Page 3 of Slow Burn Summer

Charlie patted the arm of the captain’s chair as he sat down. “He commanded his entire fleet from this thing.”

“Like Napoleon,” Kate said.

He raised his eyes to his father’s portrait. “I think he’d get a kick out of the comparison.”

“Well, he was usually right,” Kate said. “And in my case, he definitely was. As I said in my letter, I’ve managed to steer myself spectacularly onto the rocks.”

Charlie’s gaze didn’t flinch. He didn’t seem embarrassed by her candor or seek to make light of her situation.

“It sounds like you’ve had a tough year.”

A small, wild laugh bubbled up her windpipe. “Just a bit.” She swallowed and cleared her throat, remembering she wasn’t there for a stroll down memory lane. “Your email mentioned a job I might be suitable for?”

It could have been a trick of the light, but something shifted momentarily through Charlie’s dark, watchful eyes. Was he regretting inviting her in, deciding whether to even bother telling her about the job he’d called her there to discuss? He glanced down at his desk. Kate did the same, seeing her file, thetwenty-years-out-of-date headshot, Jojo’s flamboyant purple ink. Charlie quickly slid a thick, blank-covered, spiral-bound book over the top of it.

“This book is in need of an author,” he said, splaying his hand flat on its plain front cover, summer bronze against snow white.

She frowned, unsure what he meant. “Doesn’t it already have one?”

His expression saidyes,but alsono.“Not one prepared to have their name across the front of it.”

“Is there something wrong with it?”

Charlie shook his head. “Quite the opposite. It’s a love story for the ages.”

Kate was trying, but the pieces weren’t slotting into place. “I’m sorry, I’m not clear what you’re saying,” she said eventually, a tiny shrug to imply it wasn’t her fault he was being vague.

He steepled his fingers over the book cover, a small sigh suggesting she should try harder. “It’s the work of an extremely established author, but it doesn’t fit their brand. It’s a one-off diversion from their usual genre, and they’re not willing to see it published under their own name.”

“So why don’t they just use a fake name, a pseudonym?”

He took a moment to consider his words. “It’s a little more complicated than that. They don’t want to be connected to this book in any way. They’re not prepared to risk a pseudonym that might be linked back to them at some point in the future.”

“So my name would be on the cover and my photo on the jacket?”

He nodded, watching her wrap her head around the concept.

“Do I have to actually do anything?” she said, trying to decide if it was something she could sign up to. “Besides get a new headshot?”

“Something less teenage might be a start,” he said, just on the right side of sarcasm.

“I was nineteen, actually, and a fool,” she said, prickled. “And now I’m thirty-nine, and still a fool, apparently.”

Awareness flickered through his eyes; he opened his mouth to reply and then seemed to think better of it. He turned the manuscript over in his hands instead, dark lashes hiding his eyes, a reset back into professional mode before he spoke again.

“So it’ll be classed as a debut novel, which in the usual run of things shouldn’t mean face-to-face interviews, but your photo would be on social media pages, you could expect online interviews, podcasts, that kind of thing. Nothing too strenuous and the publisher will give you all the background info you need.” He paused. “You’d need to be on time for things, obviously.”

“Wow,” she said. “If you must know, a baby was sick on me on the street right outside. I had to put my favorite jacket in the bin.” He narrowed his eyes, almost as if he didn’t believe her. Reaching a hand behind her head, she pulled the tie from her ponytail, closing her eyes for a second as a waft of baby sick hit her when she flapped her curls around her shoulders.

“Some guy gave me his tie to fasten my hair back, but here, let me share my sour, crispy curls with you as proof.”

He sighed and passed her an elastic band from a pot on his desk.

Kate resisted the urge to flick it at him, feeling like a moody teenager as she fastened her hair back again to stop herself from gagging. If it wasn’t for the fact she really needed the job, she’d have got up and walked out just for the satisfaction of the flounce. As it was, she put her shoulders back and acted like the grown-ass mature woman she was.

“Would I need to use my actual name?”

He paused and gave her question due consideration. “Would you prefer not to?”

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