“Since I wasn’t sure beer would do it, I prepared some cocktails. While my little sister’s enjoyin’ her usual, your girl is sippin’ on a Dark ‘n’ Stormy—made with dark rum and ginger beer served over ice and garnished with a slice of lime.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Look at you. You’re almost domesticated.”
“You’d be surprised what you can learn on YouTube.”
We both crack up.
My phone rings, interrupting our laughter.
I fish for it in the back of my jeans and bring it to eye level.
“Don’t recognize the number,” I say, looking at the screen.
I let it go to voicemail.
“I got something different for us to try,” Jenkins says. “I finally decided to buy some craft beer since Jake and Hunter are always going on about?—”
My phone rings again.
Same number.
“What the hell? It’s Friday night for God’s sake.”
“Why don’t you take it? Get it over with,” Jenkins says.
“Might as well.” I accept the call.
“Hello?”
“Rhett Sullivan?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
“Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Sorry. It’s been a long day. Make that a long week. My name is Molly Goldberg-Braunstein. I’m a senior editor at the New York Times Magazine.”
“Okay.” I look up at the clock on the wall. “You’re calling pretty late.”
“I’m on New York time—figuratively and literally. It’s only seven here and I still have a solid two hours to go before I leave the office.”
“All work, no play,” I say.
“Not in publishing, I’m afraid.”
“How can I help you, Mrs. Goldberg-Braunstein, or is it miss?”
“I’m married and it’s Molly.”
“Molly.”
“About nine months ago you were in communication with one of my colleagues, Joyce Rabinowitz.”
“Joyce Rabinowitz?”
“She works in NYT’s Books division. She wanted to run a story on a few real life rodeo kings because of the rise in popularity of cowboy romance and small-town romance books among women… especially those living in big cities.”
