Chapter 12
“Oh. Savannah.” Giselle’s lips pucker into a thoughtful, quite expensive-looking frown. “I didn’t know you were coming to this little soiree.”
Soiree, as a matter of fact, was my Word of the Day three weeks ago. Soirees are reserved for intimate gatherings. Upscale parties. Special get-togethers. She’s used the term perfectly.
I don’t have the heart or willpower to glance over at Will. I mean, I just said those things about her. I just ratted her out. I feel like I just discovered Will was playing on the opposite team all this time. All that time in the bar next door it felt like he was an untaken player, someone who hadn’t been picked up yet for the team on either side. The red team: full of executives with all the power. Or the blue team: the rest of us at Pennington. The underdogs. The common man.
But he’s the publisher of Pennington Pen. He’s Ms. Pennington’s own son. Of course he’s one of them.
And Giselle, to drive the nail in the coffin, looks dazzling. Her short platinum hair looks so silky smooth she could be in a Pantene commercial, and the silvery top beneath a sharp white blazer shimmers in the light to give just the right playful touch to this business affair.
Me, on the other hand . . . I feel my face wincing despite myself. I actually spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror this evening working to make my bun look like the product of an overworked genius of an agent who didn’t care a wit about the world around her.
Quickly, I run my hand over the side of my bun.
“Oh,” I say, as casually as I can muster. “No, we just bumped into each other.”
“Ah.” What little interest she had in me shifts back to Will. “Well, Will, we were starting to worry. I was just about to get Sam to check the restrooms to make sure you hadn’t hit your head and weren’t stranded somewhere.” She gives a little laugh just as Sam pops up beside her, and my misery is complete.
Evidently I was shielded from view by Giselle, because the second Sam’s eyes move from Will to me, he gives an almost imperceptible startle. “Savannah. Hello.”
“Hi.” There’s something extra amiss in his tone. It’s almost the stilted remember-that-first-terrible-date greeting he usually has. Almost. But no, at this moment there’s no mistaking it’s something more. Extra cautious. Extra nervous. The way his hands shift uncomfortably toward his pockets. Now his gaze moves pointedly to Will, almost as though he’s guilty about something. Hiding something.
Just like he was outside the ARC room.
And again my thoughts give a flourishing, Sam? Could he really be my mystery man?
“Our food is here,” Sam murmurs, in a tone that even for Sam is over the top. Of course, he is the passive one in the on-off relationship that is Giselle-and-Sam. I mean, he’d have to be. If there were two people as aggressive as Giselle in the relationship, they’d kill each other. So, while I’m used to seeing the tail-between-his-legs attitude whenever the two are together, it’s surprising seeing it even worse now.
“Finally,” Giselle says. “I told you all we shouldn’t have come here. This place not only looks like two tins of condemned veal but is just as slow as it is plug-ugly. Let’s go sit.”
But as she trots off, Sam following like a puppy, Will doesn’t move.
When the world apparently shakes because somebody hasn’t blindly followed her directions, she stops.
Turns.
“I’ll be right there,” Will says, not moving.
She plasters on a bright smile. “Great.”
But then she doesn’t move either.
The two of them smile expectantly at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment until, when it can’t be any more evident that he is not going to walk with her to the booth no matter how long she silently grins at him, Giselle lifts her chin. “We’ll just tell everyone you’re coming . . . then.”
“Good plan.” Will gives a short nod, and when it’s quite clear she’s gone, he looks down at me. “Well. Savannah. Thank you for the interruption this evening. It was a most welcome one.”
I want to say, You, sir, were the one who originally interrupted me, remember? But it seems trivial to point it out.
“Enjoy your . . . meeting,” I say.
I also want to add, And please, please don’t repeat what I told you about Giselle to that group. But that seems desperate, and won’t make any difference anyway. If he wants to share with them what I said, he’ll share.
