Chapter 6 Greta
Greta
Mornings were invented by Satan himself.
Greta was certain of that. At least in the summer, publishing closed early on Fridays.
October Fridays? Not even the fall flavors at the coffee cart in the lobby could ease her mood at this hour.
The worst part was that it was her own damn fault.
Being successful in business required trade-offs, and no matter how often the publishing industry was romanticized, it was an industry.
Climbing the ladder, even in publishing, meant prioritizing.
That was the only reason that Greta Clayborne, a dedicated night owl, was trying to become an early-morning person.
“Marketing needs to go over some things with the Darbyshire book later today when they get in,” her assistant, Ian, said in lieu of a greeting.
Greta nodded.
Ian was the sort of man who managed to sound kind and wonderful no matter what he said.
Objectively, he was attractive. Even though she didn’t find men personally appealing, she could still see why so many people gave Ian long looks.
He had the sort of flop of hair that probably required more hair products than Greta had ever mastered.
Under bright lights, the red highlights in his hair turned the shock of overly long brown waves into something unusual.
“You were probably already at the gym today, weren’t you?” she accused.
“Yes. Do you need a workout buddy?”
“Piss off.” She eyed him the way she looked at anyone trying to sell her anything when she was minding her own business.
“Difficult morning, boss?” Ian asked cheerily. Unlike Greta, Ian was one of those damnable morning people. Aside from that particular character flaw, she liked him more than anyone else in the building. Strangers, colleagues, delivery people, no one was as wonderful as Ian.
Except it was only five in the morning. At this hour of the day, Greta hated everyone equally. Even Ian.
“I’ll turn on the kettle,” he said, watching her warily. “You seem particularly…” He shook his head and repeated, “I’ll just turn on the kettle.”
Greta sipped her still-warm cup of coffee as she glared at Ian’s horrid cheerfulness. “Good. Coffee then tea. Isn’t there a rhyme about that?”
“Greta … dear, dear Greta, that’s liquor and beer.” Ian headed toward the counter where the stainless steel electric kettle gleamed like a beacon.
She looked around the blissfully empty office. That part she could get used to if her body ever agreed to mornings. “You know you don’t need to come in early just because I do.”
“Respectfully, you’re an asshole in the morning, and I like this job, so my function is to protect the rest of the company from you until you switch from angry, feral possum to human.”
Greta flipped Ian off. “No one else is here.”
“Last month. Andrew and Eliza.” He smothered a smile. “I believe they said you ‘hissed like a one-eared alley cat.’”
“Once. They were loud, and I was reading.” Greta had the wherewithal to admit that she was, perhaps, in some situations, not capable of people-ing when it was this hour.
“I picked up pastries,” Ian called over his shoulder as he led the way to her office, the one she’d coveted not quite a year ago, the one with an actual door rather than the cubicle maze where she’d been not too long ago.
If she had a younger brother, she thought vaguely that she would’ve hoped he was just like Ian—and not just because of the pastries.
Ian was a good guy. Sweet. Efficient. Painfully intelligent.
Someday, she’d be both proud and crushed when he went off to be an editor on his own.
For now, though, he was waiting in her office with notes on the last two books she thought were worth a second read.
They weren’t The One, but not being the book she was chasing didn’t mean they weren’t wonderful in their own ways.
For every career-building book, there were another half dozen that were simply solid books. They’d earn, or garner awards, or occasionally be surprise hits or flops. They were the backbone of publishing, essential in the same way the big hits were.
“All in order with the Carpenter meeting?” Greta asked. She half expected Kaelee to cancel the meeting or ask to switch it to video. She’d never had an author so unwilling to meet with her or even hop on the phone. So far, Kaelee was strictly email—and terse email at that.
“Kaelee Carpenter and her fabulous agent will be here on Monday.” Ian pulled out his tablet. “Meetings with art for the cover concepts—unless you want to email those?”
At Greta’s shake of the head, Ian continued, “Marketing wants to go over their plan. Digital, publicity, major accounts, and library will be present. Then lunch with you, Carpenter, and Haide. I made reservations at two places. Menus sent to you and Haide for review. Then I’ll cancel the one you don’t want, or I’ll go myself. Afternoon meetings follow.”
Ian had a cheeky smile that made Greta think he could charm the scales off a snake. Greta ignored him, reread her draft to Kaelee, and hit send.
Kaelee,
We are looking forward to meeting you in person. Ian booked two places for lunch. LMK which works.
Emily has your schedule for the meet and greet with the team, but if you have any questions, call me or email Ian. We will meet with publicity, marketing, a few people from accounts, and art/design.
Greta
She ought not feel so irritable over this, but she was starting to think Darbyshire was about to lose her title for crankiest author.
“What’s wrong?” Ian sat in the chair across from her desk. “Sip.”
“I’m not a toddler.” Greta still took a sip of her lukewarm coffee. “I don’t know how we’re going to tour Carpenter if she’s a recluse. Do we have any pictures? Anything from her socials?”
“Nothing.” Ian tapped a foot as he thought. “What if we ask Toni to send us a candid of her? Or are there any on her account?”
Greta looked at him a beat too long before saying, “Toni’s fiancée hired someone to do Toni’s socials. Can you picture Toni promoting her books?”
Ian cracked a smile. “Fair. She’s more likely to toss a manuscript on your desk and saunter out than talk about the books. Ever. How can someone with such an exoskeleton write such”—Ian made a noise—“angsty, swoony stuff?”
“Did you just refer to her as having an exoskeleton?” Greta deadpanned.
“Tell me I’m wrong. Seriously. Tell me.” Ian folded his arms and glared.
“Ian.”
Her assistant made a hmph kind of noise. “Maybe she has a ghostwriter! She’s secretly a giant beetle like the Kafka book? Or a hedgehog?”
“Seriously?” Greta cracked up at the thought of that. “Toni’s a bit prickly, but she’s sweet on the inside.”
“Just like a hedgehog.” He sighed when Greta raised both brows. “Fine. She’s complicated, so maybe Carpenter is going to surprise us, too. Maybe she’s just shy.” He folded his hands and glanced at the ceiling. “Lord, don’t let her be another hedgehog.”
Greta held up her phone so he could see the email she had just received.
Ms. Clayborne,
Noted.
K.C.
Ian chortled. “What’s worse than a hedgehog? Those little fish that if you step on them, you get envenomated. What are they called?”
“Do you mean a stonefish?”
“Yes!” Ian nodded. “She’s a stonefish. What’s with lesbians being so cantankerous?”
Greta scowled. “Did you seriously just say that? What’s wrong with you, Ian? That’s—”
“Please! I love cranky women.” Ian smiled. “I work for you, boss. Sip. Wait? Are we still un-caffeinated enough that I have to act like you’re a sweet little cherub? Sip.”
There was no polite answer there. Ian would make his remarks, as if she could become provoked. She certainly couldn’t use herself as an example of being not prickly either.
She was crankier than usual the past week. And I know where there’s a cure. An irresponsible part of Greta wanted to pretend she had work in DC and take the train down for a day. She knew it was foolish, but she’d resumed her life of functional celibacy after her one evening with Lee.
And thought about her incessantly.