CHAPTER TWO

MUSE

( — the goddess or the power regarded as inspiring a poet, artist, thinker, or the like. )

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          ROWAN MUST HAVE TRULY BEEN OUT OF HIS MIND.

          He knew sending his application was a terrible idea, much like he knew accepting to travel to Nova Scotia for an interview was even worse. Though traveling by land and by sea is certainly better than passing out on a plane thanks to his abominable vertigo, the bumps on the road and the bile rising up his throat certainly give it a ride for its money.

          Hell, someone even pukes on the bus as it travels from New Hampshire to Maine, where he'll have to take the ferry. Poor Rowan has a sensitive stomach, not to mention a solidary one, meaning he's highly prone to throwing up as soon as the strong smell of vomit reaches his nostrils. He gags as soon as he hears it spill all over the floor, truly wishing there was a way of opening the window on his right, grabbing his suitcase and throwing himself to the road instead of having to deal with such things, but he's pinned to his seat.

          The woman sitting behind him is joined by her son, who seems to be around four or five and has taken a particular liking to kicking Rowan's seat. Rowan himself feels on the verge of tears, desperately wanting to run back to his apartment and pretend the past week has never happened. If he turns back now, it would mean he'd be proving his parents' point—and, to an extent, Jasper's—when they said he always gives up on things.

          That's not entirely true. There are things he doesn't give up on, such as this ghostwriting business, but it's mostly because it pays well enough to sustain his . . . eccentric ways, as his parents like to put it. He knows he should enjoy what he does, especially considering how far he's willing to go for a job (and going to Nova Scotia certainly classifies as a drastic measure), but it's draining and, quite frankly, Rowan has realized it has also become sort of . . . monotone.

          There's nothing wrong with wanting to spice up his life a little bit, Rowan thinks. Though he'd rather not do it by nearly throwing up in a bus full of people who just want to either a) get to their destination, which happens to be the same as him or b) annoy the hell out of him during the entire trip. Either way, both things make him lean forward, resting his forehead against the seat in front of him, and close his hands into fists to control his gag reflex.

          The kid behind him laughs. Rowan whimpers, sincerely hoping he'll have enough self-control to prevent him from turning around to yell at the boy and counts down the seconds until it's over. He risks getting slapped by the kid's mother, who certainly won't allow anyone to piss off her preciously annoying son. Rowan partially wishes his mother had been more like that as he was growing up instead of letting others step over him to 'toughen him up'.

          He loses count around two hundred seconds because someone throws up again. Through a rare spark of luck, it's not him.

          Thus, when he stumbles out of the bus by the port, he can barely stand upright on his feet and everyone around him must be thinking he has had a little bit too much to drink as he stumbles towards the ferry and almost loses it in the process. He flashes his ticket just in time to not watch the boat leave without him and decides the first order of business shall be drowning himself in a bucket of coffee before he vomits.

          It's a terrible trip, let him tell you. It's one of the worst things he has ever forced himself to endure, and it's torturous, even, and he forces himself to refuse lunch when a crew member approaches him. Arms swung over the railway, Rowan stares down at the ocean water, letting the sea breeze blow back his hair (there's a bottle of hair-gel in his suitcase because he never goes anywhere unprepared), and, for a split moment, he feels able to handle anything Nova Scotia throws his way.

          That is, until the little boy snickers again and kicks his calf, nearly making him plummet down to the floor.

          "Asshole," Rowan mutters, massaging his muscle. "You little asshole."

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          ONCE HE HAS FINALLY SET FOOT ON DRY, SAFE LAND, ROWAN GIVES IN TO TEMPTATION. He has never been much of a fan of diners, as too greasy food makes his skin crawl and he doesn't want to think it will also begin to break out because, God, it would certainly flush his chances of getting the job down the toilet. Considering he hasn't eaten since breakfast and doesn't want his stomach to be rumbling all the way throughout the interview, he drags himself to the nearest one.

          It's quick, it's simple and it's cheap. Though money is clearly not an issue for any of the Underwoods, fortunately for them, Rowan finds himself to be a little scared of diners, especially small ones in strange, foggy cities. Hell, he saw how that worked out for the citizens of Twin Peaks, and he's definitely not letting these people turn him into some sort of Laura Palmer pre-season three. Plus, he wouldn't want to be caught dead in a place like this by Gabriel Guerreiro, who certainly wants nothing but the best and the most sophisticated ghostwriter he can find.

          Rowan doubts the two other ghostwriters he's competing against hang out in creepy diners. For all he knows, they might be older and a lot more experienced than him, choosing to spend the hours before their interview preparing themselves for it instead of waiting for a cheeseburger and fries and sipping a large mug of coffee.

          Fortunately for Rowan, he's doing neither of those things. He's still standing in line, waiting to be directed to a table, but the place, being as small as a matchbox, is packed and all the available waiters are available to people who aren't him. He's not the type of person to tap his foot against the tiled floor as he waits for someone to give him the time of day, knowing very well these people are just doing their job and he's no celebrity or deserving of any special treatment, but he still wishes they'd do it a little bit faster.

          When they finally quicken their pace, Rowan finally breathes of relief. There are still three hours to go before the scheduled time for his interview at Crowcrest University, but he wants to spend as much of that free time as possible practicing for it in front of a mirror in his hotel room to ensure he won't make a fool out of himself. Doing it in this diner sort of defeats the purpose of appearing sure of himself and well prepared, but, if that's what it will eventually come down to, Rowan will have to suck it up and deal with it.

