I had done stupid things in the last few days that I wouldn't have done if I had considered using my brain.

I let in a crazy neighbor into my apartment, called a publishing company for an interview, and apparently, I had somehow also signed up to fix a stranger's problems with writing when I wasn't even doing so hot myself.

Alone, without my mind there to think past my impulses and make better decisions, I was, by all means, a train wreck—a head-on collision just waiting to happen.

I had taken over for my smarter brain cells during the few seconds it took to ruin my summer by saying to Miles Whitman, "Maybe I can help. Meet me after work?"

These words screamed innocence when considered individually. But combined in that particular sequence, they were sure to ruin my life and break down the pride I found out of staying out of everyone else's issues.

Perhaps it was the intriguing way he behaved around his brother. Or it could be the way he looked at me like he knew me that picked my curiosity.

The rest of my hours of work had inched by, giving me just enough time to make new mistakes I wouldn't live down.

For most of the day, I picked up Alec's calls and talked to local names that sounded familiar, using an impersonal script Alec had written for me in his finely-printed handwriting.

Alec behaved much like a younger version of Mr. Crawford—a version that cleared his throat way too often for his vocal cords to still be intact.

Half an hour before I could clock out and walk away from an eventful day of work, Olivia opened the door and sneaked her little head inside. Alec's face turned a pale shade of pink when he looked up to find her there, only her head visible, like it wasn't still a privacy infringement if the rest of her body didn't come in.

"Mr. Whitman?"

"Alec," he whispered, but she didn't seem to hear him.

"Your mother asked for you to call her back," she said, the sparkles of her brown eyes even more visible now that the colors of her clothes didn't impact how I perceived them.

Blood tinged Alec's ears pink as he nodded, and he looked much less confident now than he had minutes ago, typing away on his computer without a pause.

He cleared his throat. "Thanks, Olivia. Did she mention why?"

"Something about a blind date," she said, glancing at me for a brief moment with what I assumed was meant to be a wink.

His cheeks were now a shade of lingering, rejuvenating red I had never seen anywhere before.

I was sure laughing would cost me my job, so I kept my lips clamped shut as I waited for the situation to get a whole lot less funny.

Olivia gave me a thumbs-up before leaving the room.

Alec stared at the door after she left, forgetting to return to his task.

Since I felt uncharacteristically kind today, I ran to his rescue and introduced a topic I knew would distract him. "Is Miles your first choice?"

Maybe if I could make Alec realize Miles wasn't that good an option, I wouldn't have to follow up on my initial crazy idea to help Miles in the first place.

He looked at me as if he had completely forgotten about my presence a minute ago. "Well, Miles is well-liked around here. He's a classic household name right now. He also brings in a diverse audience to his works. It ranges from middle schoolers to older adults."

"Do you have any other favors you can call in?" I asked with hesitation, covering up my anxiety with a smile.

What my smile didn't communicate was that my back ached from the position I was currently in. I was twisting in the chair that faced the bookshelf to force myself to meet his eyes. Moving now would just make me the average office weirdo.

Alec stared at me, suspicion adding extra weight to his eyelids. "Why? Do you have doubts that he'll cooperate?"

"Well, I'm going to assume that you know your brother better than I do. Do you think he'll cooperate?"

He didn't look as optimistic as he had been after he considered it for a quiet moment.

His fingers found each other on the table as if he could see a future scene with his brother unfolding before his eyes.

"We need something before the end of the year," he said, clearing his throat. "We have to make something out of this place before it's too late. Miles could be a great help with that. But as I'm sure you've noticed—he's not very predictable. It makes me a little uneasy."

Unpredictability was the root of all evil. I knew that, of course, so I should have expected that Thomas's spontaneity would land us in a tough spot.

If Alec agreed with that, maybe we would be better coworkers than expected. Or at least I thought so before his head suddenly tilted, and his eyes widened to signal an idea I probably wouldn't like very much.

"You know, maybe you could gently nudge him to sign it."

"Nudge?" I raised an eyebrow, and he humored me with a simple smile.

"Fine. Shove."

"What makes you think he'd listen to me?" I asked, leaning back in the chair in a subtle movement he was unlikely to notice. "He doesn't know me."

"Well, I know he's not going to do it for me. The furthest "blood" has gotten me is that he will think about it. I think if the information is presented to him by someone he isn't already biased against, maybe he'll see it's in everyone's best interest."

Assuming that I hadn't already made him think that I was a nutcase by offering my help minutes after I met him.

That was the statement that condemned me to what I could already see as a summer of playing the double agent.

All because I had chosen to try to distract Alec from the embarrassment of talking about his blind date and private life at work.

"He just can't stand the idea of agreeing with me. I figured since you guys are closer in age and you're a stranger, he'd listen to you." He paused, probably to give me the chance to speak up and refuse. But I didn't react in time, or maybe I didn't want to. "Anyway. Back to work," he said as we both returned to the computer screens in front of us.

I welcomed the easy silence that settled between us. He didn't feel the need to talk just because we shared a workspace. That was the best part of this hectic internship so far.

