the only non-white person aside from herself in attendance. Dressed in black jeans and an AC/DC shirt, he’s currently losing a battle with the hungry sofa he made the mistake of sitting on.
As for Millie’s show-and-tell, the woman is trim in a Pilates-twice-a-week way, flashing a nervous smile. The man beside her is easily a decade older, with salt-and-pepper hair, radiating the smugness that seems to surround most white men in publishing. The assumption that you already know who he is.
Priscilladoes, but she allows herself a private smile when Kenzo says, “So which of you is Penn and which is Stonely?”
The man’s face falls in a satisfying way. But the woman chuckles good-naturedly.
“Neither, I’m afraid,” she says. “I’m Sienna. This is my husband, Malcolm.”
“We’re partners in crime, in more ways than one,” adds Malcolm, delivering the line with a curious accent—something between English, Scottish, and mid-Atlantic—and a well-practiced air that earns an eye-roll from Sienna and a polite chuckle from everyone else. Well, everyone but Millie, who puts her hands on her hips and says, “Don’t spoil the game!”
