Did Not Finish

  NICOLA MARSH

  Copyright © Nicola Marsh 2022

  Published by Parlance Press 2022

  * * *

  All the characters, names, places and incidents in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names and are used fictitiously. They’re not distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all the incidents in the book are pure invention. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in any form. The text or any part of the publication may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

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  Stranded…with my nemesis!

  AXEL: It’s bad enough an unseasonal blizzard means I’m stuck with my PA’s annoying cat, but to make matters worse, Mia Samson and her poison pen are in my house too. The renowned reviewer has tanked enough books with her dreaded DNF and I need to teach her a lesson.

  But my enemy is not what I expect and if I’m not careful, I’m in danger of revealing my secret to the one person who can use it against me.

  * * *

  MIA: I know people in publishing call me the career-wrecker behind my back. What they don’t know is, I’m writing a novel, and when I’m lucky enough to win a week-long retreat with bestselling Axel Low in quaint Sugar Plain, Nebraska, I’m thrilled.

  Until I discover being snowed in with the reclusive grump is merely the first trope my life has turned into, and soon I’m sorely tempted to enact enemies to lovers…

  Which one of us will lose the plot first?

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  FREE book and more

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  MIA

  * * *

  “I have a severe case of blue balls.”

  I roll my eyes at Jace, my co-worker, who thinks the proximity of our desks in the editorial department of the New York Press equates with a close friendship worthy of him divulging every snippet of his sex life.

  “I have no interest in the color of your gonads,” I say, trying to focus on my latest review for a debut author’s psychological thriller. I love my job, and that so many of the newspaper’s readers hang on my every word for their book choices, but it’s times like this, when I’m trying to find the words to say ‘this sucks’ politely, that it’s tough.

  “My balls aren’t literally blue, Mia.” Jace, who channels the quintessential bad boy in every romance I’ve ever read with his artfully mussed hair, laconic smile and perpetual stubble, leans back in his chair and smirks at me. “I thought you of all people would understand sexual frustration.”

  I shouldn’t bite, I really shouldn’t, but the faster I get him to shut up, the sooner I can return to the task at hand: trying not to ruin a new author’s career while being honest and maintaining my credibility.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “When’s the last time you had a date, Me-me?”

  He knows I hate it when he calls me that, but I pretend it doesn’t bother me. Either that or fling my stapler at his big head.

  “I’ve been swiping right plenty,” I say.

  It’s a lie. I deleted my dating apps months ago after a spectacularly bad coffee catch-up with a guy who wanted to play footsies under the table while licking the foam off his cappuccino suggestively. Ugh.

  Jace eyes me with understandable doubt. He knows that when he calls me late at night with a last-minute invitation to join him at an impromptu poetry reading at some grungy bar I’ll go, which means I rarely have a date.

  “Cobwebs form when something isn’t used in a while.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”

  The stapler might do some actual damage if I throw it at him and I can’t afford to lose this job, so I settle for flinging a pencil. My sporting prowess is on a par with my dating skills, so I miss him by a foot.

  He tsk-tsks and smirks, so I ignore him and return to coming up with the right words to not decimate a debut author’s crappy book.

  Shows promise. Lie.

  Clever red herrings. Lie.

  Looking forward to the sequel. Lie.

  Nobody knows why I’m so pedantic with my reviews these days. Why I spend an inordinate amount of time choosing my words carefully. Why I proofread my reviews way too many times.

  Because one day soon, I hope I’ll be on the receiving end, and I want reviewers to be kind.

  Yeah, after five years of getting paid to read and review books by the best newspaper in the city, I’m writing a book.

  It’s a big deal for me and I haven’t told a soul because I have enough doubt demons perched on my shoulders whispering how utterly crazy I am without actual people I know sharing their skepticism. Or worse, laughing at me. And they will. The romance genre may be the biggest seller worldwide, but it constantly cops unfair criticism from ignorant people who might get a pleasant surprise if they actually picked up a romance and read it.

  And what I’m writing, a regency romance, is particularly disparaged with the stupid ‘bodice ripper’ moniker. Though with a little luck, by the time mine’s published, the popularity of Bridgerton will pave the way for me to make my mark in the sub-genre.

  I can dream, right?