So, with very little power over the situation, I smile as merrily as I can and give a little wave, trying very hard not to look like the girl who didn’t make the softball team. “See you Monday.”
He nods, but his eyes are already starting to cloud as he turns toward the booth that lies ahead.
* * *
Giselle has been demoted.
I can hardly believe my ears Monday morning as I stand on the tiled marble floor under the vast, quaking chandelier of the foyer. Word has buzzed through the building so quickly the whole place seems to hum.
Giselle. The Giselle. The one who’s shown her glossy face here for ten years. The one who has had her eyes set on the publisher position the past two. One of Ms. Pennington’s favorite pets (because Giselle is more skilled than anyone else here in the art of counterfeiting literary intelligence).
Numbly I take in the news surrounded by a dozen hushed—and in some cases giddy—conversations.
The second I turn the knob on my office door, I’m greeted with an explosion of energy from Lyla. “Did you hear?” she says, practically jumping from her chair and rushing at me like a puppy whose master has come home at the end of a long day. “Can you believe it?”
“Hardly,” I say, bewildered.
Lyla shuts the door behind me. In fact, all the doors on the hall are shut today. The typical, unspoken rule is to have them open, allowing Ms. Pennington to keep an eye on us whenever she spontaneously, much like a warden, walks the halls. But today everyone on our hall is talking about the latest news.
Giselle the Giant has fallen.
And surely . . . surely? . . . not because of me.
“I saw her this morning carrying a box from her desk downstairs. To the first floor.” Lyla’s eyes are positively mirthful. “Honestly, I’m surprised she didn’t just quit. You know how she is. She’d probably rather be unemployed than lose her dignity by being demoted to the first floor. I say she’ll find somewhere else and quit within the week.”
“Where did she go?”
“Trophy. To be an assistant. I just can’t believe it. Harry I could believe. Clyve made sense; his work was always subpar. But Giselle? I mean, she was out with the bigwigs just two nights ago! I saw them!”
And as if on cue, there’s a knock on the door. We both jump, and in the next moment we’re flying toward our desks and jabbing both of our computer mouses to make the screens come to life.
“Come in,” I call out as nonchalantly as I can.
To my surprise, it’s Will.
The ease in his eyes is gone. All remnant emotions from two nights ago, in fact, are gone, leaving only that same hard, exacting expression he wears from eight to six. Even his clothes look tighter and more uncomfortable with their perfectly pressed and sharp angles.
“Savannah. I was hoping for a quick word.”
“Oh. Of course,” I say.
Lyla’s eyes practically become saucers as she watches me follow behind him into the hall. After all, why wouldn’t they? Those have been the words of doom the past twelve months. Anyone receiving them got the inevitable boot.
Who knows? Maybe it’s my turn.
I trail behind Will to the end of the hall, where a single door looms. Two people walking down from the opposite side stop as we pass, practically flattening themselves against the wallpaper with more giant-saucer eyes to let us by. Good grief. I have no doubt that rumors are already spreading. People are probably right now calling dibs for my desk space.
We step inside his office, and as we do so, I hear the door click shut behind me.
I’ve only been in this room a handful of times.
“Please grab a seat.” He motions at one of the two modern-looking leather chairs on the other side of his desk.
As I take a seat, I glance around. The desk is the same auspiciously large, wearied pine as every other desk in the building bought in the 1970s, but everything else about the room is new. The red Persian rug peeking out from beneath the desk and stretching across half the length of the room. The black-walnut bookcase to one side, spilling out books both new and old. The wall behind Will, covered with two windows facing a large maple and its spindly winter limbs. On either side of the windows there used to be frames. Dozens of frames, highlighting a life spent in publishing, documenting nearly every accomplishment for the world, and Harry himself, to admire.
But there are no frames now behind Will’s head. Just a fresh coat of cold gray paint, tinting toward blue in the morning light.
Will takes a breath. “I’m sure you must’ve heard.”
He doesn’t elaborate. After all, he has grown up inside these walls; he must know how fast word travels.
