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My eyes drop to the bottom of the next page, and I read the note there: Unoriginal meet.

Unoriginal? The pair of them getting their drinks mixed up at a coffee shop is wildly original. And what makes it particularly cute is that they order the same drink. Not some “Oh, dear me. Here’s your black coffee. I don’t know how I mistook it for my venti Frappuccino with extra whip” nonsense you see in some romances. What’s so cute and, most important, realistic is that they both mistook the barista calling out their double Americano with pumpkin spice as their own! It was a natural mistake, given the order was identical. And only when they see the other person’s name on the cups they’re holding do they make this really adorable remark to each other.

I was actually so proud when I thought of it—

Nauseating and directly plagiarized from every Hallmark movie in the last ten years.

Okay, that’s it.

I flip through the pages, cheeks growing hotter as I read each word along the margins.

Slow beginning. Get to the meat. Give readers a reason to stay. If you bore them, you lose them.

Awkward word choice?

Drop this paragraph.

We don’t need this character.

Rabbit trail, stick to the point.

Change of POV.

Have you considered shifting the manuscript to present tense?

Alright. That’s enough.

I slam down the pages I hold, my whole body flaming. Only as I see myself in the mirror opposite do I realize I’m panting as if I’ve sprinted a mile. But, honestly, who is this person?

Deluded, that’s what they are. Deluded and haughty and a hater of all things happy. And most significant of all, dead wrong. Dead wrong. The person probably doesn’t even like romance. They’re probably like every other editor at Pennington, poring over books about existentialism and the history of dog shows like it’s the most riveting stuff in the world.

On impulse, I pull open my closet door. The metal rail screeches as I push the overstuffed mass of sweaters, shirts, and dresses to the right, revealing a large cardboard box on the floor. With one hand pressed to my clothes, holding them back, I open the crisscrossed top of the box and throw the manuscript inside.

There. Discarded like all the other pieces of junk in my life.

In one seamless move, I slide the closet door shut and slip into my desk chair. Click on the mouse as the desktop screen comes to life. Tap swiftly on the keyboard to draft an email.

Realistically, there’s no way I can get to all the little markups I made today anyway. Most of what I noted was just second-guessing actions and word choices. Phrasing. It’s better to just follow my gut and send it. Better not to make any hasty moves. Better to trust the writer I was when I was working slowly and clearheadedly without a deadline instead of the one now exhausted and confused and feeling pressured to change it all in the last second of the game. And really, this is exactly how my authors say they feel before they turn in their manuscripts to me. I should pat myself on the back. I’m doubting myself, ergo I must be a real writer after all.

Clinging to that short and momentary encouragement, I press Send and hear the email zoom off toward its final destination before I can backpedal.

For a long moment, I stare at the computer, hardly able to believe what has just happened.

Such a small act, just one little button pressed, and yet . . .

Done.

No turning back now. No regrets whatsoever. What-so-ever.

It’s an unsteadying feeling. A feeling I wasn’t expecting.

I stand up from my chair, and as I do so, my eyes are drawn toward the closet door. The bitterness is starting to settle in. Whoever took my manuscript not only read it without permission but stole my moment too. I’m supposed to feel elated right now. I’m supposed to feel like a load has finally been lifted off my shoulders. I’ve been dreaming of this particular moment for months now. No, years. But now? Now all I feel is a growing sense of panic.

So much for my celebratory day.

I hear a light knock on the door. “Sav?” Ferris’s voice is gentle on the other side. “Sav, you sure you don’t want to come watch the movie? I’m about to start some popcorn. If you come, I promise I’ll keep her from making you do steps.”

I take a breath. Turn my eyes from the closet door and rise up from my bed, hauling along all the emotions of the day as I drag my feet toward the door.