knew he should offer to help but this time was able to hold back the words. Washing dishes with her was domestic and he didn’t do domestic. Not anymore.
Without another word he walked to the front door and Harley followed from wherever he’d been dozing. They went out onto the porch then up the stairs to his office.
Jack sat down in the chair behind his desk and looked at the blank computer monitor for a while. He patted his leg and said, “Harley, up.”
The dog did as ordered then made a circle before settling on Jack’s lap. He scratched the animal’s hairless back and hoped the mindless activity would stimulate something creative or useful. Ten minutes later he still had nothing.
There was a knock on his office door before Erin stuck her head inside. “Rough commute. Am I late?”
If only. “Nine o’clock on the nose.” Damn it.
She took a seat in front of the desk. “Okay, let the status meeting begin. Where are you in the book?”
“Where am I?” he repeated. Harley chose that moment to desert him and jump down and pad over to her. “Well, let me think. That’s kind of hard to say.”
“Yeah. I can see where it would be. Why don’t you start by telling me what you have so far.”
“What I have... Let’s see.” He leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers over his abdomen. “Wow. Where do I begin...?”
Really, he wanted to say. Where? Did he open the story with unknown assailants ambushing Mac and leaving him for dead? Or with a mysterious stranger who contacts him for help because word of his exploits in rescuing the ex-girlfriend’s kidnapped kid from a vicious drug cartel had spread? The best first line would be something like “The pretty, green-eyed woman with sun-streaked brown hair smiled seductively before telling him to forget the book and take her to bed.”
Erin waited patiently for him to speak. When the silence drifted into awkward territory she said, “You know, Corinne Carlisle had a hard time talking about her story, too. It could be an author thing because you’re more comfortable with the written word than the spoken one.”
Helpful of her to gift-wrap an excuse for him. “Yeah, I think you just nailed it.”
“Are you a pantser or a plotter?” she asked.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Do you write by the seat of your pants? Or do you know every detail ahead of time when you sit down at the computer?”
Right this minute he wished to be a plotter but was pretty sure the first one described him best. “That’s really hard to say.”
“Okay.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Then let’s talk about your characters.”
Oh, boy. He could really use an interruption about now. A phone call, package delivery, or a little rocket attack. “The thing is, I don’t have all the characters set in stone yet. Still trying to flesh them out.”
“You have Mac,” she pointed out.
Good old Mac. “I do have him.”
“What’s happened to him in the time since we left him at the end of book one?”
“That’s a good question. I’m glad you asked.” Not.
She waited for him to elaborate. So it was safe to say she wasn’t an interrupter. Boy, did he wish she was.
“So,” Jack said. “He’s been kicking around.”
“In Los Angeles? Or has he gone to Dallas, Topeka, or Micronesia?” The perky, trying-to-be-helpful tone was missing in action from her voice.
“He hasn’t moved.” And that was Jack’s fault because he hadn’t moved his main character.
“In the last book he had just left the army and had no plan for his life before being pulled into that case involving his dead buddy’s younger brother, who was married to his ex-girlfriend.”
“Yeah.” Funny how the no-plan-for-his-life part sounded a lot like Jack.
“How is he supporting himself?”
“Odd jobs. This and that.” And in a military operation when you wanted to avoid direct confrontation with an enemy that had superior firepower, a good soldier created a diversion. He took a piece of paper from the printer tray beside him. “I put together some things for you to research.”
Erin’s eyes narrowed as she took it from him, then scanned the list. “Meteors? Dinosaurs?” She met his gaze. “You probably already know that Jurassic Park has been done.” She looked down again. “Jet Skis?”
“All things I’m considering incorporating into the story.”
With careful, precise movements she folded the single sheet several times before slicing him with a look. “What’s going on, Jack?”
“I need you to look stuff up.”
“No, you don’t. You’re trying to distract me and it’s time for you to cut the crap.”
“Is that any way to talk to your employer?”
“Technically I work for the publishing house, specifically your editor. So, yeah, it’s a very good way to address a man who is not forthcoming.”
“What makes you think something’s going on?” Besides the fact that he kept dodging her direct questions?
“Classic avoidance. And to quote Shakespeare—‘let me count the ways.’” She held up her fingers. “You won’t talk about the story, characters or what your hero has been doing. I’m pretty sure that means you have no idea. And every time I push for information, you come up with a distraction. Some ridiculous research stuff that has nothing to do with your genre. One hundred and one ways to be romantic—really, Jack? You even threw me out of my room and kicked me downstairs.” She took a breath. “So call me paranoid and neurotic—”
“Don’t forget punctual,” he added helpfully.
“—but I’m suspicious,” she continued without missing a beat after his interjection. “Your editor would welcome an outline of the project. Not details, necessarily, just the beginning, middle and end of the story. Possibly a one-line characterization of the hero.”
Jack met her gaze, stare for stare. Her perky, cheerful interrogation might have given him a sense of her being a pushover. Now he saw the error of that assumption. She was sunshine and steel.
Still, he couldn’t resist trying one more time. “There’s nothing to be suspicious about. I’m in the process of pulling all the threads together.”
“Then let me see your pages.” She suddenly stood and moved around the desk to look at his computer monitor. “It’s not even turned on.”
“That’s easy to rectify.”
“Okay.
