Before I can agree, her quill is bobbing again and she’s biting her lip in concentration. I tap my foot on the flowered rug.This is truly a nightmare. There’s no way we can write a story together and have it make any sense at all. It will be drivel.
“Read this. It’s more of a continuation. Be honest.” She shoves her work at me.
I read a few lines and then come to this bit.
And when the footsteps drew near, she steadied herself, heart pounding—not from fear, but from the absurdity that her last stand might reek of cinnamon.
It’s nothing like what I want to produce, but I guess that’s how this project is going to go. The writing isn’t bad; it’s just that the tone is such a departure from my usual.
“Well,” I start, trying to find a less terrible thing to say than everything going through my mind, “I do enjoy using self-deprecating humor in my real life, so I suppose we can try that with our heroine as well. But I think our male lead might be more responsible for the theft than our female lead knows. This needs to have more tension. If it’s this light, we’ll diffuse the tension right when it’s time to build it. I don’t want to make light of the pain of his backstory either.”
Her eyebrows bunch and she studies my face, her gaze peppering my cheeks, mouth, and eyes. She asks me a few questions about the male character, and we exchange ideas about his backstory and howit might relate to the female’s history. But we are butting heads.
“Humor is healing, Archer. And why would we want to focus on a painful backstory?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. We are so far apart in writing philosophy that I don’t even know where to begin. She slaps my arm, and I wonder why we are suddenly physically fighting until I see her beaming smile.
“I have a plan!” She is bouncing again. “Let’s do a public reading. If the crowd likes it, then we will know we’re on the right track.”
Absolutely not. “I’m not doing that.”
“Yes, you are,” she says in a singsong voice.
“No, really. I’m not.” I stand and gather my things. “Let’s take a day to digest what we have discussed so far. I’ll come back when I’m ready to do more drafting.”
“What about going for pastries?” Her sad face tugs at me, but I ignore it.
“Next time, for sure.”
Her lips bunch and her eyes narrow, but she nods. “Fine.”
I give her a bow. “Thank you, Colette. I do appreciate the fact that you’ve been dragged into this as much as I am. I’m sorry you’re saddled to this sad horse.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m going to cheer you up, horse.”
I open the door. “I’ll attempt to let your magic work, my lady.”
I don’t look back. I can’t stand the optimistic expression she surely has on her beautiful face. This is a disaster, and I feel like I’ve been flung to the farthest reaches of the world without proper gear. The wild animals (aka the ignorant masses) will gnaw my bones here in this dark, cold world of pleasing a crowd. Well, I bet Colette can handle the naysayers. She has been in this town for a handful of days and has already befriended the baker and started a charity drive for a neighboring town. I want nothing to do with this project, but I have to admit Colette is pretty wonderful. She just isn’t meant to be my co-writer.
Chapter 9
Colette
I’m also going to ride this sad horse if I get my way,I think as I walk across the gathering room toward Kaya. The baker’s light hair is knotted high on her head and she is still wearing an apron destroyed by flour as if she didn’t remember to take it off before coming over here.
“Why are you cackling?” Kaya hands me the list of charity donations as I approach the charity table.
“Oh, nothing.”
Kaya’s mate, a dragon shifter named Cyrus, lifts a hand in greeting. “I doubt that.” Though in this form, he has mostly smooth skin, rows of golden scales line his cheekbones and reflect the light of the fire. “I would recognize asexy mischief face anywhere.”
Kaya slaps his arm. “Colette might not want to be teased by you. You two just met.”
I laugh. “I’m fine with it. And yes, I am up to sexy mischief, but don’t tell anyone.”
Cyrus and Kaya pretend to lock their lips with imaginary keys.
Cyrus leans over the table, his tail swishing behind him. “I bet it’s about that vamp, eh?”