“I did,” I say at last. “I must admit, I’m surprised.”
He nods, not seeming to want, or need, to know more. “I just wanted you to know that I appreciate you speaking with me so candidly Friday evening. The more I can understand the myriad problems going on in this company, the easier it will be on everyone in the long run.”
So that’s what it was, then. My fears—no, I won’t even let myself admit that in thought alone. My suspicions confirmed. He pulled me off to chat more about the company. That even explains the so-called “bet” to make things more interesting: play a game of darts and get all the dirt he can on what’s really going on in the company. And I was just so willing to share every single thought in my head.
“I’m glad to hear it.” My words are uplifting, and yet my tone is distant, polite. As polite as my rigid posture as I sit in this chair trying with all its might to force me to lean back.
“Tell me, what do you think of Yossi?”
“Yossi?” My antenna rises. Yossi has been with the company for ten years, and yes, while he may bore me to pieces every single meeting, he’s a good man. Loyal to Pennington. Lover of books. Worthy of only good things. “Yossi is great.”
“Is he really, though?” Will raises an eyebrow—the exact same way he did when he questioned my dart skills the other night. Only this time, it doesn’t evoke quite the same emotion. This time, I stiffen. “He’s been late to work three times.”
Sure, he has a problem getting to work on time, but that’s because the man is so eco-conscious he bikes to work. Sometimes he falls prey to the puddles. And sometimes he stays up all night reading, riveted by some new inspiration or other, and sleeps through his alarm. It’s a true booklover’s dilemma. But we’re in a publishing house. These are the known, and surely accepted, consequences of hiring true-to-the-core readers for the job.
“And I’ve noticed he’s not quite as on board as some others when it comes to working as a team.”
Well, can you blame him? He was under Giselle’s wing, and every time she ended up getting her hands on his manuscripts, she inevitably screwed something up, blamed it on him, or watched the manuscript receive praise and took credit that really belonged to him.
“Yossi has been nothing but a treasure to this company. He’s truly one of a kind. Honestly, you should fire me before you fire him.”
There. I said it. I told him the truth, and in doing so may have put myself on the line.
“Yes, but is he confident?” he continues without swerving. “Can he command a group?”
When did I become the Pennington snitch? When did I become the rat who skirted around the darkest corners with the higher-ups, whispering secrets that determined the lives of others? Every single time I’ve met with Will now, somebody has been fired or demoted or moved to another position. Sure, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I appreciated it, but now Yossi?
Asking me for dirt on Yossi?
I can’t do this. I can’t be the company snitch who gets the reputation for whispering little injuries in the boss’s ear whenever I’m frustrated.
I raise my chin. “I think these questions are better left to Yossi himself. I’m sorry, I have quite a bit of work to do. My expense reports are due today. I think I’d better see myself out.”
Will, who’s been so intensely asking me questions that he’s been leaning forward, his elbows on the desk, sits up in surprise. The intensity in his gaze lifts, as though he’s seeing me for the first time.
“Yes,” he says after a lengthy pause. He stands up, the polite distance back in his posture. “Yes, those reports are due today. Good thinking.”
There’s a wedge between us now. I feel it, and the way he moves toward the door to usher me out, there’s no doubt he feels it too.
As I turn at the door, I see a new expression clouding his face, and for a moment I waver. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but he looks almost . . . hurt. Like somehow in there he was finally being vulnerable, too, eager to have somebody else with whom to share his concerns. It must be lonely at the top.
Still.
I pause just before he opens the door and, risking several things at once, put a hand on the cuff of his button-up shirt. “Yossi is a good man and an asset,” I say quietly. “What he lacks in punctuality he makes up in loyalty, goodwill, and a passion for the job that has already stood the test of time.”
He’s quiet, his expression unreadable, and I continue.
“I just hope you take some time to really get to know the employees under your wing before making hasty decisions.”
