Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
I do not feel lucky, or good, or smart.
What’s the lesson now, world?
I’ve no idea, so I leash up my main squeeze. It’s a daycare day, so we head to Throw Me a Bone. Once StudMuffin’s settled into the small dog playroom, I leave, pop on shades, and check my email again. First, there’s a note from TJ’s friend Amelia. Hey girl! Love your social posts for the flower shop. Love the column. Love everything you do! I’m in London for a show but will write back with more details in a couple days. I have a work idea I want to run past you.
I respond with a can’t wait, since what else is there to say? I don’t plan to go into the social media business, but maybe social media wants a piece of me.
Possibly, it can fill the gap as I work on my return to books. I wish I were more excited about social media, but maybe I can learn to be excited about it in the same way I am about words and wit.
Then I scroll down and see some new messages.
My breath catches.
Lancaster Abel wrote back quickly. That’s my sister’s publisher. So did Dunbar Loraine. That’s fast too.
I cross my fingers as I walk down the street. Please let this be good news.
I click on the Lancaster Abel one first. Thanks so much for your email. What a delight to hear from one of our top author’s family members. So glad you love Hazel’s books too. We are thrilled to be publishing them. We will let you know if there are any openings. Many thanks.
My shoulders sag under the weight of disappointment.
I didn’t even warrant an informational interview in the spirit of nepotism. A lump rises rapidly in my throat. A tear slips from one eye, then the other. Blanche may have said nothing, but someone did.
There’s no other way I could be this dead to publishing, especially where I have ins like TJ and Hazel.
But I gird myself and click on the Dunbar Loraine note. My last hope.
* * *
Dear Veronica,
* * *
What a delight to hear from you! We’d love to chat. Can you come by tomorrow at four? If not, we can find another time.
Thanks so much,
* * *
Alfonso
Editor-At-Large
* * *
Oh. My. God.
I’m shaking. I’m so relieved and so happy I’m bouncing in my shoes. I jog the rest of the way to work, googling Alfonso’s name. I didn’t reach out to him directly, but an editor-at-large inquiry is super promising. When I get to Bikes and Blooms, I unlock the door, then yank it open with a loud clang.
I feel like an ingenue who just stepped off a bus in Hollywood. Hello, world. I’m here.
Milo’s bent over, working on a bike before we open. Trudy’s sleeping at his feet. He jerks his gaze to me, then takes off his glasses and sets them in his pocket.
“I have an interview tomorrow!”
His smile takes off for the moon. He’s the only one here, so he closes the distance between us in a heartbeat, scoops me up in his arms, and twirls me around. “I knew it! I knew they wouldn’t be able to keep their hands off you,” he says, his strong, inked arms circling me.
I’m giddy, so jazzed about this chance I’m crying again. But this time, they’re tears of relief. Or maybe possibility.
“Thank you. I can’t wait. Can you ask Iris to come in?” I ask, swiping my cheek.
He sets me down, tucks a strand of hair over my ear, then drops a kiss to one cheek, then the other, kissing away my tears. “Anything for you,” he says, then wraps his arms even tighter around my waist, gazing at me with such tenderness. “I’m excited for you, even though I don’t want to let you go.”
My breath hitches. Those words thrum through me. They warm my very bones. I know he only means it in relation to work, but a part of me wishes he meant me. Just me.
“I don’t even know if I’ll get the job,” I say, forcing this conversation to stay on the work front. No double meanings need apply.
“You will, and then you’ll be gone,” he says, wistfully, making it hard for me to stay in the work zone as dangerous thoughts flick through my head.
I don’t have to leave you. We could keep doing this. I won’t even be working here much longer, regardless.
Then he hums against me, gathering me closer, stroking my hair. “I’ll miss seeing you every day,” he whispers, and my heart thunders.
My goddess, he’s killing me with his sweetness. I want to blurt out my big, blooming feelings for him, tell the man I want more than a list. But he’s stated his position—he needs to heal. He’s been hurt. I have to respect that.