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emmaswanchoosesyou · 7 years ago

Text

Part of the Narrative

Emma Swan just wants to write the follow-up to her bestselling debut novel, that’s all. But when she gets off to a rough start with her new editor, Killian Jones, she knows it’s not going according to plan. Then, an unexpected figure from Emma’s past reappears and life begins to mirror the crime thriller she’s penning. Suspicion and secrets abound–but love might too. A writer/editor AU with a thriller twist.

Rated E. Includes sexual content, kidnapping, some gore, and minor character death–not to mention salty language! On Ao3 here.

This first chapter includes swearing and bad attitudes.

Finally, a huge thank you to @sambethe, who edited this in its entirety and made it so much better. And @shady-swan-jones for the banner and @bleebug for the chapter art! (Also to @icapturedkindness and @gray-autumn-sky, for encouraging me to do this and reading over the initial chapters.) Of course, a shout-out to everyone @captainswanbigbang who helped, encouraged, and made this possible.

Chapter 1

Emma is on her way to meet her new editor, Killian Jones. It goes off the rails quickly, but they still have to find a way to work together.

Emma

Emma was not excited. Well, she was excited to begin working on her second novel. Her first had been a breakaway hit, surprising her and her publishing house. Apparently people ate up her gritty tale of life as a bail bondsperson and were eager to see a second book from the new darling of thrillers.

What was less thrilling, however, was having to go to her publisher’s office so she could meet her new editor. Mills & Booth had done right by her the first time around with Graham Humbert. He was smart and witty, knew just when to push her and when to back off. They had hit it off right away, and not just professionally. Between the usual editing sessions, there had been a few too many late dinners and movie nights, long walks where they laughed and talked about everything under the sun. They may not have indulged the attraction between them, but both had recognized it was there.

And then Graham died. Suddenly, cruelly, he was just gone.

They found out later it was a brain aneurysm. Nothing anyone could have expected, and nothing that could have come with a warning.

Emma was still mourning the loss of her friend and editor. She had no interest in meeting his replacement, even if everyone kept assuring her he was one of the best.

It just wouldn’t be the same, she reflected as she walked down the sidewalk, crunching through the autumn leaves, the sound echoing with each step. The new editor probably was all they said and more, but still, he wouldn’t be Graham. Would he get her in the same way? Would they have that same connection and rapport?

She sighed, looking up at the formidable height and cold steel of the building that housed her publishing house. She knew she had to meet this guy, but she didn’t have to look forward to it.

&&&

The lobby of Mills & Booth was as tasteful and well-appointed as ever, the familiar sight of the warm colors, plush chairs, and literary quotes on the walls soothing her nerves a little.

“Oh hi, Ms. Swan!” Ariel greeted her with a wide smile from behind the reception desk, and Emma couldn’t help but smile back.

“Hi, Ariel. How’s it going?”

Ariel was a good sort, bubbly and friendly. Her chipper tone and natural ease had a way of winning over even the most cantankerous clients, all while making sure the office ran smoothly.

“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Except for, well, your new editor.”

“What’s he like?”

“Mr. Jones? He’s…nice? I haven’t talked to him much.” Leaning forward, she lowered her voice and motioned Emma closer. “But what I can tell you is that he’s really, really hot,” she said frankly.

Emma laughed. “Well, hopefully he’s as good at his job as he is at being pretty.”

Ariel pointed her in the direction of his office, and Emma gave a sigh of relief when she realized they hadn’t set him up in Graham’s old one. It at least made it feel like they weren’t replacing him so completely.

The door was cracked open, and she knocked to let him know she was there. “Hi? Mr. Jones?”

She heard the sound of rustling, and the door opened. Then she saw the man who had opened it.

And Jesus. Ariel hadn’t been kidding about the attractiveness thing. Dark, artfully mussed hair, a sculpted jawline with a dusting of scruff. Chest hair peeked out of the button-up he wore under a nice tweed suit jacket. And he had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

Down, girl, she told herself.

Sticking out her hand to shake his, she smiled politely. “I’m Emma Swan. Your new author?”

She was gratified to see that he too looked a little awestruck. Speechless, even. He’d met her eyes confidently, but as soon as he’d a chance to take her in, he had frozen in place. She knew she wasn’t exactly off-putting, but still, it was nice.

Recovering, he took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips to brush a kiss across her knuckles. Her insides quivered, but she couldn’t tell whether it was from attraction or annoyance. “I’m Killian Jones. A pleasure to meet you, Emma. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?”

