How to Write a Love Story

Chapter One

Sam

New York

“He’s not going to fire you.”

“He might.”

“He won’t, Sam. You’re basically his protégé. And also one of, like, three straight men in publishing. They need to keep numbers up.”

“Funny.”

I switch my phone to the other ear as I accept my coffee from the already exhausted-looking barista.

It’s not even eight a.m., and the Monday morning rush is in full swing.

Behind me, a pack of finance bros in crisp white shirts and open spread collars read their emails as they wait to order, and for once I don’t look completely out of place next to them.

Granted, my shirt is neither as crisp nor as white as theirs, but I wanted to make an effort this morning.

As if forgoing my usual uniform of dark jeans and the first sweater I find will make my boss go, Here’s a man I need on my team.

Or, at the very least, Here’s a man who owns an iron.

I mean, it can’t hurt.

“Plus, he asked you to come in early,” Lizzie continues as though reading my mind. “If he wanted to fire you, he’d ask you to stay late.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because that’s what I’d do.”

“But you don’t have a job.”

“Excuse me?” My sister’s tone sharpens. “You think looking after three boys under five isn’t a job?”

“An office job,” I correct, clutching my laptop bag to my chest as I squeeze past the line. “Like the one I’m about to lose.”

“Could you stop sounding so defeatist? At least save some of that self-pity for when it happens.”

“When it—”

“If,” she hurries on. “If it happens.”

“You’re bad at pep talks.”

“I know.” Her voice grows faint next to the roar of traffic as I step outside, and I turn up the volume on my phone.

“Do you want to say good morning to Oliver before we hang up?” Lizzie asks.

“He’s three months old.”

“Exactly. He’s developing. He should learn his uncle’s voice.”

“How about this: When I’m unemployed, I’ll spend the whole day with him. The whole week.”

“You’ll be fine.” The words sound sympathetic enough that I don’t believe her. “And anyway, would it be such a bad thing?”

“Would losing my job be a bad thing?”

“I just mean that you’ve been working so hard and—”

“I like my job, Liz!”

“Okay. Sorry. Just let me know how it goes, all right? And don’t make any stupid decisions in the meantime.”

“I make no promises,” I say, and we hang up as I scan the five-word email I’ve read a hundred times since I got it last night.

See me in the morning.

Seriously? That could mean anything from I’m giving you a promotion to Pack up your stuff.

And this is what Lizzie doesn’t understand.

It doesn’t matter how well I’m doing. Cutbacks are happening everywhere in the industry.

Two of my friends were let go in the past month alone.

That’s the state of publishing right now.

More books. Fewer staff. And those of us who remain have to pick up the slack.

I can’t count the number of all-nighters I’ve pulled recently.

All the weekend work and reading on the commute.

And okay, maybe it was getting to the point where I was starting to envisage a world where my entire social life didn’t hinge on whether or not my authors got their drafts in on time.

But I thought about it in the way someone thinks about shaving their head, or selling all their possessions to travel the world. Not seriously.

And definitely not right now.

I take a sip of coffee, dread pooling in my stomach as I force myself through the revolving doors of our building and into the elevator.

Richardson Books takes up two floors of an office in Midtown and is almost empty when I stride inside. We have flexible hours, but there are only a few early birds at their desks, and they don’t give me a second glance until Amy, one of our assistants, takes one look at me and bursts out laughing.

“Oh, Sam,” she says, pretending to wipe away a tear. “Sammy Sam Sam. Samothy.”

“What?”

“Nice shirt, boss.”

“I have a meeting today and— Shit.” I glance down, finally clocking what she means as I see the large brown stain spreading down my front.

“I think you pull it off,” she says as I set the coffee down.

“How the hell did that happen?”

“It’s because your cup is leaking,” Deborah says, barely lifting her eyes from her computer. She works across from me, and I like to think she secretly enjoys my company even though she makes it very clear every day that she doesn’t. “You should have double-checked the lid.”

“Didn’t you feel it?” Amy asks, pointing her phone my way.

“Obviously not.”

“I would have felt it.”

“This is why I don’t drink coffee,” Deborah adds.

Amy grins. “You are peak Monday morning right now,” she tells me. “If you were wearing heels, they’d be broken.”

“Then thank God I’m not,” I mutter, undoing the buttons only to realize the coffee’s leaked through to my undershirt. That sends Amy cackling again, and it’s at that moment that my fellow editorial director, Laura, walks into the office, sipping from an extra-large, not-leaking iced latte.

