Page 92 of The Perfect Rom-Com

Florence Peters

Senior Acquisitions Editor

Brooks Publishing

“Make myself available.” Those three key words tell me everything I need to know.

Shift the power holder in the conversation.

Put a wonderful, terrific spin on it.

She wants to work with me. No doubt because of Jack and the clientele he picks up. We are little commodities to the world. Or perhaps, better yet, he is a finder of unique and uncommon goods, and his job is to scour the earth picking up special little trinkets full of possibility. All his trinkets (clients) are usually snapped up by publishers before the ink has dried on the author-agent contracts.

I must be a rare find.

Florence must think that.

Heart racing, I’m whipping out a reply as fast as I can as all the while thoughts rip by in the back of my mind. Please don’t email Jack. Please don’t pause for a moment and decide to email Jack.

I know it’s unconventional talking directly to the author. Informing the agent of a meeting instead of working through him to get something set up.

Agents get very particular about these kinds of things.

And editors tend to be very careful, at least in the beginning before contracts are made, to follow suit.

So all I can do is hope and pray she doesn’t go ahead and send Jack a respectful “heads-up, I replied to your author” email.

I feel Gloria over my shoulder shamelessly watching as I type. It takes me four rewrites, along with Gloria’s frequent “you missed an s there—oh, I see now, never mind” backseat commentaries before I finally get it how I like.

“What d’you think?” I let Gloria look it over before I press the definitive Send.

She puts on her most serious face and gives it a long look. Honestly, if she had them, I’m certain she would pull out glasses and put them on just to look intelligent. “I think it’s perfect. And perfect timing too. Send.” She blows out a happy breath, beaming at me. “What a relief, huh?”

“Well, we still have a few months before Gran announces closing, but agreed,” I say, my eyes going down the lines one more time. “It’s such whiplash in publishing. All slow, slow, slow until—bam—things move at the speed of light. To be honest,” I say with a jittery chuckle, “I was a little worried it would take much more time than we had. I mean, of course I know this is all still a long shot,” I add, seeing Gloria’s face. “I’m not deceiving myself—too much. But I really believe this can happen—”

“No, I mean I’m glad it’s happening for you, Bryony.”

Frowning, I look up. “What?”

“Because I couldn’t bear to see you out of both jobs simultaneously,” Gloria says, her voice softer.

I pause. “Well. There’s still hope. This is hope.” I point to Florence’s name on the email bar. “This is Florence Peters. She’s one of the best. If we can get a contract to happen—”

“It’ll still be too late for The Bridge.”

I am so startled by her, dare I say, traitorous words that are delivered so calmly.

Of course it’s not too late. “No, if we just speed this along—”

“What do you think will happen? You’ll become a zillionaire overnight?” She smiles softly.

“No.” I frown. “I was hoping for something much more reasonable. I only need a few million.”

Gloria gives a choking laugh. “Right. Just a few.”

“Not from me. Not an advance. But if we had a spread all about The Bridge on the back, and an author’s note where I explain everything at the front, and I really dig into it during publicity and marketing tours, then maybe word will spill around and enough of the right people could come forward, caring about the project, and—”

“Bryony.” Gloria puts her hand on my arm. Stills me. She takes a breath, letting the pause clear my head. “I’m happy Florence is reaching out, but not because of The Bridge. For you.”