A slight crease forms on his brow, and I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I certainly know my own thoughts. Will Pennington has been here two weeks, and in that span of time has fired Clyve, changed Tom’s editor, and demoted Giselle. And now, here, he’s considering making a grave mistake with Yossi. Maybe some of that has been called for, but the reality is he’s charged into Pennington like a bull in a china shop.
“You think I made the wrong decision with Giselle?”
“No.” Slowly, I shake my head. “I and the whole Pen team thank you for that, truly. I just . . . don’t feel comfortable being the one to have influenced you in your decision. I’m just a lowly editor. You are the hotshot from New York who’s boss. I’d hate to lead you astray by speaking out of turn.”
His voice is low, quiet, as he responds. “I don’t ask for many people’s opinions, Savannah. But when I do, it’s because I respect them and the lens through which they see the world. You may be, as you say, a lowly editor, but you also have insights into this company that I find admirable, and true.” For a long moment Will looks at me, but when I don’t budge, he gives a polite smile and turns the knob. “At any rate, I asked for your opinion on Yossi. I appreciate you giving it.”
He opens the door.
* * *
I swing through the ARC room during lunchtime two weeks later and, to my surprise, open the door to a whole new world. It’s a land—a whole fairyland—of lights. It really does feel like a fairyland too. I was expecting nothing fancy out of this typical gloomy February day, with the clouds a chalky gray and the forecast nothing but sleet and freezing rain. And then, ta-da. Instead of a dark, shadowy room lit by one hanging bulb, I find nine hundred lights twinkling in glory. The room glows.
And as I pick the manuscript off the stack of books lingering beside the beanbag chair, I can’t help but feel my heart glowing as well.
My mystery editor added lights. For us.
Us.
That includes me.
As I go over his newest additions, my eyes can’t help nearly shimmering with tears of mirth as I read, then reread, the expansive story written all down the page. Maybe it’s the humiliating story about my mystery editor’s worst blind date that does it. Maybe it’s the ball of tension that’s starting to release in the pit of my stomach since I passed the halfway mark on the manuscript. Or maybe it’s the new string lights surrounding the little room, making the whole place glow.
Or maybe all three.
I take my pen and finish off the conversation we’ve had going back and forth for the past four days at the bottom of the page.
Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll take out the blind-date scene. But geez, that’s pretty embarrassing, Mystery E.
Then I trust you can keep that little secret between you and me.
Or use it in my next manuscript . . .
You wouldn’t dare.
Wouldn’t I?
Not if I’m editing it.
Does that mean you’re up to the job? Mystery E. henceforth and forevermore? This is getting a little Phantom of the Opera–esque.
I always thought he got a bad rap. He built Christine Daaé’s career.
You like the show?
One of my favorites.
Fine, then. This book gets contracted, and I’m taking you to the show. My treat.
Make it on Broadway and you have a deal.
Broadway it is.
I smile to myself as my finger slides to the bottom of the page and I add: By the way, these lights are beautiful. Then I turn the page and laugh at his own note: These lights are the ambience this room needed.
Agreed! I reply, then move on down the page.
I’ve spent more and more time up here in the ARC room lately, and while I can justify in good conscience repeatedly leaving the second floor because I’ve been devoting so many hours to the job at night, the real trick has been managing to sneak away so much without suspicion. Thankfully, with everyone at Pennington having such a tangle of meetings with one person or another throughout the day, everyone seems to have assumed I’m off to talk with someone about something. As it turns out, as long as you’re turning in quality-level work on time, there’s a surprising lack of accountability for Pennington editors. And with Lyla and the way she falls so deeply into new projects you could practically eat from a dinner plate on her head without her noticing, it’s been remarkably easy to escape and come back without notice.
