Page 2 of Kill Your Darlings

Nothing against Christopher.I loved the idea of working with him again.But Finn was…

Not only had the Finn Scott releases kept Millbrook House afloat for the last two years, Finn was my—Finn was a friend and the closest thing I had to a regular sexual partner.

In fact, there had been a time when I’d worried he’d—well, anyway, lately we seemed to be on the same page as far as spending a little extra time together.Casual.Nothing complicated.

Starting with this weekend.

“You’re going to want to read this!”A tall, skinny guy with spiky silver hair, a lot of piercings and an assortment of colorful tattoos, materialized from the wall-to-wall carpet of conference attendees to shove what looked like a manuscript in a clear binder into my hands.

I opened my mouth to state the obvious:This isn’t how you do it.But he had already turned away and vanished in the milling crowd.A hit and run submission.I stared down at the title page—typed in Bookman Old Style font, no less.

I Know What You Did

Now there was a catchy title—back in 1973.Granted, the full title of Lois Duncan’s classic suspense novel wasI Know What You Did Last Summer, but the abbreviated version had popped up in publishing at least a dozen times since then.You can’t copyright a title, which some writers mistake as encouragement from the universe to go right ahead and do what’s already been done to death.

And not just when it came to choosing titles.

“Keiran!”Rachel’s protest was so loud, several people turned to look our way.“Did you just accept anunsolicitedmanuscript?”

“I didn’tacceptit,” I said hastily, probably guiltily.“I’mholdingit, yes, but only because—”

“Getridof it,” she commanded in the tone of an epidemiologist trying to stave off a pandemic.“Bin it.”

“Well, I mean…” I glanced around uncomfortably.Several audience members were watching us.

Rachel was right, of course.Neither Millbrook nor W&W accepted unsolicited manuscripts.Only agented submissions made it over the transom.Unsolicited manuscripts went straight to the circular filing cabinet.

But it’s one thing to toss what amounts to junk mail when you’re behind closed doors—or, more accurately—to have your PA toss junk mail whenshe’sbehind closed doors.It’s another to trash someone’s plastic-bound blood, sweat, and tears in front of a room full of hopeful authors.

I shrugged, said vaguely, “It won’t hurt to glance through it.”

Rachel looked flabbergasted, but was momentarily distracted by the ping of her cell phone.

“Great panel,” a bearded man in a denim jacket said in passing.

“Thanks!”

“Like herding cats,” Rachel muttered.I presumed she wasn’t talking to me.Or about me.

A tall, rangy figure in jeans and a black T-shirt with Cloak and Dagger bookstore’s logo, appeared in my peripheral.I turned quickly, smiling into arresting green eyes in a tanned, tough face.

Phineas—Finn to his readers—Scott.

He was a lean six foot two, with long, muscular legs and broad, powerful shoulders.His hair was a rumpled strawberry-blond, which he kept short and neat.Well, short anyway.He was handsome in a rugged baby-I-don’t-care way, but handsome wasn’t the first thought that came to mind.He looked like a guy who could handle anything—and as far as I knew, that had always been the case.Whether working homicide for five years or navigating the fame and fortune that came with the bestseller status most authors can only dream of, Finn handled himself with good-humored capability.

The crowd parted before him, murmuring recognition.

“You made it,” I greeted him.I was so happy—and even a little relieved, which was weird because there’d never been any question of his making it.This was his job.Just as it was my job.

“Hey.”Finn squeezed my upper arm.“I caught the last half.That was great.”He grinned, maybe remembering some of the funnier moments on the panel—or maybe he was as glad to see me as I was to see him.

“When did you get in?”I was still smiling, still gazing into eyes the color of Montana sapphires.

“Just after two.”Finn was already backing up, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.“I just wanted to say hi.I’ve got to meet someone.”

“Oh.Right.Are we on for dinner?”I took it for granted we were—it was practically tradition by now, but to my surprise he grimaced in regret.

“I’ve already got plans.How about tomorrow night?”

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