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I press my phone against my hip and sprint out of the kitchen, through the living room, down the hall and through the ballroom, then up the spiral staircase at the back of the house. Once on the second floor, I slow down enough to catch my breath - I am seriously out of shape - walk into my bedroom, close the door behind me, then go into my bathroom and close that door too.
Dad had this house built for us before his death and, in his will, insisted we all live here together for a year in order to earn his inheritance. I’ve only been here for a few weeks and have no intention of staying long enough to inherit anything from the man who cut me off as soon as I made it clear I intended to study English Literature in college.
Luckily, Dani and Honey have made a business of the property attached to the house, a sanctuary farm that’s doing really well, because I can’t imagine trying to sell this monstrosity of a seven-bedroom home with full-sized ballroom, wrap-around porch, and enough acreage for a working farm.
I pull my phone away from my chest and stare at the screen. I cannot believe my boss, ex boss actually, is finally calling me back. It’s been weeks since I last spoke to him.
This is it. I can feel it. Everything’s going to be okay.
Staring at myself in the mirror over the sink, I put the phone to my ear. My fine, straight blond hair could use a brush andthere’s a weird imprint on my cheek, probably from sleeping on Noah’s chest, the necklaces he wears pressing into my skin.
I pull in a deep breath. I am a brilliant editor and a competent employee and I’m going to get my job back.
“Thanks, Mr. Fernwood, I’m back. What can I do for you?”
“Miss Weston. I’d like to offer you the opportunity to return to your position at Tenth Avenue Books.”
My heart pounds and something like hope ignites in my gut. “As an associate editor?”
He clears his throat. “Yes. It would be on a trial basis. I need employees who can control their emotions, Miss Weston, and who understand professionalism. You’ll need to prove to me you are capable of both before I will allow you back into the office.”
I swallow the rage that bubbles up. I worked for this man for five years and was entirely professional, but none of that matters because of one moment of anger. “How would that work?”
“I’m under a lot of pressure, from all directions, and I need a win, Weston. You want your job back, you bring me that win.”
My heart races and I press a hand to my chest to calm it. “I’ve been bringing you wins for years. I can do it again if you give me another chance.”
“That’s the spirit. The bosses want us to carry more books by authors who are creating a viral sensation right now. Everyone wants the rock stars of social media, no one gives a shit about literary works that win awards but barely sell out their advance.”
Sad, but true. “You want me to find an author who’ll have a viral presence on social media?”
“Slow down, Weston. Let the adult explain before you jump ahead. Nobody wants a risk. We want someone who’s already going viral, someone who’s guaranteed to make us some real money. I’ve looked over all the options and I’ve found one in your area. She’s just switched publishers. If she was unhappywith her last publisher, it shouldn’t be a problem for us to bring her onboard.”
My blood goes cold. “You want me to poach an author?”
“She’s with a small indie publisher. They won’t be able to handle the level of success this woman is destined to achieve. You’ll be doing her a favor, but more importantly, you’ll be getting your job back.”
“I’m not—“
“Great. I’ll send over her information by end of day. Use any means necessary to bring her in.”
“I don’t—“
“I’ll send over the Amstall file after we end this call. I want you to edit it and get it back to me by the end of the week. If you can do that without hysterics and bring in this rock star author, I’ll consider going to Gerald and asking him to consider allowing me to re-hire you. It’s a slim chance, but that’s all I have to offer after the scene you caused.”
I grip the cold granite of the countertop to hold back my argument. The way he screamed at everyone last month about getting to work on time was a far more dramatic scene than my angry words, bitten out between clenched teeth, when I quit and stormed out of his office. “What exactly will I—”
“If you want to get your job back, Weston, you’ll do whatever’s asked of you. I’ll be in touch.” He hangs up, and I lower my phone to the bathroom counter.
“Am I really going to get my job back?” I ask my reflection, smiling at the thought.
I shake my hips and let out a little squeal of joy, not allowing myself to think of all the excellent reasons I quit Tenth Avenue books.
Outside, a whinny cuts through the quiet day and I’m taken back in time, to when I lived only for the next time I could ride,the next time I could stroke a hand over my horse’s mane and kiss her nose.
For a brief period of my life, that horse was my entire world. And losing her was the hardest thing I’ve ever experienced.
I push that dark thought aside to focus on the good. As naturally as breathing, I bring up Sadie’s contact info and put the phone to my ear as it rings.