There’s another long paragraph at the bottom, and I pause. It’s a moment where my lead lady has messed things up yet again and the best friend—the perfect, polished best friend—comes in to fix things up and save the day. My leading lady isn’t perfect. Actually, to be perfectly honest, my leading lady isn’t perfect at all. She’s a mess, really. Incomplete. Untalented. Truly mediocre. She is neither the glossy girl living with a perpetual can light spotlighting her every move nor the ugly duckling in the back of the room who turns out to be a witty, suddenly-knockout-gorgeous-when-she-washes-her-hair type of female. No, she’s just Cecilia. Fifteen pounds heavier than she was in college, and yet the chocolate muffins matter more to her than her weight. Funny, but never commanding a room with her wit. Enjoys movies and music and TV but couldn’t read music if her life depended on it. Intelligent enough to get by but not intelligent enough to win awards or get promoted to anything big. She’s just . . . Cecilia.
She’s also, I’m realizing, just . . . me.
I’ve heard other authors say they write to explore their own problems. They write to work through what they’re going through. It’s a sort of therapy.
And here, looking at my own work through fresh eyes, I see. I’ve done it too.
The problem is, what has changed? Nothing. My life hasn’t changed. I haven’t finished this book with a eureka moment and grown. I’ve learned no lessons.
I’m still just me.
Where’s my darn eureka?
I read through the rest of Mystery E.’s entries, defending my actions on some, taking pictures and making notes to adjust things on others. The positive notes are popping up more and more, I’ve noticed, especially as I’ve printed out new copies of my edited scenes to stack on top of the manuscript for him to see. He likes the way things are turning out. And, with growing certainty, I do too.
Honestly, I’m starting to both marvel at this new manuscript and feel a pinch of terror whenever I think of the condition of the manuscript I sent to Claire before. This is so much better. So much so that it’s humiliating to think about what I sent before.
I reach the last of his notes and check the time. The room is luminous. The gray clouds swirl outside the purple- and green-tinted glass panes. This place feels so cozy I wish I could stay all day.
But it’s time for our monthly pub meeting. Time to tap out from my turn in the magical room. Time to go.
Just before I do, though, I take out my pen and write a note in the margin of chapter 15.
So, Mystery Editor. Why are you helping me?
The question is simple, but still, I feel my heart race as I write it. I’ve wondered so many times as I’ve read his notes through the pages, but have never summoned up the bravery to ask.
Part of me has feared he would read my inquiry and think, You know? Why am I helping her? And then he’d drop me and leave me to my hopeless fate. But the longer we’ve gone along, giving it 100 percent over the hours, over the days, the more I feel like I’m not so alone while doing this. We are a team. Somehow, remarkably enough, I sense he wants this manuscript to succeed just as much as I do.
It doesn’t make sense. But I really feel it.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting in the Magnolia Room at the oval table as the room slowly fills. My feet are tapping the floor as I review the last of my notes, a tick Olivia has truly helped create. I’m at four thousand steps for the day, thanks to one drizzly walk to work, but for the third time this week, I’m still lagging behind.
Some new girl is sitting in Giselle’s old seat, looking quiet and uncertain of herself as she sits beside Brittney, Ms. Pennington’s PA. The new boss, no doubt. Although . . . that’s a bit quick, isn’t it? Certainly it’d take more than a couple of weeks to find any truly worthwhile replacement for her job. And why couldn’t Will have hired from inside the publishing house? These are all just issues stacked on top of existing issues in a load that’s building against him.
His demeanor has grown harsher over the past few days. People have been calling him a chip off the old block—which, to everyone except Ms. Pennington herself, is the opposite of a compliment. In the span of three days, Will has dropped the night janitor—poor Robby of over twenty-six years—down to part time and given all of us more cleaning responsibilities, taken away three people’s company credit cards (that I know of), and cut the cord on the new espresso machine, replacing the station with grocery store–brand coffee.
And to be honest, I don’t know how I feel about it all.
