CHAPTER THREE

ORIENTATION

( — the ability to locate oneself in one's environment with reference to time, place, and people. )

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          ROWAN REGRETS HAVING ASKED FOR ISLA'S HELP AS SOON AS HE DOES IT. Though she doesn't answer him, at least not right away, that period of silence gives him enough time to think about what he said—which he rarely does before opening his mouth—and it's the perfect opportunity for his own brain to remind him he shouldn't be asking for help. His opponents certainly haven't thought of asking their potential future boss' daughter for help with the interview because they know what they're doing—they know they can beat him.

          Isla places her hands on her hips, eyebrows furrowed, and Rowan steps back. Though he certainly wouldn't hit her, he's pretty sure he could easily overpower her if things ever reached the point of turning into a fist fight. She's considerably shorter than him, being around five foot two, and her backpack looks so heavy it would turn into a nuisance, only holding her back.

          Sweat runs down the nape of Rowan's neck and he clenches his jaw, as he wasn't counting on showering for the second time today, but he can't exactly waltz into the man's office drenched in body fluids. Anything that could possibly go wrong today has gone wrong, proving, once more, the veracity of Murphy's Law, and Rowan thought he was immune to it, always coming out on top . . . when he dedicated enough effort to do so, that is.

          Hell, he's the best out of every ghostwriter he knows; your level of success as a ghostwriter isn't measured by the number of books you write, but by how they're received. Granted, people might buy the books at first because they think they were written by someone they admire, or something along those lines, but what's written on those pages is what matters the most, at the end of the day, and that's what they'll be reviewing—not the name plastered on the cover.

          Rowan has proven his worth, time and time again, and it's not some random girl that's going to take that away from him by staring at him in disbelief as if he had said something completely otherworldly. He thought Canadians were supposed to be nice and eager to help, but maybe he has found himself on the wrong side of the country.

          Sighing, he grabs his jacket from the booth and puts it on in a swift gesture, patting his pockets to make sure his wallet and phone are still there. "Yeah, never mind. You won't be of much help if all you're going to do is stand there and stare at me in silence."

          "I don't like you," Isla simply says. Brooklyn, who's busy cleaning a table nearby, chuckles.

          "You don't know me."

          "I don't need to know you to know everything about you screams superiority complex." She steps forward, arms firmly crossed in front of her chest. Rowan can't help but wish this place was emptying so there wouldn't be these many witnesses watching him get humiliated by a tiny stranger . . . who just so happens to be related to the man who might give him a big break he's not that interested in. Truth be told, he's doing this mostly for his ego, which needs to be well-fed. "I don't know what you're doing here or how you know my name"—she keeps walking and Rowan can't do anything but walk backward, fearing she wouldn't stop even if he did—"but what my father does doesn't concern me in the slightest."

          "I'm not here to make friends," he retorts, being awfully close to one of the walls of the diner. "I'm here to be your father's ghostwriter."

          Isla stops, eyes widening, and her facial expression instantly softens. "You could have said that sooner." She laughs when he scowls. "That happens to be something I can help you with, if you're still interested."

          "In you?"

          She tilts her head to the side, clearly amused. "In my help." Rowan's scowl gives place to a grimace, which isn't that much better, let's be honest. He'd be lying if he said she isn't getting on his nerves—and she seems to be doing it on purpose, finding ways of pushing his buttons while knowing next to nothing about him. "If you're freaking out about the interview—"

          "I am not."

          "—you should know no one in my family likes to be interrupted. Ever." He shuts his mouth. "If you follow my directions, then I guarantee you'll get that job. Frankly, I hope you do. Papa met up with the two other ghostwriters earlier today and, God, the only way you won't get the job is if you decide to punch him in the face, or something." Isla throws him a bright grin and Rowan thinks maybe, just maybe, she isn't as much of a brat as she seemed earlier. "They went there with all their research done because they thought they'd impress him, but Papa is looking for new blood. He doesn't need to be reminded of all he's done and he certainly doesn't enjoy empty compliments."

          Rowan's lips twist into a forced smile as he tries to ignore all the pages of information he wrote down about Gabriel Guerreiro. "How can I be sure you're not playing me?"