God, a British accent. She was doomed.

She shook her head. “That’s fine. And you prefer…”

“Killian, if you please.”

She certainly did please. But okay, really not the point. And not the kind of thoughts she should be having about her editor a minute after meeting him. She needed to cool it if she was going to work with this guy. Giving him an assessing look, she let him lead her to the chair in front of the desk, his hand hovering at the small of her back the whole way. Even through the layers of her clothing, her skin tingled at the light touch.

“Okay, then. So…where do we start?”

“I don’t know how things worked with Mr. Humbert, but I thought we could go over impressions and expectations. Begin as we mean to go on, as it were.”

“That works for me,” she said. “But honestly, I don’t know much about you, other than that Cleo told me I’d be working with you and you’re supposedly one of the best. Graham and I used to talk about goals and then he edited any drafts I sent him.”

He retreated behind his desk and sat, nodding thoughtfully. “Well, truthfully, things will probably be different, with this being your second book. And I do things differently than your former editor.”

“How differently?” Emma was sure it couldn’t be all that changed. Read it, edit it, give it back. Boom. He smirked at her and she stiffened, uncertainty creeping in.

“For starters, lass, I like to work more…collaboratively,” he said, winking salaciously at her.

Killian leaned forward across his desk, and Emma pulled back, feeling the need to put a little more space between them. She rolled her eyes, and crossed her arms over her chest. “So, what? You want to see more drafts?” she asked, trying not to sound too defensive.

“No, darling, I plan to be involved from the prospectus on.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. He might think himself to be charming, and his looks might win him points with some people, but Emma prided herself on being above that. ”First, don’t call me darling. And second, you seriously want to be involved in the prospectus? I’ve done this before, you know. I don’t need my hand held.”

He smiled and smoothed his hands across a few of the papers on his desk. “Pity, I wouldn’t mind holding your hand. But look, Swan, your work is good. It’s really quite promising. But it’s rough, and it could stand some refinement.”

“Rough?! I wrote a fucking bestseller!” She pulled herself to her feet, staring him down angrily.

“I didn’t say you were talentless, only that there’s room for improvement. Or are you content to peak with your very first work?” He was clearly trying to placate her, holding up his hands. Well, at least one hand. Even through her ire, Emma noticed that one appeared to be a prosthetic. A good one, but not flesh and blood.

She glared at him, jaw tightening painfully. “Peaking? Rough? And all of this from…who? Where’s your bestseller, buddy?”

It was his turn to roll his eyes, and he bristled as he said, “I may not have a bestseller, darling, but my thesis in nonfiction writing won several awards, and I’ve helped some of the best craft their own masterpieces.”

“You probably couldn’t craft a paper airplane,” she spat at him.

“An admittedly difficult task when working with this, Swan,” he snapped, lifting his prosthetic hand.

She flushed crimson but was unwilling to back down. Ignoring the stab of guilt, she said, “Look, I’m sorry about your hand, but I really don’t think this is going to work out.”

She turned abruptly and walked out of his office, slamming the door behind her for good measure.

&&&

Cleo stared sharply at her across the expanse of her desk. “I mean it, Emma. You need to get your shit together and find a way to work with Jones. He’s one of the best in the industry, and he’ll make sure your story is the best it can it be.”

“But, Cleo, he has no respect for my process. And he was…rude.”

She snorted. “He was rude? I could hear you all the way down here.”

Emma glared back at her.

Cleo huffed out a sigh. “I need you to give this another shot. This isn’t your debut novel, the stakes and expectations are higher this time around. I know this project means a lot to you, and it has the potential to do a lot of good. That’s why I want it to be the best version of itself it can possibly be.”

“And you think Jones can help me do that?” She crossed her arms in frustration. She tried really hard to stay away from that diva writer stereotype, but Killian Jones had tested her patience.

“I really do. He might be a pretty-boy, but he’s also brilliant.” Cleo was calm and collected, only the edge in her voice showing a hint of her stress and annoyance.

“He’s still an asshole.”

“And so are you.”

“Geez, thanks.”

“Look, I’m here to publish you and pay you. I don’t owe you pretty words, Emma. Jones doesn’t either. I’m giving you a week to figure something out.”

“Or what?”

Cleo shrugged. “Or I’ll sue you for breach of contract.”

“Oh.” Dimly, Emma had been aware this was an option, but she was gobsmacked at the threat, never really expecting to have to deal with it herself. She took a deep breath, letting all her conflicting emotions settle. “Okay, then.”