“Why is Sam stripping?”

“We’re starting a romance imprint,” Amy quips as I shrug the first layer off.

“I’m sure romance readers have better taste than that,” Laura says, ignoring my ouch look as she tosses me one of the many blankets she keeps under her desk.

“Don’t listen to her,” Amy says. “You’re extremely hot. If I were poly—”

“This is a professional environment,” Deborah interrupts.

Laura kicks Amy’s chair. “Are you taking pictures?”

“Just of his arms.”

“Delete,” Laura warns. “Now.”

“But he needs them to reel in women online.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Amy waits until Laura’s back is turned before gesturing me over, and I pause at the not-terrible photo of me on her screen.

She’s right. I do need to reel. “Send that one to me first.”

She nods, completely serious. “If you pretend to take your shirt off again, I can get a great shot of your—”

“Samuel.”

As one, we turn to where my name was yelled from the next room.

Right. That.

Amy snorts as I wrap the blanket around my shoulders, trying to cover myself.

“You’ve been summoned,” Deborah says.

“And you’re telling me no one has any spare T-shirts? I helped pack three boxes of blogger swag bags last week, and there’s not a single branded T-shirt left?”

Amy bats her lashes. “I have a little black dress in my drawer.”

“I’m giving you three hours of printing today,” I tell her, and turn with as much dignity as I can muster toward the small side office.

Laura catches up with me before I’m even halfway there. “You’re in early,” she says, sounding so casual that I laugh.

“He wants a meeting.”

“What kind of meeting?”

“Don’t know yet.” I stop, turning to face her. “Why are you in early?”

“Because I’m a go-getter,” she says, innocent as ever. “You want me to sit in?”

“Nope.”

We stare at each other as she takes a slow sip of her latte.

Laura is my work nemesis. In the purely professional sense.

She joined the company a few years ago, leapfrogged a whole job level, and now we work side by side overseeing the editorial department.

She’s really good at what she does, which is great for Richardson Books and terrible for me, because I am also really good at what she does and that’s been fine until now.

Until the point where we’re both vying for the same promotion.

All the more reason to get rid of one of us.

“It creeps me out when you do that non-blinking thing,” I say when she doesn’t move.

“I know.”

“Samuel!”

Shit. I tug the blanket tighter. “Your paranoia is making me late.”

“All part of the plan,” she stage-whispers, and backs away as I poke my head through the doorway to find my boss at his desk.

Casey Richardson is a self-described relic of the publishing industry.

He rose through the ranks long before I was even born, and his eye for spotting talent is the stuff of legend.

His authors love him. His staff do too, which was why many of them followed him when he set up his own publishing house thirty years ago, dedicated to bringing the best sci-fi and fantasy fiction to shelves around the world.

Even now, at seventy-three, he shows no sign of slowing down.

He still reads more than anyone I know. Still comes to the office every day and is usually first in and last out.

He hired me as an editorial assistant ten years ago, and I can’t imagine working anywhere else. I don’t want to.

“You rang?” I ask, knocking on the door frame.

“That was me shouting, actually.” He looks up from his phone, peering at me over his thin-rimmed glasses. “You’re not wearing a shirt.”

“No.”

“All right. Close the door.”

I hesitate, but he doesn’t miss a beat.

“You’re not being fired.”

Well, that’s a relief. “You could have mentioned that in your email.”

“My apologies.”

He gestures to the armchair in front of his desk, and I swing the door shut before gently nudging Melville out of the way. Casey’s cat doesn’t like me, but he doesn’t like anyone (the Deborah of the cat world, if you will), so I don’t take offense when he hisses at me.

“What’s up?” I ask, more relaxed now that we’re not in a doomsday scenario.

Casey puts his phone down and leans forward, steepling his fingers together. “Ciara Sheridan.”

I wait a long moment. He doesn’t go on. “What about her?”

“What do you know of her?”

“Frank Sheridan’s daughter? I know that she’s Frank Sheridan’s daughter.”

Casey gives me a look. “You don’t have to pretend in here, Sam. I know you’re a fan. It’s why I hired you.”

Right. Ciara Sheridan. “She’s an only child,” I offer. “Somewhere near thirty. Her favorite color is blue.”

Casey’s eyebrows rise.

“He mentioned it in a New Yorker interview.”

“I see,” he says. “I meant professionally.”

Yeah, that makes more sense. “Crime author. Or at least she used to be. She had a series under a pseudonym.”