Chapter 20
“Ms. Peters?”
I move around Florence Peters’s chair (no matter how casually she types her name, she will always be known as the formidable, amazing Florence Peters in my head) and peer at her as if very casually wondering if it’s her.
Of course it’s her.
I’ve been staring at the back of her head for five minutes.
I pretty much have her head memorized from all my stalking social media research.
“Bryony, hello again!” Florence moves to stand and, before I know it, is leaning forward and extending her limbs in one of
two things. A hug or a handshake. It’s impossible to know which. And, of course, I’m immediately crippled with indecision
while being forced to make one.
An unwanted hug when she meant to give a professional handshake makes me creepy and is immediately undesirable.
But an unwanted handshake when she was moving forward to give a friendly hug makes me pointy and sharp edged and is immediately
undesirable.
So I do what we did at our first meeting. Try to match her moves to my moves by the millimeter.
We end up hugging. With limbs awkwardly at our chests. Hands weirdly touching. Like two Tyrannosaurus rexes.
I quickly step back with an overbright smile. “Well!” I exclaim, throwing my gaze around the table. “They’ve already brought
water. Wonderful!” I sit down quickly.
Take a sip.
Pretend I don’t sound like a person with a hyperfixation on common commodities.
To her credit, she doesn’t seem fazed and sits down like the class act she is. Classy Florence Peters.
My editor soulmate and future best friend.
“Have you eaten yet?” she says, peering over her menu.
“I had a bite a couple hours ago, but I could absolutely eat again.” No. That doesn’t sound right either. I have got to tone down the enthusiasm.
We both peer at our menus for a bit. Get down to ordering when the waiter arrives. Make small talk until the meal arrives.
It’s decent enough. I successfully prove I can be normal.
And then, precisely when her lentil soup has hit the halfway-gone level, she speaks. There’s a new tone in her voice.
I can’t put a finger on it, but it screams, “ Now down to business! ”
“I’m sorry Jack wasn’t able to come.”
I pull a face, then set my napkin down. “Yes. Too bad. He’s just so busy...”
“Of course.”
“Of course,” I echo.
“But he won’t mind if we have this little chat, I’m sure—”
“Oh, I’m sure,” I echo, quietly kicking myself for repeating her words.
What is wrong with me?
It’s tenth grade symphonic band recital all over again. I am the absolute worst under pressure. I morph into some bizarre other human who is incapable of using her brain cells.
It’s just so hard dealing with all these intrusive thoughts like, You know what would be the absolute worst right now? What if you spit out your soup all of a sudden on her face? Wouldn’t that just be crazy?
And then I’m staring at her face, telling my head to shut up and let me listen while she talks, all the while feeling incredibly anxious because what if I suddenly clicked my brain off and something awful like that happened and I missed everything she’s saying?
Again, I am horrible under pressure.
And that’s when I realize she’s looking at me expectantly. There’s a smile on her face as she’s just finished saying something.
What was it again? “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”
“Oh, of course. I was just saying, do you think you have your manuscript on email? If you could email it over to me now, I
could take a look while we talk.”
I whip out my phone so quickly my hand knocks the little table between us and ice quakes in the glasses. “Yes. Absolutely.
Here it is,” I say, ignoring the new throb of my hand. I email the manuscript over to her and hear the ding a moment later.
“Perfect.” She settles glasses on her nose as she pulls out a tablet and sets it on the table. Already she’s beginning to
look at it and touch various points on the screen as she says, “So how did you and Jack get started working together?”
“Well... we met at a writers’ conference in Nashville a few years ago.”
“Oh?” She glances up in surprise, her brows knitting together briefly. “And you’re still unpublished?”
“Well... yes. Technically speaking. Under my name.”
“Ah.” Her brows rise even higher toward her hairline. “So you do some extra work then, I gather. Under another name.”
“I have. Yes.”
Good. This is good. She’s connecting the dots and doesn’t seem put off by any of it.
“And you... work for one of Jack’s clients, perhaps?”
“I do. Yes.” I grin. Finally . The relief of getting to say what I need to say without having to break any rules is incredible.
She mistakes my smile for nervousness and says, “Don’t worry. Jack has had hundreds in his time. I’ll never guess your little
secret.”
