by Anna Collins
The sweet smell of her letter was nothing like her cutthroat reply. She wasn’t rude in her remarks about my manuscript, but she wasn’t exactly pulling any punches, either.
‘Dear Apollo Irons,
First of all, I’d like to apologize if my handwriting is messy. I’m embarrassed to admit that my penmanship was never my strong suit, and I don’t practice it much because I can type everything out with a laptop.
With that out of the way, I’d like to thank you for choosing me as one of the beta readers for your autobiography. It was truly an honor to be able to put my two cents over it and assist you in giving you some feedback.
Common grammatical errors aside, I thought that, while very eloquent, your autobiography felt closed-off and guarded, like you didn’t really want your readers to get to know you at all. It lacked the emotional register that would resonate toward the reader to keep on reading because although your experiences working the farm and earning your keep in your family are commendable, you don’t have much the readers would relate to.
Forgive me if this sounds way out of line, but the more I read it, the more I felt that you were subtly stroking your ego. By only making a note of your accomplishments and achievements, barely making a note of your failures (if there are any, because as I’ve said, you only wrote the parts of your success). You hardly ever talked about your family at all either, despite your claims that they, your grandfather especially, were a big part of molding your principles and beliefs and basically, who you are today.
Please do understand that this letter was not written in any way to insult or malign your person, but to honestly give you constructive criticism about what you’ve written. I sincerely hope that you do not take my words the wrong way and that you consider them helpful in the completion of your autobiography.
Thank you very much again for this opportunity.
Sincerely,
Calista Cohen’
A puff piece. That’s basically it. That’s what she meant.
She thought I wrote it to stroke my ego. It never occurred to me it would be interpreted that way. I thought I had kept the tone as neutral as possible, but apparently not.
She’s the only one who’s given me a negative feedback about my work, so far. It probably wouldn’t be a reach if I thought she was the only one who told the truth.
I picked up the envelope again and turned it over, reading the return address and mentally mapping out the route I could take.
I’d have Daphne rearrange my schedule tomorrow. I needed to squeeze a visit to this woman as soon as possible.
Calista Cohen might be the only person who could pull this off.
Chapter Three
Callie
Writing the letter was hard. Not because I didn’t know what to say—I was a writer, after all—but because it had been forever since I hand written a real letter. I was rusty as all get-out, and I must have scrunched up a dozen pieces of paper before I felt like it didn’t look written by a chimpanzee with carpal tunnel.
Sure, I could have typed it and printed it out, but since Apollo went through the trouble of handwriting a letter for me, the least I could do was pay him the same courtesy.
That was assuming he didn’t have an assistant write the letter. Nick figured he did. But then, Nick thought the whole book was ghostwritten. “Rich people don’t write books,” he said. “They don’t have the time. Why do anything yourself when you can throw money at people to do it for you?”
I got the distinct impression Nick wouldn’t be able to stay rich for more than a month if he ever won the lottery.
Anyhow—I wrote the letter, carefully as I could, while trying to subtly include notes of my Chanel No. 5 perfume without blotching the ink or staining the paper. I mean, I was just trying to be as classy as he was!
But then again, I had to Google how to mail letters. Yeah…
I decided against a wax seal; I wasn’t convinced I wouldn’t royally fuck it up. A regular stamp would have to do.
Soon the post office had my in-depth critique and I could return to my life writing garbage internet fluff and ignoring my resolutions.
Yay!
Except… I didn’t want to settle for the shlubby life I was sinking into. After reading Apollo’s manuscript… I wanted to be a better person. I wouldn’t settle for fast food and crappy assignments. I wouldn’t sit at home in front of my laptop while my boyfriend made the real money. I went to journalism school for a reason, dammit. I paid for that degree.
Instead of driving back home, I Googled every publisher in the city and drove to each of them, one at a time.
The results… weren’t encouraging.
“We’re not looking for new writers at the moment.” “I’m sorry, but we prefer writers with a few years’ more experience.” “More references.” “More networks.” “More followers.” “I’m sorry, but…” “The kind of writing you do is not a great fit for…” “Sorry, but…” “Sorry...” “Sorry.”
“When can you start?”
“Thank you for your time,” I said, returning a gracious if humbled smile. I turned around. I realized I had been asked a question, realized what I was asked, and then spun back around so fast my handbag whipped me in the solar plexus, knocking the wind from me and making me throw my iPad.
The woman on the other side of the mahogany desk I just threw my iPad at gasped and rose to help. I slid into the office chair I had just gotten out of, breathing short breaths until I regained my composure.
Not that I was ever very composed…
“Are you alright, Callie?” the woman asked. At first, I thought she was a secretary, but it turned out she was one of the magazine’s lead editors who just happened to be walking by the door when I barged in begging for work.
“Yuh,” I coughed, nodding hard. “Ugh, yes, thank you. Sorry, I…”
“That’s quite alright,” Thea Webb said, all but laughing. “You’re quite spry.”
“Spry Callie. That’s me.” I cleared my throat and picked my iPad off the desk, inspecting it for damage. I was lucky this time—not even a single scratch.
