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I scold Lyla with my eyes and hold my hand out for my phone.

She sees me and swivels in her chair toward her computer. “And I understand that you are a respected anthropologist in the field. But I know my market.”

I step forward and swivel her back toward me. She digs her heels in on the floor so the chair won’t budge.

“And I understand that your son is also a human being. But what I think you don’t understand here is that while you may think your son has the most endearing smile, nobody else in the world cares. Nobody—and I cannot emphasize this enough—is going to buy this book because a random eight-year-old with a cheeky smile is sitting inside his Christmas present on the front cover. And can I be frank?”

“Lyla!” I hiss and yank at the chair. Grab the long, twisting cord connecting the base of my office landline to the phone clasped tightly to her ear.

Her brow wrinkles as she hears some clearly distasteful words on the other line. “No, I’m not saying that because I’m reacting to a male-centric society and hoarding anti-Y-chromosome thoughts. I’m saying it because this book is about extraterrestrial theory in culture and your son has nothing to do with it!”

Her voice has risen now, so much so that Marge and Rob in the office directly opposite have looked up from their computers.

And with no other options, I lunge for the phone.

She clings to it as tightly as a mother protecting her young. “Stop,” she whispers sharply, holding it to her chest. “She has to know!”

“That you’re bat crazy?” I shoot back, trying my best to yank it from her chest.

“This woman wants to put her family members on the cover like some family album!” she barks.

I put my elbow into it and, centering squarely on her rib cage, leverage myself with another yank. Just as I do so, I register her glance above my head and feel her fingers releasing the phone. It’s like slow motion: her long, pink nails letting go, the phone pulled into my stomach by my own strength, and then the force of my momentum throwing me back.

Back, back, back, until I become fully aware that my feet are unable to catch up with my body and the only place I’m headed is to the floor.

With a thump.

Followed shortly by the thump of the phone being yanked off the desk, the line itself ripped from the wall.

For a moment I sit there, wondering about internal injuries. When nothing but a painful throb begins on my backside, I move to stand. As I do, I register the shoes beside me.

Will’s shoes. Will Pennington’s black, shiny, emotionless oxfords.

And my reaction is a confusing mix of elation and fear.

Professionally: fear.

But on a personal level . . . Well, obviously this isn’t the most attractive way to see him after three days, but the point is he’s back. Back from another trip to NYC.

I rush to my feet, the phone still clutched to my chest. “Will. Hi.” My voice comes out a thousand times more breathless and wanting than I intended. Pull it together.

But, a bit to my surprise, the grin—and the glance my direction, for that matter—is such a short flicker, it hardly counts. His eyes move back to Lyla, who, with her dramatic red lips open to reveal an Oops smile, looks as guilty as ever. “My office,” he says, pointing down the hall. “Now.”

I open my mouth. “It’s good to see you again,” I say, butting myself into the conversation as Lyla stands. “I was, um, thinking through some more ideas for staff while you were gone. I’d love to talk them over with you and get your opinion—”

“I can’t right now, Savannah.”

“But I was just thinking—”

He stops me. And, for the first time, really looks me in the eye. “Please. Later.”

I pause, my brow creasing. His eyes are grave, serious, as though he’s doing me a favor by taking the briefest moment out of his busy day to cut my advances off then and there.

He keeps his eyes on me until he seems sure he’s gotten his point across and then turns his attention back to Lyla. As they turn to go, he calls over his shoulder. “Email me your ideas. When things clear up, I’ll read them.”

Email him.

Later.