"Hmmmm."
Caroline did her best not to glower at her editor, or, at least, to glower in spirit only.
"The writing could be tighter."
"The descriptions are to emphasize that she's having trouble with this decision."
The figure on her computer screen leaned forward, and Caroline begrudgingly admired the line of his shoulder. A stickler he might be, tyrannical and curmudgeonly he might be (that was a good word; she'd try to work it in at the masquerade), but whatever her feelings about his writing advice, she could not deny that he was a beautiful man.
He sighed. "Caroline, she's just climbed out of a river. Why on Earth is she noticing the quality of the bedsheets?"
"Because subconsciously she wants to be in the bed."
"Is it even possible to make bedsheets out of samite? And if it is, would they have them at a humble waystation in a medieval setting?"
"That one was a placeholder, actually. Sorry."
He didn't need to know it was the only medieval fabric she had remembered how to spell.
"Hmm." He leaned back again, one hand absently combing through his wavy hair. The gesture irritated her. They had already spent most of the meeting going over his complaints about tone. Couldn't he just finish tearing the draft apart and get it over with?
He leafed through the manuscript, frowning slightly. "Ah. How is the masquerade scene going to be resolved?"
"I'm working on that one. My original plan didn't quite feel right."
Or, more plainly, Rosamund had flatly refused to follow the outline. Caroline was still annoyed about that.
The frown deepened, and she went back to being frustrated with her editor.
"You know you need to finish this draft up before we can get any work done on the publishing end."
"I know, I know. I'm just. . . struggling with characterization a little."
He was looking directly into his camera. His eyes were so green. "Caroline, you need to stay on track here. What do we need to do to make that happen?"
"I can get you the next chapter by the end of next week." He'd hate it, she knew, but at least she'd get him something. "You don't have to worry about my deadlines. I'm just taking the time to make sure I'm writing something good."
"Good. Looking forward to seeing it."
He ended the call, and Caroline whispered something deeply immature at her computer screen. She could finish the chapter, and she'd make it good. It would be satisfying to get something he couldn't mark up in red. He'd still want to remove all the best parts, of course, but if she could get the satisfaction of sending him something a little more polished. . .
It would be so satisfying to see him unable to complain about something. Not happy, but infuriatingly unable to find fault.
But first, she had to research medieval prisons.