Thea returned to her seat and rearranged the desk lamp and magazine pile I just sent askew with my tablet. She had led me to her office a moment ago to list my credentials and show her on my phone some of my portfolio pieces. The magazine, BayCray, was a local-interest publication specializing in events, hotspots, new trends, and general goings-on in the Bay Area.
The offices were also very hip. Open concept, large mahogany desks with minimalist computer stations on them, exposed brick walls, and a coffee and snack station to die for. Some writers sat at the desks, some at brightly-colored sofas, and some on the floor with their backs to the wall, and all of them with keyboards at their fingertips and beverages at their sides.
“This place is beautiful,” I said.
“Thank you,” Thea said, looking around with pride at the surroundings.
She had her own corner desk; not sectioned off with walls. She had gorgeous curly hair, shaved at the sides in a wild Mohawk-afro, a septum piercing, and a trendy yellow East African Dirac dress with white flowers on it.
And here I was, with my hair in a ponytail, blue jeans with holes in the knees, a white top, and my long yellow cardigan. Not exactly high fashion, but at least I had my tan bag and matching heels. Maybe she just liked the yellow of my cardigan?
“You probably won’t be spending too much time here,” she went on. “I’m afraid we can’t hire you full-time at the moment.”
My heart sank.
“But,” she said, “We’re happy to contract you as a freelancer. There are always new venues to review, new startups to check out and snatch up exclusive interviews… I’m sure you can dig up the goods.”
My heart lifted. “Will my articles be printed?”
Thea’s smile thinned into a “What do you think?” flat line. “Our blog is booming,” she said out loud. “No one starts in print these days. Prove you can write quality
content for the site on a regular basis, and you’ll be formatting for print in no time.”
I was slightly disappointed, but the pay was a little better than my usual freelancing and much more respectable. If this was my way to editorial fame, I’d take it.
And I had Apollo Irons to thank for my success—even before he entered my life.
When I got home and told Nick about my success, he congratulated me on my doggedness finding a local publisher who would hire me. I half-expected him to pat me on the head, but that was just my bitterness coming out. He had easy success at his startup—at least for now—and as much as I helped to buy groceries and pay rent, he was the one most often bringing home the bacon.
Not for long, I told myself. Self-reliance was the new goal.
I spent most of my time from then on cruising around the city, visiting hole-in-the-wall cafes and restaurants, chatting up business owners for interviews or at least a scoop on interesting customers. I wrote kitschy little blog posts about hidden gems in the Bay Area, scored a few interviews with app designers, and was doing decently well online, but I still needed a big story. Not too big—that I was saving for my book—but significant enough to warrant a print article.
But “big” knocked on my door.
It was rare I got a knock. After all, I lived in an apartment. Nick was at work at the time, and if anyone wanted to visit, they would need to call or buzz to get into the building. Maybe it was another tenant or the landlady, I thought.
I opened the door a crack, the chain still hooked. I hadn’t even looked through before I caught the smell, sweet-and-spicy, an alluring masculine musk. Stupidly, I thought it was another parcel, another draft of the manuscript.
What I didn’t expect was Apollo Irons peeking his cleft chin and glacier eyes through the crack in the door.
“Ms. Cohen,” he said, a voice of stone. “My name is Apollo Irons. I wanted to talk to you about my book.”
Two conflicting emotions formed in my mind. One wanted to rip the door right off the chain and throw myself at him. One made me want to slam the door, lock the rest of the locks, and grab a knife.
There was just something so animal about my reaction. Not even fight or flight. More like fight or mate. I could feel my bare feet pressing hard into the tile floor, rooting me, giving me the steadiness to either shut or rip the door open. My entire body was tense as a wire, flushing with warmth at the same time.
“Ms. Cohen?” Apollo asked.
Once again I caught myself breathing hard, so I concentrated on calming down. However, a million thoughts assaulted my brain.
Why was he here? How was he here? How did he get into the building? Is he alone? Is he going to hurt me? Is the place a mess? Am I a mess? Is he going to throw me on the bed and—No. Of course not.
Of course not…
“One second,” I said very slowly so I wouldn’t bite my tongue on the words.
I steadily pressed the door shut, removed the chain, twisted the knob, and opened it all the way.
It was him. It really was him.
Black Armani, shirt, tie, jacket, pants, shiny shoes, all black. His hair, too, swept back but still loose, flowing in rivulets. His skin looked like marble, compared to all that black, and his eyes were a piercing blue; a thousand times more so than in the pictures. Taller, too; well, over six feet. And his clothes were cut trim and flawless as the man himself.
Basically, I actively fought not to drool.
He held me in place with his eyes, one dark eyebrow rising just so. He didn’t say another word, nor smile, nor cross his arms. He could command me with a gaze. Apollo Irons didn’t ask to be invited in. Nor did he barge in like a boor. You let him in because his steady, confident body language demanded to come in, and nothing would get in his way.
I didn’t realize I said, “Please come in,” until he was already in my home and I was closing the door behind him.
He moved briskly despite his calm poise, sweeping into the entrance hall with the sharp clicking of his cap-toe Oxford shoes. I allowed him space as though repelled by a powerful force. It was as if he could control his magnetic polarity from attraction to repulsion whenever he wanted. Because he was magnetic. I could feel an electric tingle all over. Clearly, he switched back to his attraction pole.
