Page 75 of Blacklist

“Writers are used to waiting forever for responses.” She shrugs and gives me a wicked smile. “It’s good for them. Feeds their torturous souls. Take your time.”

“Okay.” I spare a sheepish glance at her. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Honestly, the owner just passed away. We haven’t heard yet what’s going to happen to the press. We might all be out of a job soon. We might get sold or shut down. I’m surprised we’ve stuck around this long.”

“Really?” I hope she interprets the heat painting my cheeks as something other than guilt. I should tell her who I am. But I can’t. Why?

“I think the only reason we’ve lasted this long is because he forgot about us. We weren’t important enough to worry about.”

“When will you know what’s going to happen?” An alarm bell rings inside my brain. I’m making this worse each moment I don’t come clean about who I am.

“When someone changes the locks or tells us to pack up, I’m guessing.” She looks grim at the prospect.

“Maybe the family will keep it going,” I suggest.

“I hope so, but I wouldn’t count on it. I’ve already started sending out my CV.”

“I’ve got a good feeling.” I don’t know why I don’t tell her the truth. That I’m the new owner. That I have no plans of shutting down the press. Maybe it’s the manuscript in my hands. Maybe it’s the opportunity to make a different first impression—one not based on my last name. Maybe I just need to earn something in life rather than have it handed to me, even if it’s only the truth. The reality is that I might be a shit editor. I might not have the eye. There’s no way she’ll tell me that if she knows my last name.

“You’re an optimistic little thing,” she says.

No one’s ever called me optimistic before. I like the way it sounds. “I guess I am.”

* * *

I leave Bluebird, manuscript in hand, hope in my heart, and a text with Sterling’s address waiting in my notifications. I’ve already dodged reality today. I can’t avoid him. According to the address, he lives nearby. I should call and see if he’s home. Instead, I decide to take my chances, hoping like hell that he’s busy doing whatever job it is that makes it possible for him to drop $10,000 at a charity gala on a dog with a fifty-dollar adoption fee. When I arrive at Twelve and South, my curiosity deepens. Sterling Ford lives in the penthouse—and this isn’t some standard apartment building. It’s a luxury high-rise in the heart of the Gulch, one of Nashville’s more elite pockets. There’s no reception desk. Instead, in true Southern fashion, there’s a bellhop ferrying visitors and residents to their respective floors.

He whistles when I tell him I’m here to see Sterling Ford.

“He just moved in,” he tells me as he sends the elevator toward the top floor. “I think that you’re one of his first visitors.”

I hate that this pleases me. “Is he here?”

I try to sound as disinterested as possible.

He gives me a quizzical look as if to say why would you come, if you didn’t know. “Haven’t seen him leave yet for the day. He took his new dog out earlier. Sweet boy.”

I assume he’s talking about the dog. No one would refer to Sterling as sweet—or a boy.

“I wanted to surprise them,” I explain, nervous that he’ll tell Sterling I was asking questions about him later. I want to make this quick and painless like ripping off a Band-Aid. The last thing I need is for someone to reopen the wound later.

“Old friends?”

“Something like that,” I say through gritted teeth. When we arrive at the top floor, I’m surprised to discover that not only is Sterling’s new apartment on the highest level, it is the highest level. The penthouse occupies the entirety of the twenty-third floor. The bellhop leaves me in front of his door. I watch the elevator door slide shut apprehensively. Part of me wants to bail, to call him back, and walk right out of Twelve and South. Then I remember what Shelby said about the shelter needing the money. This is bigger than hurt feelings and a relationship that was over years ago. Sterling hadn’t been awful the other night. If he can just behave himself, maybe we can be civil.

At least I know there’s one friendly face waiting on the other side of that door. Zeus might be Sterling’s dog now, but I’d been his favorite volunteer, and he’d been my favorite dog. When I knock on the door, I hear a muffled bark coming from inside and heavy footfall, followed by the scraping of claws on tile. The door cracks open and the top of Sterling’s head pokes through. “Stay Zeus.”

I can’t help but smile. I can hear Zeus jumping up on the other side of the door. Maybe he’s not taking to Sterling as his new owner yet.

“What’s gotten into you?” Sterling asks, still not paying any attention to me. “Can you smell the chicken?”

“Fresh out of chicken,” I say dryly. “He probably smells me.”

Sterling looks up, the mask of smugness he usually wears temporarily displaced by surprise. “Adair?”

“Don’t get cocky,” I warn him. “I’m here to see Zeus.”

“I thought you were my lunch.”