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“I do,” I say breathlessly. “You know they’ve been my number one since we started submitting.”
“I know. So what do you say? Are you ready to sign?”
I smile and take the pen from the table. “You promise this is a good contract and I’m not signing my life away? Like they won’t be asking for my firstborn child and pinkie finger next?”
Darla cackles with laughter.
“I promise. I wouldn’t lead you wrong, sweetheart. You’re like a daughter to me.”
I know she wouldn’t. An agent gets paid when the author gets paid. It’s in her best interest to get me a good contract because she would be screwed over by a bad contract, too.
Darla pushes the sheaf of paper to me, and I sign the flagged pages. When it’s done, I sit back and let out a deep, cleansing exhale. It feels like I’ve been holding my breath since I sent my first query letter. And now I’m going to be a published author.
“This is it, girlie. Do you want me to run this contract over to Cameron right now?” Darla asks, already starting to pack up her bag.
“No,” I say, careful not to sound too desperate. “Pattie and Robert asked me to stop by with it tomorrow.”
Darla shrugs. “Okay. I’ll leave it with you, then.” She places my newly signed contract into a folder and pushes it across the table to me before checking the time on her watch. “Listen, I hate to sign and ditch, but I have another meeting in twenty minutes. This is what I get for leaving town for two weeks. I’ve been in meetings all week. I need a drink.”
I giggle.
“It’s ten in the morning.”
She wriggles her brows at me.
“A mimosa it is then. Definitely,” my agent says with a laugh. “Give me a call after you meet with Cameron Publishing tomorrow.”
We stand, and Darla blows air kisses before running out of the café for her next meeting. I still have coffee and a muffin left, so I sit back down and finish my meal.
Reading through my manuscript that night, my brow furrows. I haven’t read it since Darla started submitting it to publishers. The last thing I want to be is conceited, but as I’m going over my own work, I end up crying with the characters. My writing is powerful. I’m good at this, and a rush of gratitude and elation fills my heart.
Plus, with the help of Cameron Publishing, more people are going to see my talent. The company’s going to market me and turn my life upside down, making me into one of the Thirty Under Thirty new must-read new authors. I can’t wait, and with a contented sigh, turn in.
But when I wake up in the morning, my laptop has fallen off the couch from where I fell asleep. Oof. These things are expensive and I don’t have the money to replace it yet. Lifting it up, the screen buzzes back to life and I flush. Because oh god, but I spent an embarrassing amount of time looking at pictures of Robert last night. The gorgeous man in these photos was literally inside me last week. How did that happen? Plus, I’m meeting with him again today at his offices once more.
I won’t sleep with him again. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. Not that there’s even a possibility of it happening. After all, this is a professional meeting where we’re going to sign papers and do other boring professional things.
Except I make sure to put on my best bra and panties before heading to the train station into the city. I head out earlier than I need to. The train ride from my town into the city is only twenty minutes, but I leave at ten thirty, so I can psych myself up for the meeting and convince myself I should absolutely, under no circumstances, sleep with Robert again.
I walk around the city for an hour, careful not to work up a sweat because the last thing I need is to show up at my meeting smelling like I’ve been walking around the city for an hour. Ugh. Exhaust fumes and NYC garbage don’t exactly make for an appetizing mix.
I arrive at the sleek Midtown building that houses Cameron Publishing with fifteen minutes to spare. My stomach grumbles as I hit the elevator button to the seventeenth floor. I should have spent my extra hour eating, but then my breath might have smelled bad. That would have been worse than smelling like sweat. Why am I so nervous about going in with my best foot forward? The contract’s already in my hands, and it’s signed, no less. I can relax and let go a little. This is really happening.
The elevator opens onto the Cameron Publishing floor. The same receptionist I met last week is sitting at the large front desk, phone pinned to her ear. She holds up a finger, asking me to wait. Once she hangs up, I approach the desk.
