“And then what?”Willow’squestion was the elephant in the room.
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”Ilet out a deep sigh. “Idon’t know.I’vethought about going back to school and getting my teaching license.Thenagain,I’mnot sure who would hire a failed author to teach people how to write.”
“You’re not a failed author,”Whitneysnapped. “You’rean author.Fullstop.”
I could see the fierce determination in her eyes.Whitneywasn’t convinced thatIwas done, andIknew damn well that she would do everything in her power to get me writing again.
“Okay, question,”Whitneysaid. “I’mwriting this enemies-to-lovers andI’mafraidI’mtaking it too far.Like, the characters still need to be redeemable so they can live happily ever after.Ifhe calls her his dirty little whore while they’re angry banging, is that too far since they’re already enemies?Isit just reinforcing it too much?”
And there it was.Whitneycould write an enemies-to-lovers in her sleep.Shedidn’t need our two cents.Shewas just trying to get me back in the drafting mindset.
“Does he call heradirty little whore orhisdirty little whore?”Willowasked. “Becausethose are two very different things.”
I nodded. “Ifhe calls herhis, it softens it up.Ithink you can get away with it.Especiallyif you keep “little” in there.Itmakes it cuter.”
There was something about a leading man calling the lady “his” for the first time.Therewas safety in it.Maybea little lust.Itwas something that an innate part of me craved in real life and between the pages.Iwanted that sense of belonging and trust.
A premonition ofJackflashed in my mind, and a chill raced down my spine.Hiseyes.Hishands.Hismouth.
I flinched again when a frigid bead ran down my back, then looked up.
“Everything okay?Whitneyasked as her fingers clicked away on the keys.
I sighed. “There’sa leak in the roof, and it’s raining.”
“Oooh!”Willowcooed. “It’syour cliché coming true!Badweather in the deadGreat-Aunt’sbeach house!”
I rolled my eyes. “Itwouldn’t be a problem if the roofing company wasn’t running behind on another job.Theywere supposed to be out here yesterday to finish it up.”Anotherraindrop pelted my head as the wind rattled the windows. “Geez.Ididn’t think the storm was going to be this bad.”
I eased off the couch and shoved it out of the splash zone.Ineeded to find a bowl or a bucket.Thelast thingIwanted was water damage on the floors.Theyhad been secured and sanded smooth, with the exception of the branded floorboard.Iwanted to keep the character as much asIcould.Allthat was left to do was seal them, butIneeded a clear day whereIcould have all the doors and windows open to let the fumes out.
I pawed around the kitchen to find a bowl or bucket to catch the rain.Ididn’t have much as far as cookware went, butIhad found some old metal pots and pans thatIwas able to scrub up to a respectable standard of cleanliness.
The question was, where were they?
The kitchen was in complete disarray.Theold wall cabinets were out, butIhadn’t put up the open shelving to replace them, yet.Ifit was going to be a beach rental, people staying for a week didn’t need chunky old cabinets collecting dust that were mostly empty anyway.Besides, they blocked the sunlight from the kitchen window.
I yanked open one of the lower countertop doors and peered inside.Thepots were gone.Icould have swornIhad put them there . . .
I moved down to the next door and found whatIwas looking for.Igrabbed the old stock pot and set it on top of the counter.Iwent to shut the door, then paused.AcursiveAwas etched onto the back wall.
That was weird.
I smoothed my hand over the mark, but there were no pieces to open or loose bricks to slide.Icertainly wasn’t going to demolish a wall ifIdidn’t have to.
A drawer was right above theAon that section of counter space.Ipulled on the handle but it didn’t budge.Somethingwas lodged along the track.Ipulled and wiggled the drawer asIreached into the cabinet and felt along the wood panel untilItouched something cool and smooth.Ipushed up on the bottom of the drawer just long enough to dislodge?—
What the hell?
I pinched the ornate pen between my fingers and studied it.Tothe average person, it would just be a regular pen.Itlooked like a tourist trinket fromShacklefordBanks.Somethingthat had been picked up on one of the island ferries that were promoted all over the place.
But along the outside of the pen whereShacklefordBankswas stamped into the side of the metal, someone had added, “andTrust.”Iwouldn’t have thought anything of it, except there was a distinct cursive letterAon the opposite side.
“You okay?”Willowcalled from the video chat.
“Yeah,”Isaid asIgrabbed the pot and hurried back to catch the raindrops. “Ifound anotherAuroraArcherclue.”
“Seriously?”Whitneygasped. “Whatwas it this time?”
