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Oh, for goodness’ sake. Sweat’s starting to bead up on Oswald’s receding hairline.

“This is not a problem, Oswald,” I say as soothingly as I can manage while putting a hand on his shoulder. “We can go absolutely anywhere you like. Anywhere at all. The day is yours.”

My stomach rumbles.

Anyplace, Ossie. Before my stomach growls so loud it makes a scene.

But amazingly enough, he shakes his head.

“C’mon, now.” I nod encouragingly. “You just name the place. We’ll go anywhere.”

At last, he speaks. Granted, it’s so quiet that I have to lean in, but he speaks. I frown as I hear a few unclear words.

“What was that?”

With my ear practically pressed to his mouth, and his hot breath tickling my ear, he whispers, “I’m fasting.”

I step back and look him in the eye. “You’re on a . . . fast. Well . . .” My thoughts begin to churn madly. “That’s okay. In fact, that’s great, Oswald. Really great. Good for you.” And I’m about to say something like, “We can just pop in and you can talk about your new release over a glass of water (while I try out the champagne, chicken gumbo, mahi, and tiramisu),” when I feel a presence over my shoulder.

I turn my head.

William Pennington is standing behind me, his hands stiffly at his sides, clearly waiting to step into the conversation. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there, but in the moment’s pause, he steps forward and stretches out his hand.

“Mr. Makers. Such a pleasure to meet you. I’m William Pennington, the new VP and publisher of our Pennington Pen division.”

Oswald blinks up at the tall man and hesitatingly reaches out his hand. “What . . . what happened to Harry?” he asks.

“Are you getting your plans all sorted out for the day?” William says, pressing on as though he hadn’t heard him at all.

Oswald blinks. Looks at me.

“We are,” I jump in enthusiastically. “We’re just planning to . . . to . . .” But all that’s coming to mind is biscotti. And manicotti. And lattes with swirly foam art in the shape of a leaf. In restaurants where the tab is a week’s worth of pay. All free.

I can see William looking at me expectantly. C’mon, Sav. You did plan this out. You had a whole list of things to do outside of food. Think. What was on your list? Brunch at Butcher & Bee. Drop in to scout around Parnassus and the Bookshop (because . . . books). Lunch at Margot. A quick drink at Attaboy before returning to hear Trace Green for LOA commencement.

Now that is one thing I am particularly excited about. I mean, Trace Green. I’ve loved him since college. He was actually what started me on writing in the first place.

I was in the middle of yet another breakup with Ferris when I read one of his books. And became hooked. Hooked. Flew through all twenty-four of his novels in the span of two months and spent the next three wandering around morosely, craving more. Everybody thought my slump was because I missed Ferris. But no, it wasn’t. Not that time. I mean, of course, the breakup was hard, but it wasn’t nearly as heart-wrenching as the fact that there were no more Green books to read. The reality that I was going to have to wait a whole nine months before another of his releases was almost too much to bear.

I mean, what, after all, happened to Clara in The Woman on the Train?

Would she ever get out of that manhole?

The whole experience of stumbling into his books made such an impression on my life that I went down to the registrar’s office, set one of his books on the counter between me and the registrar’s assistant, and declared I wanted to change majors. No more nursing for me. My life was going to revolve around words.

A total stranger had given me solace through the power of words, helped me escape the troubles of my world if just for enough time to get a much-needed breath, and even—through several quietly uplifting messages threaded throughout his fast-paced novels—showed me what it was like to pursue my dreams. Try new adventures. Dare.

The written word became my passion. And from that moment on all I knew was what an incredible honor it would be to bring that adventure, that life, that joy, that hope, that world to somebody else.

To pen novels—to play any role in bringing fiction to life, for that matter—is to wield a superpower.

“Le Écureuil Volant!” squeals Giselle from across the room, her bony fingers jubilantly clasping Delilah’s. I haven’t seen her this happy since Trina from Accounts got fired and freed up that parking spot. “And after we go there, Parnassus wants to talk about your Sunday signing. Then, if you’re game, I booked a fantastic package at the Paintbox for a mani-pedi.”

“Mr. Makers.” My attention is drawn back to William, and although he’s smiling at Oswald, I can see a steely flash in his eyes as they dart momentarily my way. “You flew in from Nevada, is that right?”

Oswald gazes up at him like this is a trick question. “Yes,” he says uncertainly.

“And you plan to leave tomorrow?”