Page 53 of The Perfect Rom-Com

To my surprise, Jack is actually speeding up. Wow. I didn’t know he could operate this fast. For a man who ties his bowling laces at the speed of a tortoise, he looks positively manic.

He’s quite the auctioneer, isn’t he? Bouncing around to publishers reminding them of what a good deal this is. Typing into spreadsheets and spouting off stats about his author.

Meanwhile, I’m the sloth in the background, taking slow sips of my first cup of coffee for the day, the one poured six hours ago, with an untouched stack of books before me.

I don’t really know how he does it.

“Time’s up,” he says happily, shutting off the clock and dropping the back of his head against the window.

He grips my hand and gives it an excited squeeze before tapping off an email to all.

“Happy?” I say.

“Extremely.” His phone call to the winning publisher is jovial, as is his phone call to his author Tess, and soon enough he’s winding down the emails with a big smile on his face.

Perfect.

I’ve been waiting for a moment precisely like this. When he’s in a good mood. And this is a top-notch one.

“All good news?” I say in a light voice. A voice peppered with little red candy sprinkles.

“Excellent news,” he returns, snapping one of the laptops shut and slipping it into his laptop bag. He rubs his temple with one hand. “Everyone at The Foundry will be thrilled.”

“Great.” I clasp my fingers together beneath the booth table, then power on in my most prepare-to-pay-attention-to-me-because-I-am-important voice. “Jack, we need to talk.”

Then I realize that was a little too sober, so I flash him a bright smile—keeping optimism and self-respect perfectly balanced—and add in an equally bright voice, “I have some news.”

Clearly I didn’t nail down the balance, because a crease forms between his brows. “What’s up?”

“Well,” I say in an upbeat tone, “I want to talk about my book.”

The way his shoulders droop tells me everything I need to know about how seriously he’s planning to take this. Already his hand starts roving toward one of his laptops. A subtle sigh laces his voice as he speaks. “No, I haven’t heard from her yet, Bryony. You know how publishing takes off for the summer.”

“And in a little over a month from now, they’ll be taking off in preparation for Labor Day, and let’s not forget that the holidays are, at that point, almost upon us, I know.”

I’ve heard it all from him before. The whole publishing world is off for Thanksgiving. They’re off through Christmas. Actually, all of December. It’s icy in January. It’s too hot in the summer. Fridays are just hard. You’d think from his responses publishers never turn on their computers.

“Right, well, I think it’s time we stop using bait to try to catch one fish. No more waiting on Florence Peters. It’s time we cast out the whole net.”

One brow tweaks up, evidence that he disagrees. “Bryony . . .”

“Jack!” Amelia calls from the back room. “Do you have a place to put all this luggage? I’m tripping all over these suitcases to get to the bathroom.”

His attention shifts to the hallway, where his three gray suitcases of various sizes rest.

There’s a swoop sound on his computer, informing him of an incoming email. His phone buzzes with a text, vibrating on the table. “Bryony, let’s talk about this later—” He pulls out of the booth to stand.

“The Bridge is planning to close end of the year,” I blurt out.

He pauses.

“We have a matter of months left unless, unless something happens . . . Unless we find some kind of, of miracle . . . Gran says it’s over. And I just”—I throw out my hands—“I can’t let that happen. It can’t happen. I have to do something, and this is the only possible something I’ve got. So please, Jack. Let’s cast the net.”

His gaze holds mine for a long moment, his hand touching the table.

His eyes soften.

“Jack! Seriously!” Amelia calls in the distance.