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A disgruntled sound comes from inside the carrier.
“Great pep talk. Thanks.”
I draw in a slow breath and push through the front doors before I can convince myself otherwise.
The city noise fades behind me, replaced by the soothing click of keyboards, muted conversations, and the faint ringing of a phone. Then the smell hits me—my favorite smell in the world.
Coffee and books.
My nerves loosen their grip.
Exposed brick runs along one wall, broken up by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and framed covers from Wilder House titles. Metal ductwork crosses an open ceiling above clusters of desks, while manuscripts and advance copies are stacked on practically every available surface. A couple of oversized chairs sit near the windows with more books piled on the table between them.
Near the reception desk, the Wilder House logo is mounted against the brick. Beneath it, in much smaller lettering, is the name of its parent company.
A Holden & Montgomery Media Company.
They have their hands in all aspects of entertainment, both print and digital. I remember reading that their headquarters are now split between New York and somewhere in the South since media mogul Beau Montgomery fell in love with a southern girl.
How romantic!
Even still, Wilder House doesn’t feel corporate. It feels like home.
Which seems cheesy, but for the first time all morning, I let myself think maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
“Delaney Beckett?” A petite woman with short silver curls, wearing a sharp black blazer and a soft smile, greets me.
“I am she. Umm–I mean, yes, that’s me.”
Seriously.
“Welcome to Wilder House; we’ve been expecting you.” Her smile widens. “I’m Angela.”
“Thank you. Nice to meet you, Angela.” I seem to have found my manners and my tongue.
“I handle office operations, reception when needed, and approximately fourteen other things no one else wants to do.” Her eyes drop to the carrier hanging from my hand. “And who do we have here?”
I glance down. “This is Darcy. I hope it’s okay? I had to park so far away; I hated to leave him.”
Angela’s face lights up. “Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes, and equally as hard to impress as his namesake.”
“As he should be.”
A low, offended sound comes from inside the carrier.
Angela laughs. “I have a Heathcliff at home. Gray Tabby. Moody. Dramatic. Emotionally unavailable.”
Okay, these are definitely my people.
“Sounds appropriately named.”
“He works very hard at it.” She turns toward her desk. “Oh, and no worries. Sorry about the parking. It’s worse than usual because of the gourmet food festival. But there is a private lot for employees a block south of here, and you’ll get a pass for that. And a public transport card.”
She gestures for me to sit while she fires up her computer.
“That sounds great.” I follow her and take a seat across from her, setting Darcy’s carrier carefully beside my feet.