I don’t blame people for getting their feathers ruffled; I nodded vigorously when Maggie declared during one lengthy tirade, “If we’re going to be living in 1984 conditions, you’d think they could at least let us keep our coffee!” And I certainly fought on Yossi’s behalf. But at the same time, whenever I see Will’s exhausted face as I pass him in the hall or go past his door—always cracked open, always with the light on no matter how late in the day—I can’t help feeling for him. He’s the boss making the calls and yet he looks more miserable than the people he’s letting go. On the bright side, at least Yossi is still here today.
Maybe I made an impact after all, I think. Maybe part of the reason he’s still sitting here today is because of what I said to Will. And no one will ever know.
Lyla scurries to my side and bends toward my ear. “I just got a call!”
“Rob, close the door, please,” Will says, and the feel of the room shifts as the meeting begins.
Even from this distance, I can see Will’s tense face as Ms. Pennington stands just as he himself starts to rise. She moves a foot to the left to command the head of the table. “Okay, everyone,” she says, her voice higher than usual. “Let’s begin.”
Ms. Pennington is like that. Always wanting to be in the middle of things, knowing everything that is going on. Micromanaging. And while that may have worked to a degree with Harry, the last publisher of the Pen division, who always acted less like a boss and more like a microphone for Ms. Pennington’s will, it’s clearly a point of tension now that Will is running Pen. As we all feel and see. Every day.
“From whom?” I manage to whisper to Lyla.
“Frank Stenneti Entertainment! FSE!” Lyla whispers back as though it should have been obvious. It’s been fourteen days since she played at the Polar Star, and since then we’ve had a dozen meetings, one issue with the warehouse for shipments, one livid agent conversation, three blasé agent conversations, and two suck-up-to-agent conversations. That night is about as far from my mind as the load of wet laundry forgotten in my washer the past three days.
“Quit dawdling, everyone,” Ms. Pennington continues.
“No one is dawdling,” Will says quietly. “Everyone’s clearly seated and ready.”
Both Lyla’s and my attention snaps to Will. I have the urge to press my lips together to keep from saying, “Ooooooh,” like kids do when watching a fight forming in the halls.
Now that I look at him, he does look even more taut than usual today, like he’s on the back end of a really long argument that didn’t go well. Who knows? Maybe they’ve already been going at it behind closed doors.
Ms. Pennington, looking sharp in her red suit, pretends not to hear him.
“Yossi,” she says, “I haven’t seen an updated proposal. I was expecting that in my in-box two days ago.”
“As I’ll remind you from our previous conversation,” says Will before Yossi can speak, “you haven’t received it because he sent it to me—his publisher—and I rejected it. The proposal wasn’t worth pursuing.”
At this, I see Ms. Pennington’s jaw clench. There’s an ire in her icy blue eyes as she meets his matching ones. “The concept was riveting.”
“It was outdated. The public’s attention is not on the great harmonica players of the nineteenth century.”
“Then we draw their attention to the topic. That is our duty. We create a culture. We enrich society.”
“Yes, but how well has that worked the past fiscal year?”
The only sound in the room is Brittney’s pen scraping furiously on the paper as she writes down the conversation. None of us dare breathe.
Finally, after several long moments have passed, Ms. Pennington tilts her chin. “I’ve just remembered an urgent email I need to attend to. I’ll leave you all to things here and will be looking for a report from Mr. Pennington this evening.”
And in one smooth move, Ms. Pennington somehow manages to slide through the crowded group surrounding the table and standing against the walls, Brittney with pen and pad following closely behind.
All of our eyes now shift to Will, waiting for what comes next.
Will stands. His face is emotionless, as though in his mind the conversation was prudently handled and it’s time to move on to the next line item on the docket. Instead of looking like his thoughts are churning with shouts of I can’t believe I just spoke to my mother like that! I must amend myself immediately! like I would, he’s calm. Eerily calm.
“Hello, everyone. Thank you, especially the sales team, for coming in and joining us today from your travels. We appreciate you.”
The men and women lining the walls give frozen smiles.
