Page 25

That story.

She wanted that story.

My stomach drops to somewhere around my feet. I’m not even sure what she’s saying. My manuscript is not the same as my manuscript? Of course it’s the same. Everything about it is the same. The only things that changed were a few revisions here and there because I was wise enough to know I was no expert in the romance-writing department and consequently took up as much reading on the subject as I could.

I’d read a new book on the craft of writing and realize a ghastly amateur move, then shift the manuscript to parallel the winning wisdom within that book.

I’d read another book, realize another major flaw, and adjust my manuscript accordingly.

Yes, at times the books would contradict one another, and that was, I admit, confusing. But I worked through it. My manuscript worked through it.

And came out stronger.

I think.

“Oh,” I say feebly, trying hard not to fidget with my hands. Trying just as hard to form cohesive, intelligent words while keeping my face and voice from giving away just exactly how I feel. Which is as though a lightning bolt has struck overhead and a telephone pole has bludgeoned me.

“Now, I didn’t get through all of it last night, of course,” she continues.

“Of course,” I say, a bit of hope rising. Of course she didn’t read the whole manuscript. Of course. “How far along did you get?”

She hesitates. “Enough.”

Her word falls like a massive blow.

Enough.

She’d read . . . enough.

I feel sick to my stomach.

This author side of things is awful.

I’ve never been on the receiving end of manuscript rejection before. It’s dreadful. Nobody should write.

“But there are pieces there. Potential. And”—she pauses thoughtfully—“under normal circumstances, I think I saw enough potential in your story that I would’ve welcomed the opportunity to continue working with you on it, getting it into tip-top shape.”

I raise my eyes. Yes. Yes, that would be a good idea. I myself do that sometimes when I get particularly keen on a potential client. We’ll just . . . exchange emails. We’ll volley them back and forth until it’s right. And then she’ll take it to her team. And then it’ll move on to pub board. And then I get a contract.

The sweet words echo in my ear. And then I get a contract.

“But,” she continues, “the fact of the situation is that I’m not under normal circumstances at this point in time. Had I gotten this email last year—even six months ago—things could’ve been different.”

Claire shifts in her chair, clearly trying to be as subtle as she can in the reminder that I should’ve sent her this manuscript sooner, like we discussed.

But I tried to send it sooner.

I really did. It just never was quite ready back then. Never quite perfect.

“I’m retiring at the end of March,” she continues. “As such, I am in the midst of offloading my authors onto other editors, not taking on any new ones. And the reason I took a look at it last night was because I liked your hook. I like you. And were . . .” She hesitates, as if considering if I’m emotionally able to handle what she’s about to say. “Were the manuscript in prime condition, I would’ve considered taking it on. Just”—she gives a wry smile—“get it through contracts and then hand it over to an editor on my team. But . . .”

She trails off, and while that little shrug she’s giving may seem like a good enough finale for her, I feel my anxiety rising.

But . . . what?

What?

You can’t just leave off our conversation with, “Well, I could’ve made all your dreams come true. But . . . ,” and then shrug and ask me to pass the sugar.