Chapter One
This isn’t the way my life is supposed to go.
My life is supposed to be glamorous—real Sex and the City type shit. I should have men showing up at my apartment door because they just had to have me right then and there. I should be walking to work in Jimmy Choos and having lunch in Bryant Park with potential clients and spending exorbitant amounts of money on the cocktails I have with my friends every night.
Yeah, no, this can’t be right.
Cleaning the floor at the Starbucks on the first floor of our office building with a stack of brown napkins that couldn’t soak up a drip of water is so not where I thought I’d be right now.
“I’m so sorry, again, but I really need that coffee. I have a meeting in ten minutes,” I say, my brain spitting out words faster than my mouth can handle. I throw the stack of napkins in the trash and look at the barista helplessly.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have spilled it,” a sassy Gen Z-er snaps back at me, flipping her sleek blue hair behind her as she refills a machine with milk.
“Okay, well that attitude is not helping,” I reply forcefully, laying my hands on the counter.
“Lucy—” Elle warns behind me.
“Brindy, can I call you Brindy?” I say, barely glancing at the girl’s name tag.
“Since my name is Brenda, probably not,” she replies, not even glancing in my direction.
Damn dyslexia.
“Bren, listen. I am sorry I spilled that beautiful caramel macchiato that you just made. And I will come here every day and offer you penance in exchange for the blessing of my immortal soul, but at this very moment, my boss is probably standing next to my desk, tapping her foot—a foot which is most likely in a pair of Louboutins that cost more than my last two pay checks—wondering where her coffee and her assistant are,” I say, forcing a broad smile on my face. “So please, in the name of our good Lord who on this day really wants your girl here not to lose her job, can I pretty please with whipped cream on top, have another caramel macchiato… with whipped cream on top?”
“Wow, that was a lot,” Elle mutters. I shoot her a menacing look out of the corner of my eye.
Brenda glares at me, and I’m sure the word “murder” is somewhere in her thoughts.
“Have you seen The Devil Wears Prada ?”
“I’ve met your boss, she’s nothing like Miranda Priestly,” Brenda deadpans.
Okay, points to the snooty barista. Didn’t peg her as a connoisseur of classic Anne Hathaway movies.
I see Elle nod. I elbow her in the side.
“Have I told you about the time she threatened me within an inch of my life with a stapler?”
“Lucy, she was in labor!” Elle squeals, gently hitting me on the arm.
“And that makes it okay ?”
“Oh my God, fine! Anything to get you out of my face!” Brindy/Brenda whines, slamming a jug of milk on the counter so hard that some shoots out the top. I quickly grab another handful of napkins and reach across the counter to wipe it up. “But the next time you come in here, I swear you better not make a mess.”
“Bren, I promise. This will never happen again,” I plead, pressing my hands together.
“You said that last time,” Elle mutters.
“Whose side are you on?” I snap at her, whipping my head around so fast that my hair hits me in the face.
“The side that gets me to this meeting on time,” she mumbles.
“Exactly, so zip it ,” I say, motioning for her to lock her lips with my hand.
Brenda hands me the hot drink without putting a cardboard sleeve on it, so my hand is absolutely scorched when I touch it. Well played, Brindy. Well played.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter as Elle types in our floor number into the elevator keypad. I move the cup of coffee from one hand to another to distribute the pain.
“Will you chill out? Everything is going to be fine. Anne is never ready to start these meetings on time anyway,” Elle says. “Why so sassy today?” she adds.
I love Elle. She is the best friend and roommate I could ever ask for. Sometimes, I envy her. She’s able to put on a positive, upbeat face, even when she feels the complete opposite on the inside. She can match my cynicism punch-for-punch, but she can also be optimistic in a way that I struggle to be. She is the sunshine in my day, always looking for the bright side, always there to challenge my occasional (read: usual) bitterness. I envy so much about her, down to her long eyelashes that accent her brilliantly big eyes and her long blonde curls.
I wish I could look as effortlessly beautiful as Elle does on a daily basis. In the time it takes me to curl my (what I view as) boring chestnut brown hair, Elle can shower, throw some curling product in her perfect blonde hair, and be ready for work. So, most days, my hair ends up in a messy bun at the top of my head, because I just can’t be bothered with it. Today, I was going for beachy waves, but said waves are quickly getting on my nerves. Plus, it’s May in New York, which means the trip from the Upper West Side to Rockefeller Center was a steamy one.
I grunt. “I don’t know. Everything just seems to be such a struggle lately,” I mumble, pushing some of my hair out of my face.
“What do you mean?” Elle asks as the elevator dings past another floor.
“Ugh, it’s just—,” I mutter. “You know I had an agent lunch last week and she was pitching a book that I would kill to acquire, you know, if I actually had that ability.”
“So, I’ll acquire it,” Elle says with a smile.
“That’s not the point,” I respond with a huff. “I need a raise. I need a change of pace. I’ve been getting coffee for two years, so long that I’m on a semi-first name basis with the barista.” I let out a long breath, annoyed at myself for dumping all of this on Elle. “I don’t know. I just… I want to remember why I’m in this industry, you know?”
“You’re here because you love books, you goose,” Elle says as we watch the digital numbers on the wall in front of us approach our floor. “And you love books about love. We all do.”
“I just don’t know if that’s enough anymore,” I mumble. Elle puts a hand on my shoulder and pouts. “It’s hard to be passionate about books about love when you haven’t felt it in so long.”
“You mean you weren’t in love with that Uber driver you went out with last month?”
“Is that never speaking about him again ?” I snap, pressing my hand against my forehead. I shudder at the thought. Elle laughs.
