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I don’t have a desk to put my bag and coffee on, so I carry it all into Fernwood’s office. There are dark circles under his eyes, his hair is a mess, and his face is red like he’s just climbed a flight of stairs or gotten into a shouting match.
“Everything okay, boss?” I settle into the chair in front of his desk.
He glares like I told him he looks like shit. “Everything’s not okay. You’re late.”
“I meant with you. Personally. Is everything okay?” I don’t like the man, but even the worst people deserve empathy every once in a while.
His glare doesn’t recede. “Cut the small talk, Weston. My personal life will get much better as soon as I have actual time for one. And I’ll have actual time as soon as you start working on the pile of work on my desk that Brantley couldn’t handle.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Put me to work.”
He frowns more fiercely, his eyes popping wide. “I’ve never known you to take my advice before.”
“Advice? When have you ever given me advice?”
He throws up his hands. “Golf? Schmoozing? Not getting so tied up about preserving a book’s ‘integrity.’” He makes air quotes around integrity. “You love books, we all get that, but this is a business first and the higher-ups aren’t thrilled about you getting this promotion.”
I deflate a bit. “I do good work.”
He spreads his arms wide. “You know how many people in this city alone do good work? It’s not enough. You need to show the people in charge that you can improve our bottom line and be fun at a party. That’s what matters in this business. Hell, it’s what matters in every business.”
“I’ve discovered three bestselling authors since I’ve been here.”
“And for every one of them, you got your panties in a twist when—”
I hold up a hand. “HR.”
He sighs and points a thick finger at me, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Weston. Relax. Not every book we sell has to be a work of art or cohere to the writer’s original vision. It has to sell. And I don’t have to mollycoddle my employees as long as I know what sells and I make it happen.”
He’s not wrong. I know he’s not wrong. And as much as I want to blame him and nepotism for the fact I’ve had to wait so long to be promoted - and the fact that corporate are a bunch of cheap assholes who don’t want to pay me more - I have to admit the problem might also have been me. A tiny bit.
I’ve been fighting for the vision I had of what a book editor at a top five publishing house would do instead of accepting the reality of the job. Sometimes, corporate just wants to get a book out and there’s no time to edit or polish it. Sometimes, an author has crafted a beautiful book that will never sell in the numberscorporate sees as viable. Sometimes a brilliant work of literature gets labeled women’s fiction or romance like it’s a less-worthy designation simply because it was written by a woman and the world, especially the corporate world, views the work of women as less-than, unless the sales prove otherwise.
It’s not a reality I want to accept, but Fernwood’s right. If I want this job, I’m going to have to wrap my head around it and sacrifice my ideals. “Okay.”
“Good. You’re back at your old desk and your first assignment is in an email already waiting for you.”
My stomach flips. “Which I’m obviously not going to like because you aren’t telling me in person.”
“A, I already sent it to you in an email and I don’t have time to double my work for no reason and b, the last time I said something you didn’t want to hear, you quit on me.” He reaches across his desk and grabs his fidget toy, which I’ve been flipping over in my hand without even realizing it. “Now, get out of here. I’ve got shit to do.”
∞∞∞
“I’m heading out,” Sadie says as she passes my desk. “You going to be here for a while?”
My eyes burn from staring at a computer screen for hours and my social energy is on low after spending too much of the day on the phone with authors, agents, and designers.
I look up at Sadie. Work doesn’t obsess me and I’m not an unhealthy workaholic. I can leave the office with projects unfinished. I can have a social life.
It beats going home and lying in bed wishing Noah was next to me, like I’ve done every other night this week.
“Actually, I’m heading out now too. Want to grab some dinner on the way home?”
Sadie beams. “Great idea. How about takeout, though? I’m about peopled out for today.”
“God,” I say on a groan. “So am I. I didn’t realize how much I’d have to talk to—”
My desk phone rings with a familiar number. A West Coast call. “Shit. I’ve got to take this. I’ve been trying to get in touch with this agent all day.”
