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“So,” I say, startling Pattie. I guess our silence had gone on for a bit too long. “How long until we can get a contract over to the author? I’m assuming she has an agent?”
Pattie nods quickly.
“The author’s name is Elisa Morgan and yes, she does have an agent. I’ll give her a call as soon as we’re done here.”
“Great. Offer her our best terms. We need to get this book. I have no doubt some other company is going to try to snap the manuscript up, so move fast. Do whatever it takes.”
Pattie smiles.
“You got it, boss. By the way, the author lives in New York City. Could you tell from her writing?”
My lips quirk in amusement.
“I should have guessed by her writing style. It’s got that kind of … I don’t know …”
Smirking, Pattie finishes for me.
“Neurotic attitude? Panache? Verve?”
I grin.
“Yeah, neurotic,” is my dry retort. “I’d like to meet her. Can you set something up with her agent?”
My editor’s eyes widen at this unexpected request.
“Really? You want to meet with an author? You’ve never met with any of our authors before, except at conferences,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“We’ve never had an author whose work made me cry,” I say dryly.
Pattie snorts with disbelief.
“You cried? When did that happen?”
“I read the book a week ago and cried like a baby. You just didn’t see it because I was at home reading. It was a lot to process, but yeah, I definitely shed some tears.”
My employee wrinkles her nose in another unladylike smirk.
“That’s okay, boss, because I cried, too.”
It’s my turn to laugh now.
“Yeah, I thought your eyes looked a bit puffy when you brought me the manuscript last week. Thanks for printing it out, by the way.”
“Sure, no prob. I’ll get that appointment lined up for you.”
Pattie scampers out of my large office and closes the door behind her. I pick up the manuscript and flip to the first page again. The words are riveting and immediately, I’m transported to another world:
I thought I knew what I was doing, coming back to my hometown. There was no way things could be worse now than they were when I left. If anything, I expected them to be better.
As I pulled into the quick stop for gas to make it the last few miles into town, I knew I was in for a rude awakening. The pumps were covered in dust. I walked inside. The cashier looked up when the bell on the door signaled my entrance. He was the same old man who worked this place when I was a teen but much older.
When I first picked up this book, I thought I was in for just another story about a girl trying to return home. I didn’t expect the incredibly captivating tale that unfolded over the course of sixty thousand words. A woman who starts with everything and ends with nothing, yet somehow still finds it within herself to be hopeful for the future. She’s the heroine every publisher has been dying to get their hands on. This is going to be a blockbuster for sure.
My phone rings, breaking me out of my thoughts.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mr. Cameron, it’s Trevor. Pattie wanted me to let you know she scheduled a meeting with Ms. Morgan for tomorrow at noon.”
“Wow. She works fast.”
My assistant giggles, which is a little weird for a guy, but that’s okay. “Apparently, the author and her agent want to work with us as much as we want to work with them. They think we’re the perfect publisher for them.”
“Good. I’m glad she’s excited,” is my remark. “Let the board know I approved this project, and we’re moving forward with it.”
I can hear Trevor’s pen scratching furiously on his notepad. Like me, Trevor likes physical reminders and keeps tangible calendars. That’s part of why he’s been my personal assistant for a little over a year now—we see things the same way. But I have one more question.
“Did Pattie mention if the author’s agent is coming to the meeting, too?”
I can almost hear Trevor shaking his head.
“No, she said the agent can’t make it. But she said it’d be no big deal because Ms. Morgan’s very independent. Is that okay?”
I nod.
“It’s fine. By the way, what else is on my schedule?”
Trevor starts going on and on about some meetings, which frankly, I block out. The words drone in my ears, but I’m not listening because my attention is fixated on this author. Who is Elisa Morgan? What does she look like? For some reason, I’m obsessed even though I’ve never met this mysterious woman. And with that, Trevor finishes babbling.
“Thanks, Trevor,” I pick up like nothing’s wrong. “I appreciate your hard work. Bye now.”
I hang up the phone and lean back lazily. I’m getting ahead of myself. Elisa Morgan is probably a middle-aged mom writing while her kids are at school and her husband is at work. That’s how they usually are. They sound sophisticated and graceful on the page, but in person, they’ve got messy hair and wear sweatpants while slaving away at their desk. Oh, well. Can’t get my hopes up.