          His waitress, a tiny little thing who has pulled her curls up into a tight ponytail, tells him there's only one booth available and it's because the person occupying it isn't really fulfilling the role of a customer. Rowan, with a grumbling stomach, briefly glances at her name tag—it reads Brooklyn—pinned to her light-pink and white uniform, and reluctantly nods. He'd take any booth if that meant he'd finally be allowed to eat something, even if there are some places where he'd draw the line.

          With a small sigh, she walks him to said booth, her sneakers squeaking across the floor, and Rowan feels the sweet scent of strawberry bubblegum emanating off her as her ponytail swings from side to side.

          The person sitting there doesn't raise their head when he approaches the booth, but Rowan recognizes them instantly from the photos he saw online earlier this week. With black hair twisted into a messy bun, a pencil stuck between the locks, and textbooks scattered around the table and keeping a safe distance from a steaming mug of black tea, Isla Guerreiro is the spitting image of her father . . . with more feminine features, that is.

          She continues to ignore him even when he sits down and orders his lunch, but she still pulls her stuff closer to her to give him more space at the table without him even opening his mouth to ask her to do it. Her glasses slide down the delicate curve of her nose bridge and she often pushes it up with her index finger, though Rowan wishes he weren't staring. Better yet, he wishes she'd stop moving in the corner of his eye and, consequently, catch his attention.

          Before his food ever gets a chance to arrive—his glass of ice-cold Diet Coke takes a lot less to do it, thankfully—Isla fills two pages of her notebook as she tries to solve a Math exercise. Though he did his research on her father, he stayed away from her and her mother, as they have nothing to do with the reason why he's here . . . or so he hopes. There are only so many rich people Rowan can deal with at a time and that's including him. He still tries to keep his eyes away from her, knowing how creepy it can be to have someone constantly staring at you.

          She looks too old to still be in high school, despite her round features and doe-like eyes, and Rowan vaguely remembers reading in an article about Gabriel she's also a student at Crowcrest, which comes as no surprise. Only the best of the best are admitted to that university and this is the chancellor's daughter, which must have weighed a considerable amount as her application was being discussed.

          Rowan eats his burger and onion rings in silence—and quickly realizes ordering onions wasn't the best idea he could have had, meaning he'll have to brush his teeth extra hard and drown in cologne before the interview—with Isla blabbering on the phone about someone called Rhiannon. Even though he had been hoping their eyes would never meet, that happens when she finally hangs up the call.

          Her eyes, so dark Rowan can barely distinguish the pupils from the irises from where he's sitting, are blazing when they lock eyes with one another. It immediately makes him sit up straight, suddenly too aware of his hunched posture, and her shoulders stiffen as if he had done something wrong.

          Rowan fears he might have. He knows he's awful, pretentious, and spoiled, but, if there's one thing he refuses to be is the type of man who feels entitled to a woman in any way. He's not particularly interested in being around her for any reason she might think of and more, especially if he doesn't get the job and has to run into her again after being denied that coveted spot as her father's ghostwriter, but he thought he wasn't looking so . . . predatory.

          "What?" she asks, taking off her glasses. "Cat got your tongue?"

          "Not at all," Rowan replies, wiping his mouth with his napkin, and watches her clean the lenses with a tiny cloth. When she's done, the first order of business is to pull the pencil out of her bun, letting her hair fall into soft waves around her face. "I'm here for an interview and I'm sort of nervous."

          "Hmm." She purses her lips together, bringing the cup of tea to her lips and leaving a red stain on the white porcelain when she sets it back down. "Good for you. Though I'm not certain how that concerns me in the slightest."

          Rowan's mouth has been sewn shut. He knew nothing about her, but didn't expect her to be firing snarky comments, one after another, and, if this is the sparkling personality she has chosen to show the world, he's dreading what he'll find in her father's office. For all he knows, the man might be some sort of tyrant who's looking for someone to do his dirty work for him.

           Perhaps coming here was the worst idea he could have had—it even beats having ordered a burger and onion rings after such a hellish day, hours before the interview with said man. If he leaves now, that might make a difference between returning home alive to his parents and having his body be found days later, wrapped in plastic.

          "I know who killed Laura Palmer," Rowan finds himself stupidly muttering, when Brooklyn approaches their booth to take his plate, and both she and Isla knit their brows together.

          "As far as I know, she's not dead," Brooklyn states, balancing the plate and the cutlery on the round plastic tray she's carrying. "That's not a nice thing to say."

          Rowan's eyes widen, with his heart skipping a tiny beat. "Did you watch it?"

          "Watch what?"

          "Twin Peaks. On season three, Laura Palmer technically—"

          "Yeah, no, we don't do that here," Isla retorts, closing her notebook and textbooks before stuffing them inside her backpack, while Brooklyn's lips tremble with laughter as she walks down the aisle and returns to the kitchen. "Laura Palmer is our friend. She goes to the same university as us and she's clearly not dead, not when I was just talking to her on the phone." She stands up, throwing her backpack's strap over her shoulder, and the gelid breeze coming from outside enters the diner through the ajar window to Rowan's left. "It's not funny."

          "Hey, no, I wasn't—" Isla begins to walk away and Rowan stands up, stumbling over his own feet, as he sees what could be his last hope leaving this place. "Isla, please—"

          She stops in her tracks, briefly turning around, and her pink lips form an O. "How do you know my name? Who the hell are you?"

          Taking a deep breath, Rowan runs his hands through his hair, glad he had bothered to clean them beforehand. "I'm here for an interview with your father. And, as much as I hate doing this"—she narrows her eyes, with some people glancing at them—"I think I might need your help."