Counterfactual

03 | orientation

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."