“That’s what I thought.” At that, Cleo stood and brusquely gestured to the door.

&&&

With the threat of a lawsuit hanging over her head and her ears ringing from Cleo’s rebuke, Emma stomped most of the way back to her apartment. She nodded at the doorman as she went past, running up the stairs and all but slamming the door in her haste to get home.

What a day.

What a fucking mess of a shit-hell day.

She’d been prepared to not hit it off with her new editor, but to already revile and loathe him entirely? And for him to think so little of her writing–and probably her, if his attempts at flirtation and then his insults were any indication–was beyond the pale.

Honestly, she was aware she probably wasn’t a Shakespeare or an Agatha Christie, but she knew she could write good, entertaining stories that a lot of people liked to read. It might not be the kind of thing that endured for decades or centuries, but it was fun and made a living for her. A living she enjoyed.

She flopped down onto the leather club chair in her living room, one of the few nods to personalization in her entire apartment. She had seen it in a little shop a few blocks from her last apartment and had to have it. It just reminded her so much of what a writer’s haven should look like, and it was so cozy and elegant. She’d bought it with her first royalties check for a mildly ridiculous sum, but she had no regrets.

Mostly, though, her loft apartment in Back Bay was pretty sparse. She had sprung for a nice, spacious place to live, but she didn’t exactly have the personal effects to fill it, which was okay with her. It was just one of those inevitable things that happened when you grew up in the foster system, moving from place to place, never staying long enough in any one of them to accumulate a lot of things.

Emma got up and went to the kitchen, debating between fixing herself some hot cocoa or pouring herself a glass of scotch.

Fuck it, she was going to do both. She was an adult, she could double-fist if she wanted to.

She could almost hear Granny saying, “Cocoa for what ails you and liquor so you don’t bring the ailing to anyone else.” She smiled to herself, remembering the kind, older woman who had taken her in after…after everything had gone to hell.

Emma had been in and out of foster care since she was a baby. Some of the homes she’d been in had been great, others less so. She’d nearly been adopted twice, but it had fallen through both times. And those had been some of the good ones.

And she had no intention of talking to anyone, not even that court-appointed psychologist, about the worst of the homes. That, well…even she didn’t like to think about that.

By the time she aged out of the system, she’d been adept at petty crime. It hadn’t taken long for her to fall in–in more ways than one–with another small-time criminal, Neal. He’d been her first love, her first lot of things.

But he’d also landed her in jail. Framing her for one of his past crimes had gotten him a fresh start and her a felony charge, but luckily–if she could call it luck–she’d been young enough that she had been able to get those records sealed.

After nearly a year in minimum security she’d found herself back in Boston, waiting tables at Granny’s. She was eighteen and a mess, but Mrs. Lucas had seen some spark of potential and had encouraged her first to get her GED and then to put herself through college. She’d even kept a room for her in that old house, had made a place for her in her home.

It was how she’d met her best friend, Ruby, who was still here for her a decade later, even with Granny gone these last four. Emma was glad Granny got to see the pair of them graduate from college, to see Ruby take over the diner. She even got to witness Emma meeting some success as a bail bondsperson.

She smiled into the last of her scotch, remembering Granny’s encouragement and enthusiasm as Emma put together the first draft of her novel. The plates of free grilled cheese (“But I’m going to have to make you pay for the onion rings with as many as you eat, girlie.”), the disapproving looks when she was caught dicking around on Pinterest, and above all, the love and compassion she gave when Emmad had a rough day with a skip or with writing.

Emma wished Granny had lived to see the success of Bonds the Past. Even more, she wished she was here for this second book. It didn’t have a title yet, but she knew Granny would be proud of her.

She sighed, walking over to the bookcase, the one with her little journal full of her notes for this project. This was going to be hard–it would have been difficult even with a supportive editor like Graham. It was going to be doubly so now with someone like Killian Jones.

She knew this book would be good, better than her debut novel. And not just in terms of sales…for her. She was going to write what she knew, was going to strip away that veil of privacy and reserve that she had held onto for so long.

And maybe, just maybe, she could bring some positive attention to the system and what foster kids went through there. Use her newfound fame for good and all that.

Emma ran her hand over her face, daunted at the task ahead.

It was time to give Ruby a call and hole up at the diner and write.

#cs ff #captain swan #cs au #cs mc au #csbb #cs mc ff #part of the narrative #amber writes

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