No, I didn't hate Alec Whitman at all.

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His brother, however, was a real trip.

Not in a positive "he's-hilarious" way, but in the "I'm-as-disoriented-in-this-conversation-as-I-would-be-when-trying-to-find-my-way-across-a-foreign-airport" kind of way.

We were sitting at a picnic table at a nearby park. A park even though it was over ninety degrees outside.

Though our table benefited from the shade of a large tree, the sun had direct access to my face, and it took full advantage of it. The rays seemed to pierce through my skin, seeking to melt my lungs as I struggled to breathe.

Miles Whitman sat across the table from me, his arms crossed, and didn't seem to notice the fight to the death that the sun had declared.

"Let's start by acknowledging that this was not a minor detail at all," I said, quiet enough not to scare away the kindergarteners playing on the swings but loud enough to express disapproval.

Another downside of the park was that it was always almost a given that there would be kids running around and screaming.

"Depends on who you ask," he shot back, a challenging glance in his eyes.

A gentle breeze passing through waltzed with the leaves and made being at the park tolerable for just a second.

The passiveness on Miles's face showed that he did not think it was a big deal that he had casually forgotten to mention to his brother that he hadn't written in months.

"Missing 1,000 words is minor. Struggling to settle on a cover is minor. Not having written the entire book? Let's see. That would be a minor problem if kicking the ball around was a minor part of professional soccer."

His lips pulled up in an unexpected smile as he watched me in amusement.

The dark strands of his hair didn't follow any discernible pattern, leaving him with a bare forehead that made him look particularly comical.

The tortured artist look seemed to be working for him.

"I don't think you understand how soccer works." His tone was teasing and light, not quite like the one he had used in his brother's office hours earlier.

I dismissed the comment with a wave. "So, you're not working on anything?"

"I have a page full of unpronounceable words if that counts for you." Noticing the confusion on my face, he added, "I was getting sick of staring at a blank page all day."

"What happened to your inspiration? Why do you think you're not writing?"

"I'm sure you're expecting an epic heartbreak story," he said with a small smile, "but I just woke up the day after my last book came out, and I found that I had no idea worth telling."

"Okay, so you need a muse." I was thinking out loud, trying to remember what things inspired me to write.

Miles's gaze scanned my face, and the grin on his lips felt mocking. "Are you offering?"

"Well, I don't suppose you're about to tell your brother, are you? He'd be in the best position to help you."

"There's nothing to do about it. I've never struggled to write. When I had something good, I wrote it in a few days."

"You know what works for me? Being somewhere quiet." Something about being in an environment I had complete control over gave me the peace of mind to organize my thoughts.

"I have a feeling that won't work for me. I can't imagine writing with no background noise."

I couldn't tell if he was joking because his face remained expressionless this time.

"Perfect. Then this is the perfect place for you," I told him, letting in the sound of children screaming that I had been trying to tune out.

Taking a notepad and a pencil from my backpack, I pushed them his way.

He picked up the pencil without arguing like I expected him to. He stared at the page for a few seconds then looked back at me. "I got nothing."

Just a few steps from our table, a small group of friends tossed around a soccer ball, shouting and laughing.

Trying to ignore their presence, I refocused my attention on the writer across from me. "Well, what happened before that—before you stopped?"

"My agent quit," Miles said. Though he seemed unsure of where I was going with this, he didn't seem bothered by my questions. "She was having a baby."

"So, maybe deadlines. You're struggling to write because you no longer have any deadlines to meet." It felt like a lightning-bolt kind of idea.

He looked like he was enjoying himself. "What?"

"You know, like you need extra pressure to stay motivated to write."

"Okay," he said, speaking slowly as if he knew he was now treading on shaky ground. "What are you suggesting?"

"I'll bug you until you get some words on the paper," I said. "Real ones this time."

A soccer ball, gone rogue, nearly smacked my head and landed a few feet away from us. A girl, who didn't look older than ten, came running our way to get her prized possession.

I flinched and pulled away. A reflex.

He scrutinized me as I tried to carry on with our conversation as the girl skipped back to her buddies.

"What was that?" he asked.

"What was what?" I shot back. The rusty material of the picnic table now looked like the most fascinating thing I had seen.

Miles didn't stop staring. I assumed he was coming up with all sorts of conspiracy theories to explain my behavior.

"Come on," he said, standing up. "Let's head out."

I didn't know if it was because he had concluded that I was uncomfortable around kids or because he had finally realized that the sun was not going to stop harassing us any time soon.

Either way, I wasn't going to complain. I walked by him and continued to bug him about writing as we headed out of the park.

"You seem to be going off the idea that I'm interested in signing a deal with my brother," he finally said with a slight chuckle.

"Aren't you?"

"There are few things that sound worse to me."

Maintaining the peace between the Whitman brothers was proving to be more difficult than I thought. And I had definitely never signed up for that job.

A/N: Please remember this is the first draft, ha! Read on at your own risk.

But thanks for reading!

I'd love to hear anything you have to say, so don't be shy and reach out! Especially for constructive criticism.

-D.T. ➷