Page 13 of A Deal with the Devil

Eventually, I force myself to sit down at my laptop. The story leaves off when things have really gone awry—Aisling discovers the hole they climbed through is shrinking, but when she goes to the castle to get Ewan, the doors are locked. She will need to acquire some magic of her own or they’ll both remain trapped there forever.

It should be exciting…but I’m bored. I’ve tried to write the chapter where Aisling acquires magic. I’ve tried to map out her attack on the castle. I’ve tried skipping ahead to the epilogue, which finds her and Ewan married and settled back home.

But no matter how many words I spit out, I can’t make the book something I would want to read. So, what happens in September when the manuscript is due? Do I turn in a steaming pile of dogshit and hope they don’t notice, or do I return what I can of the advance and spend the rest of my life paying off Charlotte’s stay at Fairfield? These are the questions that keep me up at night, that have me sliding on my running shoes after dark, knowing sleep will be impossible otherwise.

There was a time when inspiration came after I fell asleep, but this weekend my dreams bring no answers. It’s just me, standing in a ballroom, with a dangerous man whispering in my ear.

* * *

That dream is still in my head on Monday morning, when I arrive to find Hayes playing the whole Satan thing to the hilt in a black shirt and pants. The dangerous look suits him—no surprises there. I run my eyes over his chest—his shirt is fitted enough to mold to his very sculpted upper body, and for a moment I picture it all over again—his hands on my arms, his breath in my ear. Warmth spreads over my skin and my bones seem to go loose before I stop myself. What am I doing? I mentally lock that deranged dream down and send it scuttling off to some dark corner of my brain. Never to be seen or heard again, I hope.

Shaking my head, I lift my eyes from his chest to his face. He seems rested and not hungover for once. Jonathan warned me he takes surgery days seriously. I guess I just couldn’t quite imagine Hayes taking anything seriously, other than himself.

“Someone named Piper texted,” I tell him. “She said she wanted to see for herself ‘if it’s as big as everyone says’.”

“My dick,” he says, as if this was unclear. “And it is.”

“I’ll let you inform her yourself,” I reply, sliding him the phone.

He ignores it, tipping his head to observe me. “If you’re not an actress,” he says, “why are you in LA? Modeling?”

I laugh. “Model? I’m five-four. Who would I model for?”

“Children’s clothes?” he suggests. “Or a fashion line for pygmies?”

A smile flickers over my face. “If pygmy fashion model is really a thing, I will tender my resignation immediately.”

He leans back in his seat, watching me. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

Nor do I want to. I look over his schedule to avoid his gaze. It’s all too depressing, the way nothing I hoped for is coming true.

“Why can’t I just want to be an assistant?” I ask. “Or a bartender?”

“Because you seem like someone destined for more,” he says quietly.

My head jerks up. I scan his face for sarcasm and find something else instead…interest, intrigue. If he knew me better, I imagine any intrigue would die a quick death. Because I once thought I was destined for more too, thanks to the writing contests and accolades in college, and time is definitely proving otherwise.

I paste an indifferent smile on my face. “I came out of the womb wanting to bartend. Which makes us well-suited, since you probably came out of the womb asking for a good scotch.”

“Macallan,” he agrees pleasantly. “It was my first word, actually. Coffee was second.”

I grin. “I’ve got a few guesses what the third word was. It starts with a p.”

He laughs as he rises from his chair, the sound low and warm and unexpected. It makes me feel like I’ve won something. He’s taken two steps toward the door when he stops and turns back toward me.

“Whatever it is you really wanted to do...you’re a little young to have already given up on it. And it seems unlike you to go down without a fight.”

“You’ve known me for a week. How would you know if I fight for things or not?”

“Well,” he says, “you’re fighting with me now, aren’t you?”

As he walks away, I admit to myself he might have a point. I’ve had Matt’s words in my head for too long, telling me I only got the book deal because of him. Telling me I’m never going to finish.

But Matt’s been gone for a year. Even if he’s still talking, perhaps it’s time I stopped listening.

* * *

I sink into the plush white chair in my office and turn on the computer, ignoring, for now, the Post-It note Hayes has left asking me to fix the hot tub and bedroom mirror. I return the weekend’s messages and adjust the schedule and it’s only when I’ve completed every last task that I wrinkle my nose and head upstairs to survey the damage.