Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
MONTY
A man never forgets his first. The pleasure. The pain. The tangle of emotions. And while Fletcher-Wilson isn’t the first job I was fired from, it was the first job I liked.
Now I’m back in the very office I was let go from almost a year ago. The room looks the same as it did then, with its oak-paneled walls, the neatly organized bookshelves, and the enormous portraits of two unsmiling human men—the original founders of Fletcher-Wilson, rest in peace. Their son, Mr. Fletcher, sits before me now, inspiring the same sense of dread I felt before he fired me last year. I’d kill for a cigarillo, if only to have something to fidget with, but I suppose that’s how I felt then too.
The key difference between then and now is that I’m no longer Junior Publicist at Fletcher-Wilson. I’m not one of Mr. Fletcher’s employees at all.
This time I’m here to plead for a publishing deal.
I resist the urge to loosen my cravat, shrug off my jacket, and roll up my sleeves. I wore a fine suit for this, every button properly secured in all the proper places, even though I prefer more casual attire for work. Suits like this remind me too much of when I was an aristocrat. If I wanted to wear a pompous ensemble every day, I wouldn’t have gotten myself disinherited. But this is an interview with a man who I’m pretty sure hates me. I should make the best second impression I can.
Mr. Fletcher leans forward in his oversized chair, propping his elbows on his mahogany desk as he eyes me beneath bushy brows. He’s a stoic man with a heavy build, dark hair, and an impressively thick mustache; not the kind of face you’d picture as the publisher of the isle’s most popular steamy romance novels. Though he doesn’t publish primarily smut. Fletcher-Wilson publishes everything from romance to poetry to how-to guides, the latter of which is the genre I hope to enter.
He makes a grunt of some indecipherable emotion, then taps the front page of my manuscript. It’s the exact same thing he did when he confronted me with the newspaper interview that led to my termination. I can’t help but expect my manuscript to be as thoroughly obliterated as my employment was back then, but why would Mr. Fletcher schedule a meeting with me if he was simply going to reject me?
“It’s good,” Mr. Fletcher says.
“It is?” My body stills, and only now do I realize my knee had been jiggling. I blow out a heavy breath and shift in my seat, curling my lips into a grin. “You truly like my manuscript?”
“It isn’t perfect,” Mr. Fletcher says, holding out his hands to temper my excitement, “but I can see its appeal. You’ve done well at the Cedar Hills Gazette .”
I tip an imaginary hat. “I am grateful for your recommendation to the position.” Despite having fired me, Mr. Fletcher was kind enough to get me my new job at one of the local papers. He may not have been thrilled about the actions I confessed to in last year’s interview, but my matchmaking claims convinced him I’d do well as a romance columnist. Hence my current vocation writing under the pseudonym Ask Gladys .
He gives me one of his rare smiles. “You may not have followed my advice about keeping your articles appropriate, but I must admit, the Cedar Hills Gazette has never been more popular. Readers love what you’ve done with the Ask Gladys column.”
I nod. “My article ‘Fifteen Steps to Fantastic Fellatio’ sold so many copies, the paper had to print an extra run by ten in the morning.”
Mr. Fletcher’s grin turns into a grimace at the word fellatio . Again, how does this man publish the isle’s smuttiest smut author? He rubs his brow. “Yes, well, it may not be my reading material of choice, but romance columnist suits you.”
He’s right, it does suit me. I’ve always had a bit of an obsession with matchmaking—with my own twist, of course, which usually involves annoying the hell out of two people until they realize they like each other. That obsession translates well into answering romance queries and penning mildly inappropriate articles. My new boss has been so impressed with my work that he requested I compile my best romance advice into a how-to guide and publish it under the Ask Gladys pseudonym. I’ve never wanted to be an author, but my boss posed a challenge I couldn’t refuse. If I land this publishing deal on behalf of the Gazette , he’ll contract me as Gladys for six more years. Not only that, but he’ll offer a signing bonus on top of my portion of the publishing advance. Normally, the Gazette only contracts their columnists for a year at a time, so this kind of opportunity won’t likely come around again.
I live for challenges, particularly if they feel like a game. What better game to play than proposing a book to the man who once fired me?
Not to mention I really fucking need the money.
“So…” I spread my hands and give him my most charming grin. “What do you say? Does Fletcher-Wilson want to carry me to fame?”
Mr. Fletcher’s expression shifts from amused to exasperated. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Phillips. I already said it wasn’t perfect.”
“Well, do tell.”
“Your book compiles the most sensible advice you’ve given on modern courtship.”