  I’m also tinkering with a suspense novel, an idea that keeps intruding whenever I try to write the regency, and I’ve written the first three chapters. I’ve plotted the rest of the novel because every night when I try to sleep, the story unfolds like scenes from a movie playing behind my eyelids. I take it as a good sign. I can’t wait to dive back into the manuscript. That’s the beauty of being a newbie writer. I can follow my muse wherever it takes me.

  And I’m hoping it takes me to Sugar Plain to spend a week with Axel Low, America’s number one crime bestseller.

  Entering the competition to win a seven-day retreat alongside five other writers with the most popular author in the country is a long shot but I had to try. His books are incredible, and I have no problem finding words to describe them in my reviews: taut, edge of your seat, compulsive, page-turners. He’s my hero and to have him mentor me for a week would take my suspense manuscript to the next level. I’ll happily shelve my regency romance for now and focus on my crime writing skills if I get firsthand feedback from a writer of Axel’s caliber.

  In this industry, it’s all about networking. So if I’m lucky enough to meet him in person, it’s not just the writing tips and critiques that will be invaluable, but he’ll know people—agents, editors, publishers—who I’ll need in the future if I want to go down the traditional publishing route.

  And that’s my ultimate dream: to walk into a bookstore and see my baby on shelves. To pick it up in my hands, weighing it carefully, caressing the cover, before flipping it open and inhaling.

  Is there any better smell than that of a new book?

  “What are you thinking about?” Jace’s aim is better than mine and his eraser bounces off my arm. “You’ve got this dreamy look on your face. Maybe you’re getting some after all?”

  “Leave me alone. I’m working.” I muster my best disapproving frown but predictably, it has little effect on Jace, who’s oblivious unless whatever we discuss revolves around him.

  “Bull. You’re daydreaming about some hot guy.” He places his elbows on his messy desk and rests his chin in his hands. “Tell me now, because you know I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

  He won’t. I’m not telling a soul I’m writing two books at once in the hope of getting published. Especially not Jace, who would tease me mercilessly.

  “Okay, you got me. I was thinking about the hero in this romcom I read last night.” I fan my face. “To die for.”

  “Speaking of romance, have you read the latest Adele Lavash novel?” He wolf-whistles. “Man, does that woman have a way with words to get you going.”

  I roll my eyes. “She’s a hack, churning out the latest in erotica to make a quick buck.”

  A lot of bucks, c
onsidering her books consistently top the bestseller lists. A mega successful indie author who keeps her identity secret, I’ve read every one of her books: and left scathing reviews for them all. Though technically, saying I’ve read them may be a stretch. Skimmed, more like it, because they’re so repetitive.

  Her prose is average and the plot minimal. Nonstop sexy times does not a novel make. Though I hadn’t intended on causing such a furor with my last review. A lot of readers had piled on my disparaging comments, rehashing my review on a popular book lover site, and it hadn’t been pretty. I half expected to get an abusive email from the author, considering there had been considerable fallout and that book hadn’t sold nearly as well as her others, but thankfully, she’s a pro.

  Did I feel bad for labelling her last novel DNF? A little, but my reading time is so precious that if a book doesn’t grab me and I put it aside, I’m honest in giving it a Did Not Finish in my review. I couldn’t even be bothered skimming that one, it had been that bad, and I tried to be objective.

  It’s not like I don’t appreciate a scintillating reverse harem tale, I do, but the last Lavash novel had been lacking in key areas like conflict and it had been a disaster. The book’s rankings backed me up, but I do have a conscience and I can’t help but imagine how I’ll feel if the same happens to me.

  “If you ask me, when you’re in a dating drought like you are, maybe reading about sex might shake things up?” Jace snaps his fingers. “Maybe you should download Lavash’s entire backlist and glom to your heart’s content over the weekend?” He winks. “Get you in the mood, so to speak.”

  “You’re a pain the ass,” I mutter, and hoist my PC screen higher so he can’t see my face. “I’m working here. You should try it some time.”

  “Getting some will fix that bad mood too, you know,” he says, and my frown is useless when he can’t see it.

  Besides, I know what will improve my mood.

  Winning one of those coveted spots on Axel Low’s writing retreat.

  My review quotes have helped boost authors’ careers over the years and if there are literary gods, I deserve some good luck karma.