“Maybe my standards are too high, but I don’t think it’s too much to ask to swipe through these stupid apps and find someone who A) knows how old they are, B) isn’t trying to sell me marijuana, and C) isn’t holding a dead fish. But no, I’m met with ‘23, not 29! 420 friendly!’ And mutilated Nemos with every tap.”
Romance books don’t prepare you for these problems.
“Well, I guess that’s the plight of the single romance editor,” Elle says, referencing her own single status. “This was never a storyline in Younger , I’m not sure how we’re supposed to deal with it.”
“Maybe we should write our own book about our sad love lives. Lonely romance editor finds love after years of vagina drought ,” I say as if I’m reading the headline of a newspaper. Elle and I giggle as the two middle-aged men in suits in the elevator with us give us the dirtiest look of all time.
“A bestseller for sure,” Elle whispers as the men exit the elevator. Our howling laughter follows them down the hall.
I follow Elle to our desks at the back of the floor. Heartwarming, the romance imprint we work for, is seen by some as the black sheep of the fiction division. They hide us away in the dark corner. Heaven forbid we get in the way of the “serious stuff” with our talk of orgasms and happily-ever-afters. I wish someone would write a book about how underappreciated the romance genre is, how important romance can be for people. People like me.
I think back to that thirteen-year-old girl reading Twilight under her desk in class and deflate a little bit. Back then, I thought the romance I read about was the rule, not the exception. But the longer I work in romance, the more I’m starting to think that maybe that dream isn’t for everyone.
That girl was so unaware of the lack of love that adulthood had waiting for her.
Somewhere in my mind, maybe I thought the closer I got to romance books, the more I immersed myself in them, the closer I would get to finding my own happily ever after. And yet, at twenty-eight years old, I still haven’t found a man that I can make it through a dinner with, let alone date long term.
Adulting is hard. Dating is hard. Love is hard. They should really put that on the advertisement for this growing up shit.
That day in front of Radio City, the iconic landmark I was supposed to count myself lucky for being able to work next to every day, became a symbol for all of the “should” in my life. I should be happy that I’m “living my dream” and not constantly be asking for more—and yet, I still found myself yearning for something, or at least someone , to share this dream with.
Elle and I rush past our company’s new open-plan setup and quickly drop our bags on our desks. My cubicle is right next to Anne’s, so I feel her eyes boring holes in me before I make it around the small cork wall that separates us to hand her the coffee.
“Did you trip and spill the coffee again?” Anne asks, taking the cup from me. I wrap the cup in a napkin I picked up at the kitchenette on our floor on our way in, so Anne doesn’t have the same burnt palms that I do.
When she finishes clicking her mouse more times than is necessary to open her email, she raises her eyebrows and pushes her large clear glasses to the end of her nose, so she can look at me in a knowing way.
Wow, she really looks like Miranda Priestly when she does that. I wish I could take a picture to compare.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I mutter, ostentatiously rolling my eyes toward the ceiling to avoid her gaze.
“Lucy Bowen, what do I keep telling you?” Anne says, spinning around in her chair so fast that her short black curls swing around her face and bounce with a level of enthusiasm that I wish I had this early in the morning. “You need to—”
“Work on my core, I know,” I finish for her, returning to my side of the cubicle wall.
“It will really help with your balance,” Anne says with only a hint of condescension in her tone. Anne is tall and thin, with a sunken face that she hides behind glasses that are too big for her face. She can be menacing when she wants to be, but also appear friendly with authors at the same time.
“Oh, by the way!” Anne says a little too loudly. “Lucy, do you have those sales numbers I asked for—?” Her voice halts when she sees my hand already outstretched containing said files. She eyes me with a smirk. “You’re so good.”
“I keep telling you that,” I quip. As much as I complain about Anne’s frantic and disorganized work style, I am lucky to have such a friendly relationship with my boss. I know other assistants who are not so lucky, which is why I’m comfortable making comments like this. I’ve made it no secret to Anne that it’s time for a promotion, but as with anything in publishing, that process has been going about as fast as a train would go through molasses.
When Anne clicks her tongue, I take my cue, ambling after her toward the conference room. The others soon trickle in, mumbling by way of greeting. Anne kicks things off by discussing news in the industry, bestsellers, and any upcoming projects of interest.
“What do you think about the historical romance you mentioned last week, Nicole?” Anne asks. She’s in her signature meeting position—legs crossed, curly hair bouncing in tandem with her leg, glasses sliding down the tip of her nose. She always seems like she is thinking of something else when she is talking to you, which can be frustrating at times. But she’s there when it counts, and in my case, I’m hoping that means she’ll be there for me at my annual review in July.
“The writing is really strong, but it takes place in colonial Florida. Just makes me think of how when Outlander went to America, everyone jumped ship,” Nicole explains.
“That’s a bummer,” Anne responds. And just like that, the book is out of the running. It may seem heartless, but there is so much more to being published than good writing. An editor might fall in love with a book, but if it doesn’t have its own place in the market, or if it’s too similar to another book, it’s out.
“I have a promising own-voices rom-com,” Terri adds. Anne immediately sits up and scribbles something in her notebook.
“It’s enemies-to-lovers, with an Indian-American heroine trying to avoid an arranged marriage by pretending to be in a relationship with her co-worker,” Terri explains.
“So fake-dating, own voices, and workplace romance?” Anne asks, eyebrows raised.
Tropes are one of my favorite parts of the romance genre. There’s something I love about plugging characters into their own boxes. I can only hope that one day, I’ll find a box—or a trope—that I fit into.
“Yep,” Terri says. Terri has been at Heartwarming almost as long as Anne and is our only senior editor.
“Okay, send it to me,” Anne responds, shuffling papers around in front of her. “There’s one last important thing we need to talk about.” Her face is serious, even for her. We all look at each other, slightly bemused.
“Ruby Jones is threatening to dump us.”