She reads another few pages in silence, and then, just as I’m distracted by a stream of passersby out the window, I hear the snap of the cover over the tablet.
The definitive movement as she slips the tablet into her purse beside the chair.
Looks at me.
My stomach falls.
Rises again.
Then falls again.
There’s something definitive in her expression.
“I can’t work with you on this.”
“What?” I exclaim. “Wh-why?” I find myself peering down at the floor in the direction of the tablet in her purse, as if it’ll
give me some clue as to what, exactly, just went wrong.
“Is it that I’m unpublished?” I ask, groping for clues.
“No.”
“I know I don’t have much of a following—”
“You have no following,” she corrects. “But no, it’s not that. I feel confident we could make it work out despite that. We’ve
done that plenty of times with the right author.”
“Was it the thing about echoing you? Because I can be normal. I really am. I have a whole list of references who’d back me up. Tell you—”
Florence laughs outright. “No. You are quite normal. Endearing even. You remind me of myself starting out, and it is absolutely normal to be nervous.”
“Then what?” I say, completely at a loss.
And then it occurs to me.
“Have you talked with Jack?”
“What? No. Bryony, for the sake of your nerves, let me do the talking for a moment. It’s not that you are just starting out, or your platform numbers, or your personality —for the record there, I think we’d get along swimmingly. It’s because this manuscript isn’t your genre. This isn’t where
your heart is.”
“What? Of course it is. This is the first manuscript I ever wrote. My heart is solemnly there!” I point in the direction of the tablet. “I spent more time on this novel than any of my other works!”
“Hence the 149,000 words.” Florence smiles slightly. She clasps her hands together on the table. Leans forward a little. “Bryony,
I know you must be very talented. Jack doesn’t take on clients who aren’t talented. But this”—she waves a vague hand at the tablet—“this manuscript needs work. And lots of it. From the very little
I’ve seen, it seems clear to me that you possess potential, but now you just need to take some time to hone that.”
“But I don’t have time.”
“Then make some.” She presses her lips together. “Take out forty or fifty thousand words. Change the start. Your story doesn’t
begin there. It begins at page 20. And on that point, succinctly define your story, your plot, where you want it to go from page 1 . Clarify your craft. Make it special . Make it your own . And then”—she shrugs—“let’s talk. I don’t know about you, but I’d be happy to revisit this conversation when you get those
matters shaken out.”
Craft.
She wants me to hone my craft.
When I write Amelia Benedict’s books .
I have honed .
I just don’t have the reputation behind me to back me up.
The bill comes, which Florence graciously insists on paying. My chest is a ball of knots and all the while I’m thinking, stewing,
trying to come up with a plan for how to convince her.
I want her to accept this manuscript right now.
I need her to declare, “Why, this is exactly what our esteemed CEO has been looking for since our company’s inception in 1952! President
Otis is going to be elated !”
“You know, I have to admit, I’m a little surprised.” Florence gives a flourish at the end of her signature. “Jack told me
you were in contemporary romance.”
Jack’s name coming from her lips strikes me like a splash of ice water across my face. “Wh—you spoke with him?” I try to say casually, though to my own ears it comes out as anything but.
“Oh, sure,” she says, as though of course she would be corresponding with the agent. In fact, Jack and her professional, successful relationship with Jack is the only real reason we’re having this conversation. At all.
Then she sits back and, to my surprise, gives a dreamy little chuckle to herself as if remembering something quite special.
“You know, I believe this is where I met with him last time we had a business lunch. I don’t know who’s more of a fan of the
lentil soup, Jack or—” She looks up. Her brows tweak up at the sight of my face. Or rather, the way my eyes are casting about,
searching for him. “Are you all right, Bryony?”
“Me?” I point at myself. “Yes.” My eyes are darting around frantically. Searching. “Although I’d like to throw my own name
in as a contender for loving the soup the most—” Oof. There he is. Through the doors. Coming straight for the table.
It’s too late.
I’m trapped.
Trapped by the need to be pleasant for the sake of any—slim though the chance may be—relationship with Florence Peters.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jack says. “Traffic was murder.”
“Running all the way from the Strand, were you? I hear Terry Mills is signing over there today. She’s been phenomenal on the
charts this past month,” Florence says and stands, leaning over the back of the chair to give him a hug.
