Page 4 of The Story Between Us

“Of course.”

He was already walking away. “On my desk by nine fifteen.”

She opened a new document and started typing. She was halfway through when Ryan Webster appeared at her cubicle—twenty-two, fresh out of college, khakis that didn’t fit and a button-down that had definitely belonged to his father. His face had gone the color of old paper.

“I think I deleted something. Something important.”

Livvie looked at her half-finished talking points. Looked at the clock. Looked at Ryan.

“Show me.”

“I don’t even know what I⁠—”

“Ryan.” She was already standing. “Show me. It’s probably in the trash folder.”

She followed him to his cubicle. It was in the trash folder.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said, color returning to his cheeks. “Seriously. I owe you, like, seventeen coffees.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

She made it back to her cubicle at 9:11. Finished the talking points in four minutes flat—not her best work, but Richard wouldn’t notice. She printed them, walked them to his office, set them on his desk while he talked on the phone.

“Mmm,” he said.

Back at her desk, she watched the clock crawl toward ten. She was refreshing the page every thirty seconds when Derek wandered past, cupcake crumbs on his tie.

“Oh, hey.” He paused. “Thanks for the”—a vague gesture at his face—“the thing.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Yeah.” Already looking at his phone. “Did you hear about the meeting? Sounds intense.” And then he was gone.

9:59 a.m.

She refreshed.

10:00 a.m.

Refreshed again.

Number three. The New York Times bestseller list. The book she’d found. The book she’d believed in.

Bam. And that’s how it was done. She wanted to print the page, but Richard’s voice cut across the office. “Conference room. Now.”

The “fishbowl” filled quickly. Four senior agents, their assistants, a handful of junior agents hoping to fill their own ledgers with bestsellers. Livvie found a spot near the back. Richard stood at the head of the table, expansive, magnetic.

The conference room was made to impress. Bookshelves lined the walls—first editions, awards, framed covers of authors he claimed to have discovered. The window looked out over Midtown, the September light catching the glass of a hundred buildings.

Richard grinned, something rare as he folded his arms. “As I’m sure you’ve all seen, we have a new entry on this week’s list. Number three.” A pause. “Number three. This is what happens when we trust our editorial instincts.”

We.

“I want to thank Derek for giving the publisher that marketing push—outstanding work.” Richard nodded at Derek. “And the whole team. This is what Pemberton does.”

Applause. Livvie clapped along, palms meeting in a rhythm that felt hollow.

Derek?