          "Because"—she fixes her backpack's strap and starts walking towards the exit, with Rowan rushing to hand Brooklyn ten dollars on his way out so he won't get left behind—"I've had enough of hearing him blabber about how he can't find a goddamn ghostwriter to write that book for him. If it takes me and some American guy to get him to shut up, then so be it."

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          "I'M LIKE A CARRIE UNDERWOOD SONG," Rowan announces, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket's pocket, rolling down the window on the passenger's side of Isla's car. She throws him a quick glance from the corner of her eye before staring back at the road ahead of them. "Once I get inside your head, I'm never getting out."

          "Let me guess"—she reaches out a hand to turn up the heater, though it doesn't do much to warm up the inside of the car when there's an open window—"you're also incredibly annoying as well?"

          Rowan hates that he does it, but he finds himself laughing at that comment. She was kind enough to give him a ride from the diner to his hotel so he could check in, drop off his suitcase and get ready, but also reminded him he had to hurry up if he wanted a ride to Crowcrest. Public transportation is a lot more environmentally friendly than a car, but, after the day he has had and the hassles thrown at him, Rowan would much rather ride with her.

          It's a one-time occurrence, anyway. If he gets the job—and Isla seems awfully confident he will, but he fears it's only a matter of time before he screws everything up, as always—he fears he'll have to deal with her a lot more than he wishes he had to, but that's not even the worst part of it all. If he stays in Nova Scotia, in this little town they call Vofield, he'll inevitably run into her and try to ignore the smug looks she'll throw him, knowing she's the reason why he got the job in the first place. It's not a fun thought and Rowan refuses to let it bother him as much as it's determined to, but that grows harder to do with every minute he spends by Isla's side.

          He doesn't know why she follows him inside the hotel, patiently waiting by his side as he waits to receive the keys to his room. She hums along to the faint melody of the song playing in the lobby and, as Rowan stares at everything but her, the hairs on the nape of his neck rise at the sight of a long, empty hallway. The only things missing are the creepy twin girls and the flickering lights, which are strong enough reasons why he wants to get the hell out of this hellhole as quickly as possible.

          "You booked a single, correct?" the receptionist asks him, eyes darting between Rowan and Isla. "One bed."

          "The room is just for me," he dryly clarifies, yanking the keycard from her hand, "thank you very much."

          The receptionist sighs. "Aren't you a charming young man?"

          "Absolutely," Rowan agrees, making his way towards the elevator and dragging his suitcase behind him, the wheels sliding swiftly against the polished floors.

          Isla keeps a safe distance between the two of them, but refuses to be left behind, so walking on his right it is. Rowan sees it as a way of having her invade his privacy, as he came here to be left alone and not have her pester him, as her 'tips' can wait until after he showers, changes clothes, and does something to his hair, but she steps inside the elevator before he can press any buttons.

          "Why are you following me?" he asks.

          "Just trying to make sure you're the real deal," she nonchalantly explains. "You might be some sort of a creep, and I'm not going to force Papa to deal with that."

          "I'm not a creep." The silver doors of the elevator slide open after a bell rings and they step out, looking for room 325. "Besides, what would someone your size do? I'd overpower you in no time."

          "I know a guy."

          "Sure you do."

          "No, really, I do. He goes to Crowcrest and is pretty good with a baseball bat, so I wouldn't try anything, if I were you. Plus, you don't know what I keep in my glove compartment or inside my backpack and I'm almost certain you don't know how deadly a TI-Nspire calculator can possibly be." Rowan rolls his eyes, sliding his key card into the lock and pushing open the door with his foot. "Besides, how do you know I'm not the killer you think I could think you are?"

          "Killers don't tend to be annoyingly talkative. You've been wasting precious time with small talk when you could have killed me in the car or in the elevator."

          Isla throws herself to the only bed in the room, crossing her legs over the duvet. The room looks pretty plain, yet tidy, with the bed, a dresser, a bedside table, and a plasma screen being the only pieces of furniture. "I rest my case. You should hurry up, by the way. If you don't mind, I'll be checking out your TV."

