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Russell whipped off the jacket of his Tom Ford suit and hung it on the back of his desk chair, motioning for her to get settled at the sleek mid-century-style conference table. “I did an extra circuit with my trainer this morning in preparation for this very moment,” he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “I swear, this is one of the main reasons why I represent cookbook authors.”

She unpacked their lunch, and they made small talk as Cam forced herself to sound more cheerful than she felt. Russell’s husband had made partner at his law firm, which meant longer hours but maybe, just maybe, a place on Fire Island next year if the real estate market wasn’t so out of control. And how was Parsley? Her answers were stilted at best. Fine, fine, everything was fine.

Except of course it wasn’t, Cam thought as she laid out the little feast—the chicken, a salad of spinach and strawberries (it was in the spring chapter of Meredith’s book), and a half-bottle of chilled Sancerre, with linen napkins and real silver flatware. Cam had wanted it to be special. Needed it to be. Her hands, usually so at ease around food, were trembling. She watched as Russell took his first bite of the meal. He nodded appreciatively, and Cam felt a flood of relief.

“Oh my God, delicious,” he finally said after chewing for what seemed like an eternity. Being a ghostwriter could be difficult. Often, as the case with Meredith’s books, she couldn’t even serve the dishes she was working on to friends because her work was covered by a wide-ranging nondisclosure agreement. Everything about Cam’s work on the books was kept under tight wraps. So she didn’t always get feedback, and she sometimes worried that her instincts were wrong.

“Is that raspberry?” Russell asked, his eyes half closed. “It’s perfect.” Russell had excellent taste in everything from pocket squares to flavor profiles.

Cam nearly beamed in spite of herself. “I thought the usual rhubarb formula needed a little tweaking…” She caught herself. “That is, Meredith thought it did.”

Russell came out of his food-induced trance and fixed her with a stare over his wineglass. “Oh, did she now?” he asked.

Cam sensed there was unspoken meaning behind his words.

“Yes,” she said, instinctively trying to gloss over any suggestion that she was more than just the worker bee who polished up the great chef’s work. “Meredith’s recipe—”

Russell cut her off. “Cam, I’m aware that Meredith’s been a little less involved recently.”

“Has she?” Cam asked, shrugging. “I hadn’t noticed.” She felt mixed up. On one hand, she didn’t want to jeopardize her work with Meredith, which meant not revealing to anyone how little the chef was doing—something Russell clearly already suspected. But on the other hand, Cam needed any advantage she could get with Russell if she was going to make her big request. Would it help her case if Russell knew?

She tried to game things out as she sipped her Sancerre, but it just left her even more confused. And anyway, it wasn’t like she could play some game of three-dimensional chess with a ninja-like negotiator like Russell Paxton. He was good to his clients, but that meant he had to be ruthless when he needed to be. Cam had watched him negotiate deals with publishers on Meredith’s behalf like he was Genghis Khan in a designer suit.

She called up a mental image of Birdie’s house and remembered her promise to her grandmother. She would think of something, she had sworn.

“Russell, I need an advance,” she blurted out.

Ever the poker player, he didn’t register surprise, but Cam noticed a slight tilt to his head.

“A big one,” she continued.

“How big are we talking?” he asked.

Cam wanted to be anywhere but there, in Russell’s office asking for money. She’d prefer a dentist’s office—a root canal would be better than this. She’d even rather be in her apartment, which had felt poisoned to her ever since she learned what Birdie had done for her.

“I need eighty grand,” Cam finally answered, feeling so out of her depth that she might as well be deep-sea diving.

“That’s at least two books’ worth of advance,” Russell said evenly. “At least. And we don’t even have a contract for the next Meredith title, although I’m working on it. Cam, I’m sorry but I don’t think I can get you that much.”

Russell dropped his poker face and concern knotted his forehead. “Are you in trouble?” he asked. “In the years I’ve known you, you’ve never once asked for more money. And this is a big ask.”

Cam felt like she could sink into the floor. She had failed. She had let Birdie down. “It’s… it’s a family thing,” she stammered.

Russell stood up from the conference table and picked up the monogrammed Jonathan Adler paperweight on his desk. He paced the room, passing the brass weight from one hand to the other absently. “You know, Cam, we’ve never really had a heart-to-heart conversation, which makes you unlike most of my other clients, who treat me like I’m their shrink. I mean, that’s okay, I don’t mind, that’s the business I’m in—but you’ve always been an arm’s-length person.” He paused, probably waiting for her reaction.

Cam just sat there, numb, waiting for it to be over so she could pack up her stupid chicken and get out of there.

“I could never figure you out,” he continued. “You’ve turned down projects other writers would jump at. You said no to the big names. And do you remember when Kitchen Press wanted that cookbook on weeknight dinners and they were looking for an author? Your name—your name only—would have been on that cover. I could have gotten that deal for you, but you said no.”

Of course Cam remembered. But what was she going to tell him? The truth? She realized how crazy it would sound.

See, my mom tried to be famous, and it killed her.

And what explanation did she owe him, anyway? She did owe him something, she admitted, maybe even a lot. Russell had been the one to offer her first contract. She had been working as a temp in the test kitchen at Cooking Well magazine by day and pulling night shifts as a line cook at a bistro downtown with no real idea what she wanted to do with her life. But her fate was sealed when she had suggested a major rewrite of a recipe the magazine had commissioned from one of Russell’s famous clients. How was she supposed to know that was most definitely not the kind of thing a twenty-three-year-old freelancer making twelve dollars an hour should do? Russell had been copied on the emails that had flown like a hailstorm after that breach of protocol, and after the magazine had fired her—or rather, informed her there wasn’t any more work for her there—he had gotten in touch with her. Her recipe, he admitted, was way better.

Now, eleven years and a bunch of books later, he was asking her some simple questions.

Cam sighed. “Russell, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. And I know I can’t really explain to you why, but I like being a nobody. I like being a ghost.”