Page 27 of The Perfect Rom-Com

And it might truly be fine, except that this is what I get every few weeks. Emails asking if I can push up the deadline just a smidge, because “we really need to get it in before the holidays.” Calls saying, “You know, if you could make it by April so we can get the line editor we want locked in, then that would be just so, so great.”

I get told frequently that I, Bryony Page, am just so, so great.

The last book they managed to weasel out of me in five months and thirteen days.

I cave every time.

Despite myself.

“Fine. But no earlier.” I stab a meatball. “Not a millisecond earlier than August twenty-fourth. You tell them that.”

“Absolutely,” Jack says, flashing a grin.

I fully anticipate him to flip his phone over and type it in, informing somebody or other on the publishing side the good news, and wait expectantly.

He continues eating, and when it’s clear I haven’t budged, he looks up. Eyes the meatball held in midair on my fork. “What?”

“Are you going to tell them?”

His grin widens. “I did this afternoon.”

My brows crease, and I pause while a round of cheering goes around the room. “You told them . . . what exactly? You told them I agreed to turn in the manuscript in August?”

“No, I told them that last week. I told Susanna five minutes ago that August 24 was your final word and that you wouldn’t want another demand for the deadline being pushed up a millisecond earlier.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t write millisecond,” I counter.

And to this he slides his phone over to my side of the table. Sure enough, his email reads:

Hey all,

Note that Bryony is prepared to give you the ms August 24, and to use her words: “not a millisecond earlier.”

Also to note: stop sending her plaques. She doesn’t like plaques. She’s not a plaque person. The last plaque I saw with the vague “To Bryony Page, for a job well done” was not only a bit taunting (given my client Amelia just publicly posted your gift to her of the Cartier 18-karat rose gold watch with exuberant praise), but it was being used as a doorstop to her backyard. Gifts of flower bulbs are a better choice. I am told she likes them from random human beings’ backyards on Etsy. There’s also a home goods shop in Brooklyn called The Six Bells with a particular mug dotted with sheep she has been eyeing. They direct ship.

I laugh with incredulity. “How did you— I mean, Jack. Down to the millisecond—”

His smile screams he is incredibly proud of himself. “It’s my job to know my clients. Just like it’s my job to eat flat meatballs in the middle of this jungle—”

“Florence has thirty thousand residents. It’s hardly a jungle—”

“—while Serghei threatens me with knives. I’ll take that.” He lifts his hand for the bill a waiter drops beside us. Flourishes the company credit card. Slides it into the black folder on the edge of the table.

“I do want that sheep mug.”

“And the sheep plates. And the whole happy sheep set. As I’ve heard. Approximately one hundred times.”

“All right, do it. If you’re so good, tell me what Cadwell is thinking right now.” I throw out another one of his clients.

“Simple. He’s thinking, Oh, how grateful I am to have Jack in my corner, and which character’s life can I possibly traumatize enough to make into an eighteenth book in this dying series?”

I grin. “Fine. He’s a dead giveaway. I could’ve said that. Ann?”

“‘Oh, how grateful I am to have Jack in my corner, and I can’t wait to retire next July.’”