“Oh.” Her amusement faded. Shoulders drooping, she swirled the dark liquid in her mug. “I guess my past behavior will haunt me forever—no matter how hard I try to atone for my mistakes.” She let out a slow breath and looked up at him. “You aren’t going to do the masterclass, are you?”

He claimed the chair beside her, keeping as much distance as possible between them in the confined space—and pushed out the word. “No. But it has nothing to do with our history. Bottom line, I don’t have a spare minute to put together a class—especially on a subject I’m not qualified to teach.”

“You’re successful. That’s a decent credential.”

“I’m not an expert on writing, Christi. I don’t have any formal training. I was just a guy who wanted to write a thriller, and after a number of false starts, the stars happened to align. My success is due as much to luck as talent—maybe weighted more toward luck. On top of that, the subject matter in my book ended up coinciding with world events. The timing of the release worked to my advantage.”

“You think your success was a fluke?”

“It’s possible.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not. I read your book. It blew me away. All the critical accolades were spot-on.”

A rush of pleasure washed over him at her praise, even if he wasn’t convinced any of the acclaim he’d received was warranted. “I appreciate the vote of confidence—but a stellar debut doesn’t guarantee future success.”

“Which translates to more pressure.”

“Yeah.”

She studied him, and her sharp, insightful perusal suggested she was peeking behind the curtain. Seeing more than he wanted her to see.

Her next question confirmed that. “Are you struggling with the second book?”

He shrugged, watching Hannah attempt to cozy up to Harpo. So far, the bird was playing hard to get. “Trying to write late at night after working a full shift isn’t ideal. And I don’t think it’s fair to leave Hannah on her own for long stretches while I write. At least not until she settles in.”

“Hmm.” Christi sipped her coffee. “Would it help if I picked her up after Beth relieves me at Eye of the Beholder instead of you dropping her off here on your way to work? That would give you ninety minutes to write before your shift. You’d be fresher, and you wouldn’t have to worry about her being on her own.”

That was an unexpected—and tempting—offer. An hour and a half a day of focused writing could produce a fair number of pages every week, relieve some of the pressure of the fast-approaching deadline.

But it didn’t seem fair to Christi.

“You already spend eight hours a day with her.”