Page 2 of The Story Between Us

She rotated the pot toward the window. Pulled off two dead leaves and tucked them in her pocket.

On her way to her cubicle, she stopped at Derek Huang’s new desk—the one by the window, the spot that used to belong to Janet before her promotion. Livvie pulled a small bakery box from her bag and set it on his keyboard. Salted caramel cupcake. She’d been up at five to frost it, and the smell of brown butter still clung to her sweater.

The little flag said Happy Birthday! in her best handwriting.

She twisted the silver fox ring on her finger—three full rotations, a nervous habit she’d never managed to break—and headed for her cubicle.

The list dropped at ten. And a tiny voice inside kept whispering…today could be different.

Twenty-three months ago, she’d pulled a manuscript from the slush pile at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. Debut author, quiet voice, the kind of story that rearranged your heart. She’d shepherded it through three rounds of revisions, staying late, coming in early. She’d cried actual tears when it sold at auction for six figures.

Richard Ames, her boss, had read approximately forty pages, but she’d known—just known in her bones—that the book was destined for The New York Times bestseller list.

Livvie pulled up her chair, booted up her computer, and checked the internet. Not live yet.

She opened her email program, a list of tagged queries all rejected by Richard, the manuscripts deemed “not for us.” Most of them deserved to be there. But one had been nagging at her until she’d finally opened it and moved it into the what-if category.

Nora Whitcomb. Twenty-three. First novel. Richard had forwarded Livvie the proposal with the words “too quiet, no platform” in the message.

But Livvie had been curious, pulled up the manuscript, and read the first fifty pages on her lunch break yesterday. A different story—a woman inherits her grandmother’s flower shop and discovers it’s actually a front for a matchmaking service. Something in the voice—raw and searching and desperately honest—had followed her home. It was the kind of story that didn’t announce itself. The kind you had to lean in to hear. The protagonist’s relationship with her grandmother reminded Livvie of Aunt Lila—the way some people saw you clearly when the rest of the world looked right through.

Brilliance in the making.

She looked at her notes.

Page 7: This is where I fell in love with the grandmother. Deepen this scene.

Page 28: The twist needs more setup. Plant something earlier about the roses.

Page 45: I’m crying on the subway and I don’t even care.

She pulled up the query again. Stared at it.

Richard would never approve her reaching out. Junior agents didn’t overrule senior partners. Junior agents didn’t contact rejected authors behind their boss’s back.

But the voice in those pages. That raw, searching honesty. The way the protagonist described her grandmother’s hands—weathered and sure, holding secrets in every crease.

Livvie had read a thousand queries. She knew when something was special.

She opened a new email.

Dear Nora,

I know you received a pass from our agency, but I wanted to reach out personally. Your pages stayed with me—the voice, the honesty, the way you write about family and all its complicated truths. I think there’s something real here, and I’d love to talk about it if you’re open to feedback.

No promises. Just a conversation.

Her finger hovered over Send.

This was stupid. Could even be career suicide. If Richard found out she was developing an author he’d rejected, going around him, making the agency look inconsistent⁠—

She thought about the fiddle-leaf fig. The cupcake Derek wouldn’t remember by lunch. The bestseller list that would drop in two hours with her work on it and her name nowhere near it.

Some voices deserved to be heard. Even if hearing them was against the rules.

She hit Send.

The email whooshed away. Her heart hammered against her ribs.