          Rowan lets her check out the damn TV and do whatever the hell she wants because she's quiet when she's distracted . . . or so he thought. She raises her voice to let him hear her while he's in the shower and he feels like repeatedly slamming his head against the tiled walls of the bathroom. She tells him she talks a lot when she's nervous, which is something she shouldn't be admitting, but all Rowan wants is some peace and quiet.

          She gives him some hints as to how he should behave during the interview, but they're vague enough for him to not feel like he's owing her something if he gets the damn job. Look confident, but try to not sound like you're bragging. Talk about your strengths, but don't forget about your weaknesses because he'll try to exploit them to test you.

          She thinks he'll do just fine. As she drives them to Crowcrest, he can't say he's too certain of that, his doubts growing by the minute. There's a high chance she's playing him and he wouldn't be too surprised if she was, as her father might have already made a decision and he'll only be making a fool out of himself when he steps inside the doors of that goddamn office.

          Everything about Crowcrest University gives off an aura of superiority and, coming from someone like Rowan, that has to count for something. Fallen crusty leaves cover the gravel pathways, with a few students sitting on the dry grass, and the fog is lower than Rowan had ever seen, covering the entire campus in dark clouds and drawing a still straight from a horror movie.

          They're waiting for him, which doesn't make it any easier. In the waiting room, where the offices are located, the air is considerably warmer. Rowan, his slicked back hair, his jeans, his pressed white shirt, and his combat boots aren't big fans of it, as he can't allow himself to start sweating again.

          A tall girl—nearly as tall as Rowan—is what catches his eye. Her dark hair falls down to her mid-back without a single wave and she shivers under her leather jacket, staring down at her Converse sneakers, while the other people in the room stare at her. She easily stands out against the burgundy armchairs and the beige walls, with everything looking so calm and collected while she appears to be on the verge of tears, but Isla isn't oblivious to what's going on.

          "Rhea," she calls, taking matters into her own hands, and the girl lifts her head, bottom lip trembling, when Isla is close enough to gently rub her arms. "Hey. What are you doing here? Are you okay?"

          "I'm . . ." she blabbers, shooting Rowan a brief glance, and he immediately looks the other way. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I was just waiting for you."

          "You could have waited for me in our room." Rhea looks up at the ceiling, eyes glistening like stars, and Gabriel's secretary chooses that exact moment to let Rowan know he's allowed to go inside.

          Gabriel is even taller in person, rivaling Rowan's own height, and his handshake is unsurprisingly firm. Rowan tries to remember everything Isla told him and everything he decided he'd do and say—sit up straight, hands folded over his lap to prevent himself from running his fingers through his hair and leaving them covered in greasy gel—but he finds himself stumbling over his own words and forgetting his rehearsed answers.

          They keep telling him to be himself, but being himself won't get him any jobs he wants. If anything, it will warrant him a ticket back home.

          "I'll have to say I'm impressed," Gabriel confesses, fingers interlaced over his mahogany desk. Next to him, there's a framed photograph of his family, with Isla being in the center. "The other two I interviewed were too pretentious for my taste."

          Rowan lets out a nervous laugh. "Yikes."

          "Yikes indeed. Listen, Roman—"

          Rowan shifts in his seat. "Rowan."

          "Sorry. I'll go ahead and say it; it's truly refreshing to see someone as young as you be interested in what I and this town have to say. It's not often we get visitors." Rowan can't possibly guess why not; though everyone he has met so far has been relatively welcoming, the city itself would creep tourists out in the blink of an eye if there were any. "The folklore and the mysteries are, modesty aside, frankly interesting, and I can't wait to let the world know about them. Unfortunately, I'm a busy man"—a crimson flush covers his cheeks—"and I wouldn't turn to a ghostwriter if I could, but please don't assume I don't value what you do. I think it's admirable and I'm willing to reward you as you see fit . . . as long as it fits certain requirements, of course."

          "So you're telling me I got the job? Just like that?"

          Gabriel sighs. "It's either handing you the job and knowing you'll do a great job or giving it to one of the other two and nearly die of embarrassment by having my name associated to them in any way. Their work is great, trust me, but it's just their personalities that turn me off."

          "Fine."

          Gabriel's lips twist into a grin so bright it could almost be a beacon. "Great. Welcome aboard. It will be a true pleasure to work with you."