“Now, first off, you’ll notice we have a new face here today. Allow me to introduce Moira.” He gestures at the new woman at the table. “Our newest intern.”
New. Intern.
A new, unpaid intern.
Oh.
“She’s just begun spring term of her junior year at Belmont, so she will be joining us mostly in the afternoons and using most of her time filling in to meet the needs of the editorial staff. But I also want to see that she gets her feet wet with all the departments so that she can learn about the workings of the publishing industry. I can assure you she will be a great benefit to all of us here, and at the same time I hope we can benefit her with great work experience as well. So please, be sure to give her a warm welcome after the meeting.”
He gives Moira a nod. Moira, the poor girl, looks like a popsicle stick with a smiley face. What a first day on the job.
“Second, I want to be the first to inform you all of Yossi’s promotion to editorial director.”
At this, I nearly knock over my coffee.
“Yossi, as you all are aware,” continues Will, “has been an asset to Pennington Publishing since the beginning. What he lacks, I hear, in . . . punctuality”—at this, Will at last lets a wry smile slip onto his face, and a few chuckles go around the room—“he makes up for in loyalty, goodwill, and a passion for the job that has already stood the test of time.”
I feel my breath halt as Will’s eyes meet mine.
He wasn’t planning to fire him.
He was listening to my advice. In fact, he’s using my exact words that I said to him. How? is the question running through my mind. How is it possible that Will Pennington, son of the CEO of Pennington Publishing, cares enough about my words to lean on them for his decisions?
Who am I? Nothing but a lowly assistant acquisitions editor at the bottom rung in a company full of experts. I wasn’t offended when I wasn’t included in that upper-level meeting at the Polar Star. In fact, the thought never crossed my mind. Why? Because I am Savannah Cade. Not my mother, Laurie Cade, not my grandmother, Hazel Cade, not even my great-grandfather, Geoffrey Cade, caught out of his hospital bed after having his arm amputated in the first world war fixing the creaky bed. Just . . . me.
So what is it he sees in me that he finds worth trusting?
I’m not sure, but what I see in his eyes now, the telepathic message I feel sent through the airwaves to me at this very moment, tells me one thing: he does. For whatever odd, crazy reason, he respects my opinion. Respects me.
The shock of the realization lingers with me through the rest of the meeting, the afterglow of the rare sensation making a home inside my chest. I’ve never been respected before. Not really. Not with my family. Not with Ferris. Not with Giselle. Maybe, just maybe, this’ll be the start of something good.
The meeting goes more smoothly than ever. Surprisingly, it isn’t the sales team that turns down my proposed author but Will himself halfway through as he interrupts to say, “I’m unconvinced. Let’s move on.” It’s crisp. To others it looks most certainly cutting. But given I told him as much myself that night during darts, I don’t take it personally.
I stand at the coffee maker in the corner after the meeting is over. It’s late, the meeting having gone on much longer than usual, and a feeling of euphoria is fading out of the room as I pour myself a cup of coffee. It was a rare moment of team bonding back there. Yossi certainly surprised us all with that pep talk about the power of words and our work, and the ruddiness is still on my face as the steaming liquid fills my cup.
I take a sip, and the fact that it tastes like burnt cheap grounds can’t even dampen my mood.
“How is it?” Will sidles up to me and reaches for a paper cup off the stack. He looks good. Certainly less stressed than the person we saw two hours ago going toe to toe with his CEO . . . and mother.
“Do you want honesty?” I say, turning to lean against the counter of the station with a small grin.
“If that’s okay with you. Yes.”
I catch the way he’s looking at me as he speaks and take in the words. He’s silently asking for something else. Referring back to our conversation in his office when I subtly asked to step away. He wants to know, it seems, if I’m okay with stepping back in.
My smile deepens, giving the answer in full by expression alone. But just to be clear, I say, “That’s perfectly okay with me.” I pause, then add, “Your coffee sucks.”
