Page 81 of The Perfect Rom-Com

I can almost believe this is just a romantic date for two—work thrust far, far aside.

“Isn’t that the editor you were talking to earlier today about Pat’s marketing plan?” I say, looking past Jack’s shoulder to the man standing in a cluster beside one of his authors.

Jack turns and looks. “Huh,” he says after a moment, his voice less than amused at the coincidence. “So it is.”

I can see it.

Clouds are forming in his eyes.

The man has been ghosting Jack’s emails for three weeks now. His team modified the marketing plan for Pat Henderson’s next release, and apparently it is quite a bit less impressive than the efforts they made for his previous books. Which Pat’s marketing person knows. And Jack knows. So Jack has informed this editor and put in a request for more help. Multiple times. And the editor has dodged each request.

“Go on.” I elbow him in the side. “He’s stranded on a boat. You got him now.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve got a dozen seagulls to watch. And if that gets boring, I’ll go find Penny,” I say with a smile.

He hesitates. Looks into my eyes to make sure it’s absolutely fine. Sees nothing there to indicate otherwise. Then that little work-loving smile slips up one side of his face as he sets his glass on a nearby table.

“Need both hands to pin him down. Good thinking, babe!” I call out after him, grinning a little too gleefully at the remark I’m not too proud to admit I find hilarious.

The man’s face when Jack comes up behind him and gives him a hardy slap on his shoulder is priceless. Jack is all smiles and friendly words, you can tell, and from the look of it, it only seems to terrify the man more.

Fair enough.

I imagine the only thing more terrifying than Jack being stiff and unfriendly is Jack being just the opposite . . . friendly.

It’s actually quite the stroke of luck—bad luck for the editor, naturally—for Jack that Pat’s editor is here tonight at all. Most publishing teams don’t show up to author events, really.

Now that I think of it, it’s probably because of that big conference event here this weekend. SIBA. The Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance. Wouldn’t be surprised if the other authors for Amelia’s event tonight are piggybacking the weekend by doing double duty both here for release and there. Which, actually . . .

My breath halts.

There she is.

Editor Florence Peters in the flesh.

She’s standing off to the side of her author and the little mingling cluster, staring at her phone. She looks quite a bit grayer than the website photograph, the brown of her short hair replaced by silvery-gray strands tucked behind her ears. But the glasses are the same large, round, friendly frames that scream, “I read books for a living, am highly intelligent, could beat you in a spelling bee any day, and most definitely bring my own reusable bags to the grocery store.” All facts confirmed when I perused (stalked) her meager rows of photos on her socials. I went all the way down to 2011.

I’d recognize her friendly face anywhere, even here.

I take a step forward.

Then stop.

Another daring step forward.

Stop myself again.

I shouldn’t do it. There are no stated rules, but the unstated ones about author to agent to editor relationships are just as concretely laid down as the stated ones.

You do not talk to the editor your agent is querying. You do not hire a middleman and then meddle in the situation by reaching around the middleman to shake hands.

You don’t.

Agents get furious, which in itself isn’t the problem in my case. It’s Jack. And anyway, dating your agent is top of list of those unspoken things one does not do, but here we are.

The frustration part on his side doesn’t scare me. I can handle a little, “What are you doing, Bryony? I am in the middle of a very fragile conversation here.”