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“Yes, but not that vital,” he says, raking a hand through his brown hair as he darts his eyes toward the doors. He throws an arm out. “For heaven’s sake, Savannah. Surely you know it’s never, ever that vital.”

For a moment I’m stunned by the realization that he’s criticizing me, as though I should’ve known it was obvious not to subject myself to Tom for the sake of performing well in my job. As if he’s frustrated by the reality that he is clearly going to have to babysit the new editors under his wing, unlike the big, brassy, self-sufficient ones at the elaborate publishing house in New York City.

And I would be offended, except for the new question that suddenly crowds my thoughts. “How did you find us, anyway?”

“I did what every other bachelorette party in town does,” he says. “I followed the strip.”

A rush of emotion surges through me, and for a moment I forget his previous criticism and find myself surveying this man who moves his gaze back toward the doors. I’m finding it hard to believe the situation before me. So this guy, my new boss, battled his way through the crowded streets of Nashville, overflowing with drunk tourists moving from one noisy honky-tonk to another, to find me.

To . . . what exactly?

To make sure I was okay?

“Mind if we take this conversation . . . ,” he says, nodding to the area off the dance floor.

“Oh. Yes.” I all too readily start toward the bar. My feet ache in my boots, not worn so much for the sake of looking the part tonight but to protect my toes, given how much Tom stepped on them last time. “Please.”

I try to hobble as little as possible as we weave our way around couples and find two barstools. Both of us exhale as we sit on the cracked red leather. A bartender comes over, and I glance at the rows of bottles on the shelves behind him. My brain, however, is too amped up to delegate time to the task of making a choice, so I throw out the name of the first drink that comes to mind.

“Gin and tonic for me,” I say to the man on the other side, brandishing the ID out of my back pocket.

William seems to feel the same way, because without hesitation he adds, “Make that two.”

And for a long moment after the bartender leaves we sit in silence. Both trying to find peace and our bearings, it seems, in the current environment.

“Why didn’t you just call me?” I say with a sudden thought. I can’t help feeling a bit rueful about everything as I glance over to the man who looks like he’s just run a marathon. “Surely you have access to my number.”

“I did,” William responds. “Several times.”

I reach instinctively for my phone in my other pocket and blanch when I see the missed calls from the unknown number line up on my screen. “Sorry,” I say at last. “I didn’t realize it was on silent.”

He waves a hand as if done with the conversation. “It’s fine. I just need to make a memo for the next company pep talk: Do Everything within One’s Power to Please Authors, Except Line Dancing with Scurrilous Men.”

“‘Scurrilous.’” I grin as my hand itches to type that one into my phone’s notes app. “That’s a good word. People should use it more often.”

He pauses, and I see him smile lightly. “Or not.” I raise my brows, a question forming, and he continues as he pulls his drink toward him. “Not when ‘complete idiot’ will do.”

I smile, pulling my own glass toward me. “If you were so opposed, why didn’t you just say something this afternoon? Save yourself all this trouble.”

“Because I wasn’t so opposed this afternoon,” he says mildly. “Until I saw the way he looked at you as he followed you out the door.”

I’m just starting to feel a little creeped out imagining what he witnessed from his point of view when William takes a thoughtful sip, then smiles a little darkly. “I am going to thoroughly enjoy being his editor.”

The previous picture in my head slips away as I give an all-out laugh. “You do realize you sound terrifying.”

“As an editor, I can be terrifying,” he replies, and he says it so automatically and with such authority, I believe it.

Well.

If he wants to enjoy giving Tom a hard time via email in the coming months, by all means. And I have a feeling that those thirty emails Tom sends a week of cat memes and selfies will unexpectedly have a hard time finding the Pennington in-box.

“Well, for what it’s worth, thank you. I was about to hold my own—”

“I saw the flash in your eyes. I don’t doubt it.”

“But I’m glad I didn’t have to,” I finish. I pause, then raise my glass. “To good bosses. Thank you, William Pennington. You’re doing pretty good for your second day.”

For a moment he almost looks like he won’t play, but at last he clinks glasses with me. I can’t be sure as we both face the wall of bottles and take our sips, but out of the corner of my eye I think I see a small smile on his lips just before he tips his glass. Good. He should feel good for what he did. Not many bosses would go to such lengths. Unless . . .