I smirk at his emphasis on sensible . He’s right to differentiate my book’s contents from my usual fare, though. Most of my Ask Gladys articles are humorous if not a touch obscene. “How to Lace a Corset for the Ultimate Breast Buffet.” “How to Unlace a Corset for a Titillating Striptease.” “How to Flap a Fan to Draw Attention to Your Assets.” “How to Get Off When Your Fae Lover is Incorporeal.” But I alternate those topics with true gems regarding everyday courtship. As someone who’s been courted, flirted with, eye-fucked, and nearly mauled by eager lovers, I know what turns a man off or on. What tempts a suitor into long-term commitment and what sends him running for the hills. These are the topics that form the bulk of my manuscript.
Mr. Fletcher continues. “It is unique in that your audience is working-class women but you utilize your perspective as a former aristocrat. You merge modern feminine freedoms with the rules of courtship that normally only apply to highborn ladies.”
“It’s brilliant, isn’t it?” I lean forward in my chair, ensnared by his praise and ready to be reeled in with more. “What else do you like about it?”
He ignores my commentary. “But what it lacks are real-life examples. As of now, you’re merely spouting advice without concrete proof that your words are worth their salt. It comes across as pompous and belittling.”
I settle back into my seat, fighting my urge to extract a cigarillo from my jacket pocket. Writing behind a pseudonym has protected me from the horrors of face-to-face criticism of my work, so his assessment stings. “I intended for the tone to come across as grandmotherly and wise.”
“You are neither a grandmother nor wise.”
“But Gladys is.”
He cuts me a withering look. “Gladys is a pen name, and I will not publish a romance guide for women written by a man under a woman’s name without disclosing it as such.”
I purse my lips. This shouldn’t surprise me, considering what a stickler Mr. Fletcher is. One of his most popular titles is a book written by a woman under a male pseudonym. He only agreed to publish it if the copyright page disclosed both the writer and performer of the work. I do hope he doesn’t expect me to reveal my real name as the author. Then again, it would be hilarious if my father found out I’d written a book involving such unrefined topics as sex and courtship. But if my career reaches a higher level of success, I risk him being proud of me. I’ll be damned if I give him a reason to try and bring me back into the fold.
“We don’t have to disclose your identity,” Mr. Fletcher says as if my worries were written on my face, “but we will make it clear that Gladys is a pen name and property of the Cedar Hills Gazette . Regardless, Gladys needs to back her advice with proof, whether she’s a wise grandmother or not.”
I shrug. “Fair enough. I can post a request for testimonials from my readers. I’ll have it published in Monday’s issue.”
“That may add legitimacy to your advice, but your readers write to you anonymously. You can’t guarantee your testimonials will come from the same people, or just those eager to see their words published. I want real examples.”
“Can I use Edwina Danforth and William Haywood?” As his expression darkens, I rush to add, “I know it’s a touchy subject, considering I was fired for matching them?—”
“You weren’t fired for playing matchmaker between them. You were fired for the unseemly behavior you demonstrated as a publicist when you managed their book tour. More so for admitting to it in a rather detailed interview.”
Oh, that fateful interview, published in the very paper I now work for. I suppose I could have acted with more foresight when I relayed the events of The Heartbeats Tour. A year had already passed since the tour, so I didn’t see the harm in sharing some of the most entertaining moments. Apparently, Mr. Fletcher didn’t feel the same way. Particularly about the part where I propositioned Edwina for casual sex. In my defense, it was a ruse to spark William’s jealousy.
“But you do agree I matched Weenie and Will, right?” I say. “To this day, they insist I played no part in their relationship.”
Mr. Fletcher squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Did either of them knowingly utilize the advice you’ve written about?”
I open my mouth to say yes, but I suppose that would be untrue. While I could lie, I’d prefer to win this challenge fair and square. And while I may have encouraged Edwina and William to notice the feelings they were already developing through my strategic use of jealousy and misdirection, I hardly gave them any real advice.
“No, they didn’t,” I confess.
“Playing matchmaker from the shadows is different from laying down rules for someone to follow of their own accord. You need a case study specifically for this book. Someone to prove your advice works.”
My stomach bottoms out. One thing I’ve liked about writing as Gladys is the anonymity. The separation between me and the readers who ask for my advice. There’s no one to directly hurt. No one to look at me with disappointment in their eyes. If someone takes my advice and uses it, the responsibility is theirs, not mine, no matter how it turns out. Similarly, when I play matchmaker for unsuspecting friends or acquaintances, their actions and decisions are theirs alone. They never know what I’m scheming in the moment, for that would defeat the purpose.
Which means Mr. Fletcher is right. I have no proof.
