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“Stop that. You were on theNew York Timesbestseller list. New. York. Times. Isn’t that like a huge deal in your world?”

Mack scooped the last bit of yogurt onto a spoon. “Yeah, but it wasn’t number one.”

“What number was it?”

Six.But she didn’t want to say it out loud. Because it wasn’t number one.

Her mom rinsed off her plate. “Don’t most authors dreamabout this? I don’t understand why you’re always so hard on yourself.”

She rubbed a thumb into her temple to stave off the slow hum of a headache. “I better get back at it. I need to finish up that final piece.”

“You’ll have plenty of quiet time when Dad and I are at the game tonight. Good luck with it.”

“Come on, Ma. Who needs luck when you’ve got this?” She tapped her head with a forced cocky grin and left. Once she shut the bedroom door, she leaned against the wall to center herself. She hated lying to her mom about her book.Hated. It.

She slid the patio door open and slumped on the wicker furniture. Her shaky thumbs scrolled through her contacts. Viviane’s name on the screen felt like a noose. She exhaled and tapped call.

“So youarealive.”

“Sorry, Viv. I know, I know.” She shielded her eyes with her hand against the late afternoon sun. “I would’ve called earlier, but…”

“Listen. You need bouts of silence to get into your creative zone. I get it. I’ve worked with plenty of authors that do random stuff,” Viviane said with a hint of annoyance. “I even had one that wrote in the nude. Couldn’t stand any distractions, including clothes.”

“Oh God, it’s Dylan, isn’t it?”

“I’ll never say.” Her voice softened just enough for Mack’s guilt to thicken. “Point is, I really do understand. But youhaveto communicate. You should’ve given me—at minimum—a partial first draft a week ago. A little more time, fine. But going dark like this, it’s not good. Leaves me squirrely. Leaves the editor squirrely. And if the director knew, he’d be super squirrely.”

“Are you saying no one wants to be a squirrel?”

“Mack.”

For someone who made their living on the English language, Mack could formulate exactly zero letters to relay the message that she washorribly,desperately,achingly,dreadfully… at a complete standstill.

“Look, I don’t want to spook you, but I had a call with the CEO last week and he was asking about your progress. I told him everything was on target, but is that the truth? We’re closing in on six months and I haven’t seen a single line.”

Heat burned Mack’s stomach. She opened her dry mouth to speak but snapped shut her lips. She knew the deadline—Viviane didn’t need to tell her. Every second of every day she saw the minutes deplete and her timeline shrink. And she knewexactlywhat would happen if she broke her contract and couldn’t finish the book in the next two months—including paying back the advance she already spent. “The manuscript’s, ah… not flowing as well as I’d hoped.”

“What exactly do you mean, not flowing?”

She plucked at her jeans. “My focus is not up to par, and the words are, I guess, tripping over themselves and?—”

“Are you saying you have writer’s block?”

The heat of the sun matched her shame. She stood and turned her back to the horizon when her dad walked across the living room.

He pointed a V at his eyes and then hers, and mouthed,I’m watching you, with a dirty grin.

She flipped him off with a smirk.

“You should’ve come to me. We could brainstorm, talk to other authors, review the outline again, role-play, massages, therapy, whatever. Writer’s block is not uncommon, but you have to tell me.” A heavy exhale sounded through the receiver. “Don’t worry about it, though. We got this. What’s your word count?”

She coughed and put the phone down until the spasms stopped. “Fifteen K.”

“Did you sayfifteen? Like fifteen thousand?”

“Yeah.”

Another long, uncomfortable silence followed, and she could almost hear mirrored thoughts running through her agent’s head: contracts, deadlines, publishers, editors, money, negotiation.