He pats her shoulder lightly—and eyes me while doing so.
There’s a little dimple in one corner of his mouth as he says, “Her release has been doing very well, yes. And I was a little
bit farther away than that, actually.”
Again, while looking at me.
“I was in a little town out in the middle of nowhere you’ve prob ably never heard of. Been on the hunt for something the past few days.”
“Never heard of? Try me.”
“Florence.”
“Florence?” she says with a laugh. “Now that is a commute—but I do know it,” she says triumphantly. “You know, I got lost there once. Thought I’d never make it back out to civilization.”
She laughs.
Jack laughs.
I die a bit inside.
“Now where were you all on the manuscript?” Jack takes a chair from the table opposite and swings it around to sit. “Catch
me up.”
You know what? I can’t do this.
I’m not going to do this.
Even at this cost.
“I think we got everything covered here.” I rise so quickly the chair behind my knees threatens to tip over, and Jack grabs
it, steadying it.
“You know, I was surprised, Jack,” Florence says. “This project isn’t normally your... style.”
And there it is.
Plain as day in the way she says it. Style.
The truth.
She doesn’t like my work at all. She has had this entire conversation solely because of her relationship with Jack. I imagine it now. They pass a steady stream of clients back and forth over the years.
He’s the one standing at the gate while she sits on her throne, slipping through the really relevant ones.
He’s her bouncer.
That’s what he is.
She’s the member of the exclusive club.
And I am the surprise girl strolling in with the 149,000-word novel looking entirely out of place.
His eyes stay fixed on hers now as he answers. There’s a confident smile on his face.
“Oh, Bryony is nothing like my style, believe me. She’s doesn’t hold a candle to my other clients.”
I feel a punch in the gut at his words.
Then he adds, “She’s got the whole cake.”
Florence’s brows shoot up at his words.
He nods in my direction, again with his eyes on her. “Bryony’s the future of the industry. I give it a year before you can’t
go anywhere without seeing her name.”
She blinks a few times.
Looks over at me with fresh interest.
“With... ,” she says with a hint of dubiousness, “ this manuscript?”
“With some tweaks, it’ll start with this one. But with them all.” He leans forward with dead seriousness in his eyes. Lowers
his voice. “I promise you this, between you and me, I’d trade all my clients in a blink to hang on to her.”
He lets the silence linger after his words, ensuring we absorb their power. The weight of them.
I ignore— staunchly —the river of shock that runs through me. Refusing to let them go to my head. Refusing to let them twist my opinion of the
truth about what he’s done.
But I can see the whole Rolodex of his blockbuster clients scrolling across her eyes.
Incredible.
She blinks.
And her entire attitude toward me has melted out in the micro-expressions of her facial features. In the tiniest creases on
her forehead. “That so?” she murmurs, looking at me as the wheels churn inside her head.
We all sit in silence for a long moment.
And then Jack takes in a breath. “It’s just unfortunate that this conversation must come to an end.”
“What?” we say in unison.
He holds up his hands. “Florence, who’s on your nix list?”
Her back jolts up. “Nix? I don’t know.”
“The company nix list,” he continues, unfazed. “Can you do me a favor and pull it up real quick?”
Florence’s eyes flash.
It’s clear Jack has stepped voluntarily into dangerous territory.
“Did you know,” Jack says casually, “Bryony and I just had the most wonderful time touring down to Seaside, Florida, with
one of my writers? Amelia Benedict. It was so great to get away for a week, get some fresh air.”
And then, to my absolute shock, she slings her purse strap over her shoulder and reaches for her to-go box. “It was such a
pleasure to catch up.” She faces me now. Looks at me with her warm, gentle eyes. “Bryony, I wish you all the very best. Your
manuscript isn’t a good fit for us, but”—she gives my hand a little pat—“if there’s one thing I know, you have the very best
at your side. Jack can’t steer you wrong. Good luck.”
Then, before I know it, she whisks herself out the doors.
I’m... flabbergasted.
Completely and utterly shocked.
Having Florence turn me down was saddening.
Having Jack show up unannounced was enough to throw my heart into overtime.
But this .
What is this —this secret little ring in the publishing industry?
Everything.