His eyes momentarily widen, and then he picks up the coffeepot. “Is that so? I’ll have you know these are the finest coffee grounds three-fifty a bag can buy.”
I watch with amusement as he takes a sip, then holds the coffee in his mouth before taking an inordinately long period of time to swallow.
“Missing that espresso machine now, aren’t we?” I tease.
He drops his cup into the trash can, and the coffee splashes along the plastic lining on the way down. “Fine. I concede. I’ll bring back the espresso machine. No absurdly priced espresso beans from Fazatti’s, though. And no syrup station.”
“Bulk espresso beans from the Bean Station,” I counter, “and we’ll contribute our own syrups to share among the group.”
Will eyes me for a long moment, then puts out his hand. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“Happy to represent the group,” I reply, shaking firmly.
“The Pennington spokesperson,” Will says, smiling as his hand holds mine. “You know, I may just take you up on that offer.”
“I’m sure we’ll have plenty to talk about,” I reply. And in more ways than one, I mean it. The idea sends electricity through my veins, all the way down the palm of my hand sitting warmly in his.
It’s funny. You never quite realize that you have expectations for how someone’s hand will feel. It’s not like I had consciously ever wondered before. I just expected it to be smooth, probably because a part of me also expects that his life up north was full of gripping portfolios and opening sleek taxi cabs instead of operating heavy machinery. Why would his hand be calloused, the muscles beneath his palm strong, when his life is one of facts and numbers? And yet . . . I bite the inside bottom of my lip, forcing myself to stop thinking about it. I don’t actually have the heart to let go, but I at least force myself to stop looking at his strong hand all but enveloping mine.
“So, how did things turn out for Lyla the other evening?” Will says, breaking his grip at last.
I take a breath. Put my hand quickly at my side.
“Pretty good. She got a call from that agent after all.” There’s a pause, and I add quickly, “Not that she’s planning to leave Pennington. She loves it here.”
“Yes, so I’ve gathered,” he says, his eyes moving pointedly to where Lyla stands in a cluster of coworkers, looking bored out of her mind. Her AirPods peek out clearly from her ears.
When he sees my wide eyes he adds, “Don’t worry. I’ve already come to realize she’s an eccentric best left to her own devices.” He pauses. “Well, most of the time. We may need to take away her phone privileges.”
I laugh. “You’ve been getting complaints about her?”
“Half of my calls are about her.” He shrugs. “But she’s the most talented person in this publishing house, and I’m including myself in that statement. I’m not going to lose her over a temper. Besides, everything she says is dead on, and if I’m honest, part of me likes to see her tell it to them like it truly is.”
My grin widens. “That’s not very publisher of you, Will Pennington.”
His eyes twinkle. “Then I trust you can keep that little secret between you and me.”
* * *
And I do tuck that little secret away.
Deep away in my thoughts all the way on my freezing walk home.
All the way up the three flights of stairs.
All the way to my door.
The thought—the whole conversation, in fact—takes up residence full time, setting out a love seat in the living room of my mind. Will Pennington sidling up to me, not anyone else, after the meeting adjourns. Will Pennington’s playful smile. Will Pennington’s resilient, authoritative air when he makes decisions for the greater good. Will Pennington’s banter.
And his words.
I walk through the living room in a rosy haze, laptop bag over my shoulder, feeling light as a feather despite the blocks and blocks of trudging through freezing rain. I leave damp footprints as I step along the hallway toward my room, and I hear Ferris and Olivia talking in faint, disagreeable tones as they sit at the kitchen table, poring over some wedding document.
Everything feels okay. Better than okay.
Why? Because with a sense of growing certainty, I sit on my bed and slip out the manuscript I gathered into my laptop bag just before the doors locked for the evening. As I flip through the pages, I stop on page 149 and see the words. The same words I remembered the moment Will spoke to me after the meeting: Then I trust you can keep that little secret between you and me.
Here in bold black ink.
It has to be him. Will Pennington.
It has to be.