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“If she’s a good writer, she can become one.”
“And why are we moving her from romance in the first place when it’s the bestselling genre? You really think there isn’t an audience for her brand of romance?”
“Romance is over-saturated.” He lifts his chin and looks down his nose at me. He’s still got dark circles under his eyes, but he’s combed his hair today. “We need to stick with what we know sells books, and it’s not what she’s doing.”
“So she should learn to write thrillers? We have very good thriller writers and—”
“Enough.” He glances around and leans in close. “You think I agree with everything I’m told to do? How many good authors do you think I’ve seen get screwed over the years? I’ve also seen careers and superstars made. This is the job, Weston. You still want the job?”
No. It’s so clear that I do not want this job. I’d rather eat worms than work here for one more minute. I’m not sure I’ve ever loved anything about this job except the editing and fighting for new talent to be recognized.
But I’ve worked so hard to get here. I need to give it more than a fourteen day shot or I’ll always wonder. “I still want the job.” My pride is spiky and burns all the way down. “You’re right. I don’t have access to the big picture. I’ll stick to what I’m asked to do going forward.”
He studies me for a long moment, his slight jowls trembling. “You can’t save every author. This is a business and the choices we have to make don’t always feel good. You need to find things outside this place that do feel good to get you through the rough days.”
“Okay.” His sudden kindness and empathy shocks me so much, I just stare at him, probably looking like my brain fell out of my head.
He frowns, like I argued with him again. “Get back to work, Weston.”
I watch him stalk away, wondering if I’ve misjudged him. Then he shouts at two interns to get their asses back to work before he tosses them out a window. Still a hard ass.
But maybe not wrong about me. If I’m going to give this job and life here in the city a real shot to make me as happy as I was in Catalpa Creek, I need to make some changes.
I text Sadie about getting dinner after work and she texts back a thumbs up right away. For the first time in all my years at Tenth Avenue Books, I leave at five thirty on the dot even though I have piles of work still to do.
Chapter Thirty
Noah
I’ve been out too long, and the light is so dim I trip over a root on the forest trail and look back over my shoulder, expecting to see Daisy there laughing at me. It’s been sixteen days since she left and I’ve yet to stop expecting to see her every time I walk into the house.
All the sisters have the same laugh and every time I hear one of them from another room my heart lifts thinking Daisy came home.
My clinic has been open now for three weeks and it’s going better than I could have hoped. In the last two days, I’ve barely had more than a lunch break between patients and, when I walk down the street, I often see someone I know and stop for a quick chat.
But all of it feels empty without Daisy.
The Weston house comes into view, and my stomach flips. I need to find a new place to live or I’m going to lose my mind missing Daisy. I need to move on from her and, when I’m not thinking about her every moment of every day, when I’m not longing for her touch with an ache that feels like loss, maybe we can be friends again.
Music drifts from the house, the same songs Daisy and her sister practiced together when we all believed Daisy would follow through and show up for the battle of the bands.
As I get closer, I listen for the deep thump of her standing bass. It must be my imagination that I hear it, but my heart picks up even so. I sprint to the house, a smile already rising from my chest, joy flooding me.
She’s back. I hear the unmistakable notes of her bass.
I burst through the front door and into the house, the music increasing in volume. In the living room, the sisters are all seated as they were the night they practiced with Daisy.
I see the bass first, but it’s not Daisy standing behind the instrument. It’s a rail-thin, grizzled old white man. I blink, trying to clear my eyes and convince my brain to work.
That man is definitely not Daisy and my heart thumps so hard in disappointment it’s physically painful.
I head into the kitchen for water and find Grant, Henry, Henry’s six-year-old son Max, and an older Black gentleman, clean-cut and in pressed slacks and a dress shirt.
“Hey, Noah,” Grant says. “Have a good run?”
“I did.” The words come out rough. “I see the sisters found someone to fill in for Daisy.”
“Daisy found someone to fill in for herself actually,” Grant says. “He drove here all the way from Maryland.” He gestures to the older man chatting with Henry and Max. “This is his husband, Alan Bertram.”