  Chapter Two

  AXEL

  * * *

  It’s the bane of my existence that my publisher and agent are based in New York City. Not that I regularly make the trip from Sugar Plain to Manhattan, but the culture shock is real every time I leave Nebraska. The teeming sidewalks are the worst. People are rude. They bump and jostle and glare, always in a hurry to be somewhere. Give me the wide-open spaces any day.

  Considering my dourness, I fit right in here. Most would take one look at my formidable expression and go out of their way to avoid me. But I have a reason to be grumpy. What’s their excuse?

  I enter the cavernous café, a converted warehouse with exposed steel beams, brick walls and rough-hewn wood, and spot Christine sitting at a corner table with her nose predictably buried in a book. I like that about her, that she doesn’t just read her clients’ manuscripts or wannabe author submissions all the time, she also reads for pleasure. We have that in common.

  At fifty-eight and two decades older than me, Christine Foley is an icon in the publishing industry. She gets deals done. It’s not uncommon for her to get her authors six or seven figure advances regularly. She’s the queen of auctions. She’s my heroine.

  And the only person in publishing who knows my secret.

  I’d like to keep it that way, which is why I’m here. For the sales of my upcoming release to surpass that of my last, she insists it’s time I reveal my face to the world and that means hosting a writing retreat for aspiring authors.

  It’s the last thing I feel like doing.

  I value my privacy. Not for me, per se, but to protect the one person in the world I’m doing all this for.

  But Christine assures me that getting the six participants to sign ironclad non-disclosure agreements will ensure my privacy remains intact. I’m not so sure. I don’t trust easily, never have, and that means I’ll be keeping a very close eye on the writers who’ve apparently ‘given their left nut’ according to Christine to spend a week with me.

  As I wend my way between the tables, I wonder how Christine hasn’t aged in the ten years since she first signed me. Sleek black bob, minimal wrinkles, and fire-engine red lipstick, her signature. Only the spectacles are different, her current choice of small round lenses and thin tortoiseshell wire rims giving off a distinct Harry Potter vibe.

  When I reach the table, she looks up, a frown between her brows at the disruption, and I smile. I get the same look, part-confusion, part-annoyance when I’m interrupted mid-paragraph.

  “Axel.” She stands and envelops me in a cinnamon-scented hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “You too, Chrissie.”

  When we sit, my gaze lands on the book she’s reading, the latest Colleen Hoover blockbuster.

  “That’s a good one,” I say, pointing to it. “She has a way of dragging you into the story from the first page and never letting go.”

  Christine nods and shoves the book into her bag. “She’s my guilty pleasure.”

  “Why guilty?”

  “Because I feel guilty for reading her when I should be finding an author exactly like her I can rep.”

  I feign being wounded by pressing a fist to my chest. “But you’ve got me. Are you saying I’m not enough?”

  She waves away my false modesty. “You’re more than enough. Now tell me, are you ready for this retreat?”

  I grimace and shake my head. “I’ll never be ready, but I trust you, and if you think this is necessary to boost my sales, I’ll do it.”

  Her eyebrows draw together and her gaze flits around the café for a moment, her uncertainty worrying me. “The industry is in flux so whatever we can do to sure up your next contract, I think it’s worth doing.”

  My concern intensifies. I know I can reinvent myself at any time in indie publishing, but the comfort of a large advance goes a long way to alleviate my insomnia when I pace my den at night, worrying about what will happen to Paula if I can’t pay the bills at the exclusive care facility where she’s thriving.

  I shift in my chair and clear my throat. “The industry’s always in flux, so what aren’t you telling me?”

  Her nose crinkles and she can’t quite meet my eyes. “It’s all about social media these days and many of the publishers’ big sellers are going gangbusters after achieving viral status online.”

  She doesn’t need to spell it out. I have minimal social media presence and in these days of voyeurism, where everyone wants to see what everyone else is doing, that makes me increasingly irrelevant. Sure, I have my super fans who buy anything I publish, but with the proliferation of indie publishing, I know I’m not grabbing the new readers who may not have heard of me. Promotion-wise, I have a virtual assistant I pay handsomely to send out newsletters and organize paid advertising, but I don’t post selfies or photos of my desk or do book signings.