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There’s an enormous pause as all three men look down at me, fresh shock in varying degrees on their faces.

I sense the pressure to add to my words, to backpedal quickly in both professional and good southern fashion, but I stand firm, smile stamped in place. In my periphery I see a flicker in William’s eyes.

He doesn’t look like he’s about to brim over with happiness or anything, but there is a spark.

Good, I think. Remember this moment, William, instead of the ire of the last five minutes.

Slowly, Jim reaches out and takes the card.

“So,” he says, stuffing the card quickly back into his chest pocket and shuffling his gaze to the tent behind us, “how have you been these past months? When I heard you left the City . . .” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t imagine. I would kill myself.”

William’s smile tightens. “Yes. Well. It’s not for everyone.”

Jim gives a bark of laughter and tries to give William a loosening-up shake. It doesn’t work. “Oh, come now. Let’s not be like that. Who do you have lined up for the day?”

Jim looks at the foam board in the center of the tent, where a large headshot of Oswald’s face is plastered beside his newest book. Jim’s brows furrow. “The Complete Guide to Pruning Technique,” he murmurs. “That’s quite the change from Green, isn’t it, Will?” he says, his eyes mirthful.

Green.

. . . Greeeeen.

Trace . . . Green?

My eyes swivel back to William.

William Pennington was the editor for the Trace Green? The one I adore wholeheartedly and yet so forcefully refused to admit knowledge of yesterday? And William was demoted to this?

Even I can’t help feeling a little disgusted at our booth as Jim’s eyes slowly rove around it, clearly neither familiar with nor impressed with any title. Then they stop, and a flicker of amusement ignites in his eyes.

“Uh, Will,” he says, pointing toward Oswald. “You might want to do something about that.”

Both William and I turn at the same time and see Oswald, who, with eyes wide and unblinking, is pressing himself against a wall of books. He’s staring at Lyla, transfixed, as though caught in her web.

William starts to turn toward me, but I head him off. “I’m on it. Good morning, Oswald!” my voice rings out as I spring into action.

And for the next ten minutes I stand beside Oswald, alternating between peeling him off the wall of books and jumping in front of any passing librarians who slow their canter to gaze at his poster, shielding him from those who might recognize him and unintentionally cause him to throw himself under the table the rest of the morning. It’s consuming work, but I still catch the conversation going between the three men.

All their words are barbed, each carrying their own insinuation.

Frankly, it’s fascinating.

It’s like they’re playing two games of tennis at once, a racket in each hand. One conversation volleying back and forth across the net is the surface discussion about business and home and New York life, while the other is a stab. And while William does make his fair share of jabs, it’s the ones from the tall guy, Jim, that I feel in my gut.

Jabs that William is not missed.

Jabs that he, William’s replacement, is far superior in every way.

Jabs that, with William gone, headliners are flocking to Sterling in droves.

By the time the announcement goes over the room about Green’s signing at Booth #207 and the two men set out with self-importance toward their “abandoned” (and yet, as stated three times, apparently run by an onslaught of lower staff tripping on themselves to fulfill their every wish) booth, even I have forgotten all about William’s piercing words about me being late.

As the two men fall into the crowd, William turns, and for a moment his expression has fallen. He looks ragged. He looks abused. And even I, in that moment, can’t help feeling for him.

But just then he catches my eye, and I turn and dive headlong into my duties.

Now there are four things I’m going to hope he henceforth forgets about and never brings up: the manuscript page he read yesterday, my response to meeting his former coworker (even if he was ghastly), my tardiness, and the way the entire conversation played out about Green.

I don’t know why I’d just assumed he had headed up some upscale fiction branch back in New York.