He continues. “Coach an unattached woman seeking love. Teach her your most important principles and have her demonstrate them in real life. Put her in the same situations your readers have written to you about and have her execute your advice the right way. If she forms a favorable attachment by the end of your experiment, you’ll have a successful case study with a happy ending and a promising manuscript on your hands.”
I drum my fingertips against the arms of my chair, still wary at the thought of working so closely with a woman. A bachelorette at that. I’m not so vain as to consider myself the ultimate catch, and I am quite proficient at making myself unlikable when it serves my purposes. But still. There’s a reason I keep most people at arm’s length. A reason I never engage in any romantic entanglements other than the occasional tryst. And those trysts have rules. No kissing. No encores.
Mr. Fletcher speaks again. “I won’t guarantee a publishing contract now, for I want to see the results of your case study first. I’ll give you four months. Are you up to the challenge?”
Something bright and wicked ignites in my chest at the word challenge . When he puts it that way, how can I refuse? If I treat this case study like a game…
“Deal,” I say, “but let’s make it three months.”
Mr. Fletcher arches his brows as if impressed by my ambition.
Little does he know it’s not an ambitious work ethic that motivates me but a massive chunk of debt and a moneylender to appease.
He taps my manuscript again. “I’m serious when I say keep things appropriate. If I’m going to put the Fletcher-Wilson name behind this, I need all your face-to-face interactions on behalf of this book to be exemplary. No drugs, no orgies, no philandering.”
I quirk my lips at one corner. “You know you’re taking all the fun out of it, right?”
His eyes narrow to a glower.
“I’m kidding. I can be appropriate.”
He heaves a sigh. “I hope you’re right. The only reason I didn’t throw your query in the rubbish bin the minute I saw your name was because your column has done so well, salaciousness and all.” He pushes my manuscript across the desk. Lowering his voice, he adds, “That and the fact that your interview didn’t end up causing any backlash for Fletcher-Wilson.”
“Does that mean you regret firing me?”
“No. Now get out of here before I change my mind. Come back in three months with that case study.”
My mood is buoyant as I leave Mr. Fletcher’s office and reach the editorial floor. Here the sounds of shuffling paper and the scratch of pens on parchment fill my ears. It’s so much like the Gazette with its open floor plan bearing rows upon rows of desks, its high ceilings, its exposed brick walls dressed in climbing ivy. Yet this place holds a spark of nostalgia I don’t have at my new place of employment.
Not only was Fletcher-Wilson the first job I liked, but it was also the first job where I made friends.
William and Edwina, thanks to The Heartbeats Tour.
Zane, William’s best friend who conspired with me in my matchmaking efforts.
And…
Daphne.
I stroll down the center aisle between the multitude of desks, nodding at the few familiar faces I see. None of them belong to her. None of them belong to the woman I hurt with my cold farewell the day I got fired.
I’ve never made peace with that. Never decided whether putting distance between us was the right thing to do.
Nice knowing you, Daffy Dear.
See you around .
Part of me hoped I’d see her today.
Part of me was terrified I would.
I take another glance across the editorial floor without seeing any sign of her, unsure if my relief or disappointment is stronger. I hate that I can’t recall which desk is hers.
This is for the best , I tell myself as I force my gaze to the back of the room and make a beeline toward the stairwell. What would I have told her anyway? That I’m sorry? That I wish we were still friends?
My insides writhe with a discomfort I can’t name, the kind that makes it hard to breathe. I reach for my cravat, loosening it along with the top buttons of my shirt. That only offers meager relief, so I extract a rectangular case from inside my jacket, remove a cigarillo, and place it between my lips. Even without lighting it, the promise of calming lavender, sage, and Moonpetal soothes the fraying edges of my nerves.
Finally, I reach the stairwell, only to pause as an unfamiliar male stomps up the steps. He pays me no heed, his attention fixed on the paper pixie he’s muttering to. “You don’t need to ruin the fucking ending, Reginald. I never asked you to read the last page…”
I arch a brow at the odd but amusing sight, then turn back toward the stairwell?—
That’s when something catches my attention from my periphery.
Short black hair, petite stature, curving hips.
I whirl back around, my eyes locking on the figure. I know it’s her, even with her back to me as she strides down a narrow corridor at the other end of the editorial floor. Even in that body that’s so different from the slinky little pine marten I spent so much time with. Even in flowing slacks, a lace blouse, and a brown waistcoat, so different from the cute yellow dress she wore the last time I let myself get close to her.
When our friendship started to feel real.
Too real.
I shift to the side, one foot ready to bolt down the stairwell, the other drawing me toward the other hall.
I pull the cigarillo from my lips.
Flip it between my fingers.
And take a step in a direction I might regret.