“Can I take your coat?” I asked. I had never asked a guest that question before. Nor had I ever imagined taking more than a guest’s coat.
“I won’t be staying long,” Apollo said, turning his gaze from me to my apartment.
Oh, God, it was a mess. Dishes by the sink, crusty pan on the oven, sticky note reminders on the walls saying things like, “Yoga! 30 mins!” and “Article on Bean’s List coffee place,” and, “Get money, get paid.” There were half-drunk cups of coffee on every counter space, Play Station controllers on the couch, nails in the walls without portraits hanging from them, and a loose pair of jeans on the living room floor from earlier today when I decided bloggers didn’t need pants. And then there was, um…
The fact that I forgot I wasn’t wearing pants.
I was so thrown off by the knock, thrown off by Apollo’s sheer presence; it completely slipped my mind I had spent the last few hours with only a navy and white pin-dot panties and a pair of long white socks on my lower half. The coffee cup and pantless lounging look made for a cute Instagram pic, but now I looked like a goddamn disaster.
“One second!” I squeaked, dashing for my bedroom. I quickly threw on some denim shorts, both to go with my cream-colored sweater and in the hopes, Apollo didn’t notice my lack of pants a while ago. He just might assume he didn’t see my shorts, and that I was wearing them the whole time.
Too much to hope?
I also had to suppress the urge to go through literally everything in my closet. He said he wouldn’t be staying long—there was no time to lose. I gave my chocolate-brown hair a shake and push, letting it spill sexily over my shoulders. Some dry strands floated, and I tried to pat them down, but I’d be there forever if I tried to get them all.
When I came out of my bedroom, Apollo had Belle in his arms, casually tickling her between the ears. I could hear Belle’s purring from ten feet away. God, if only I could get a shot of that for BayCray…Or my own collection.
“I see you’ve met the boss around here,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t notice my change of clothes. “Careful, she’s capable of leaving her little gray hairs in every possible place.”
The left side of Apollo’s lip tugged upward. I made him smile! I was so charming.
“I’m not afraid of getting a little messy,” he said to the cat, pouting his lips at her and giving her another scratch. Holy hell, my ovaries…
“Want to sit?” I asked.
“You’re welcome to,” he replied, putting Belle down, who meowed in disappointment. Predictably, his shirt was covered in fur. He fixed his hands behind his waist steadily and stepped into the living room area—over my stranded pair of jeans.
“I’m sorry the place is a—”
“The reason I’m here,” Apollo interrupted me, “is to discuss your beta reading of my book.”
“—mess,” I said. “Oh, um. Okay. Could you not read my handwriting?”
“Have a seat,” Apollo said, gesturing to my couch.
I looked down to it. Old copies of BayCray were splayed on the cushions, and a Play Station controller was sitting next to Nick’s usual spot. When was Nick coming home again…?
Wait. Did Apollo just offer me a seat in my own apartment? And was I already sitting in it? Jesus, I was. It was like he hypnotized me. I had just followed his orders without a question.
“The writing was perfectly legible,” Apollo said, still standing, arms still folded behind him…still freezing me still with his ice-cold eyes like a sexy male Medusa. “But you were the only reader who returned negative feedback.”
“The only one?” I asked.
He didn’t repeat himself. “When you inherit a particular name, and a certain reput
ation, people treat you a certain way.” He stepped - click, click, click - over to my large window, looking out to the city. “There are certain words you stop hearing. ‘No,’ for one. ‘You’re wrong.’ ‘You can do better.’ People say what you want to hear. They stop thinking for themselves and think of ways to please you.”
Why was he telling me all this? And why was I still sitting? I got up, not knowing where to stand or where to put my hands, so I walked behind him, looking at his reflection on my window. His eyes turned to look at me through the reflection.
“Your critique was thorough,” he went on, turning to face me now. Even though we were both standing, he still seemed so much bigger. “More importantly, it was right.”
My jaw was hanging. I closed it.
“I’m a writer,” I said. “A journalist. An editor. Despite what I’ve had to create for a living, I have high standards.”
Apollo’s eyebrows arched. I expected him to look around my dirty apartment to discredit what I had just said, but he didn’t.
“So do I,” he said instead. “Especially for myself. I don’t want to publish something I’m not unshakeably confident of. You say you want to read about my family, about my fears and anxieties and regrets. The truth is my own hands shaped my life. I didn’t stop being afraid. I didn’t let worries hold me back. And regret is the most useless emotion of all. How am I to write what doesn’t affect me?”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
It was a nervous laugh, but also one of amusement.
“I’ve told funnier jokes,” Apollo said, voice hard. But there was a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“No, it’s just…” I let out a stream of giggles, doubling over. “You’re so tough.”
Apollo crossed his arms. He tried to flatten his mouth, but I could still see that curve right at the left corner.
“Sorry nobody criticizes you,” I said, rolling my eyes a little. “That must be really hard. And what a plight it is that you can’t write about weaknesses you don’t have.”