Every little thing I feel like I’ve known about the publishing industry is being turned on its head. It feels... otherworldly.
I push myself to my feet.
“Bryony.” Jack stares at me like this is too much to bear.
“I don’t want to talk to you. You sabotage everything , don’t you?” I throw my hand out. “You sabotaged this!”
“I did not sabotage this—”
“You could’ve kept my identity private—at least till the ink dried!”
He throws back a humorless laugh. “Do you really think a contract would’ve stopped Amelia Benedict from ripping your book
to shreds? The only thing worse than not signing a contract with Florence is signing one and then Amelia finding out—which she would. She would’ve halted the publication of your book the second she found out.
Or worse.”
“She couldn’t. She doesn’t have that kind of power—”
“Her uncle is the CEO of Artemis Publishing. She absolutely has that kind of power. It’d happen quietly and indirectly too. It’d happen under a thousand excuses. She’d stop you at the
editorial stage when Florence gives you a twenty-page letter and demands total rewrites again. And again. And again. Until
your book is unrecognizable, and it’s not even about The Bridge anymore. And if you didn’t comply, she’d call you uncompliant
and forfeit the contract. Your book would never publish.
“They’d stop you at the marketing stage, and they’d put no money toward it. Throw up a five-cent advertisement on some site
nobody would follow and call it quits.
“They’d stop you at the publicity stage and get you nothing. Nothing but a single feature in a tiny roundup on the internet
nobody pays attention to, and when questioned the publicist would shrug, claim she has no control over who takes up her press
release emails, and say that’s the business of publicity.
“They’d stop you at distribution. They’d stop you everywhere.
“Peters’s team would literally take a cut fiscally in order to keep the Benedicts happy. Call the failure of the book a loss, shrug, and move on to the next.
“Do you hear me, Bryony? Under Amelia they would make it impossible for you to succeed, then they’d all blame your book’s
failure on you, and then with your sales record you’d never publish anything, with anyone else, ever again.”
“Everybody here is horrible,” I whisper. “All of this... it’s just... one big, straitjacketed monopoly.”
“Not all of it. Florence Peters, though, doesn’t have the freedom to take you on. That’s why I kept hinting to you that she
wasn’t a good fit.”
“Yeah, because she’s a ‘morning person’ you said, not because, oh, I don’t know, she’s part of some underground publishing ring .”
“She’s not out to murder you,” Jack says. “The unfortunate fact is, publishing is a business. It’s a business just as much as, if not more than, it
is an art—to everyone’s disappointment. The Benedict family has ownership over Artemis.”
“Yes, but this is Media Row.”
“Different imprint. Same ownership.”
“Then we try Havanna.”
“Same ownership.”
“Curtis,” I say heatedly.
“Same ownership. And they can refuse working with whomever they want.”
“Then I’m stuck.” I throw my hands out. “Artemis owns everything.”
“Not necessarily. It’s just tricky. You just happened to enter the innermost circle of one of the most powerful families in
the business. And then, unfortunately, you were so good at what you did, you went off and became irreplaceable.”
I scoff. “Those are strong words when Amelia likes to say the absolute opposite about me. To my face.”
Jack frowns at me. “And when did you start the terrible habit of believing her? She’s the world’s biggest liar.”
“No. I think that title belongs to you.” I scoff. “Look, Jack, this has been terrific , but I have to go. And if I haven’t made it clear enough, I want you to leave me alone. Consider this my official termination—”
Jack’s face twists. “Bryony, don’t be like this. We’re just scraping the surface here. This is going to take some time to
explain—”
“I don’t want explanations, Jack. Really, I don’t.” I shake my head.
He’s getting to me.
I can feel it. Feel myself slipping.
Five more minutes of conversation with this man and I’ll be back under his wing, inside Amelia’s coop.
“If you were honest with me and really had my best interests at heart, you would’ve shared this— all of this—with me a long time ago.” I move toward the door, then cringe inwardly, remembering I left my jacket hanging on the
seat.
Forget it.
It’s a casualty in this battle.
“It’s not that simple.” Jack picks it up and trails after me. “I didn’t know most of this until recently.”
“You work with her. Her ,” I hiss, pushing the door open. “What kind of person are you for working with someone so—so—”
“Deceptive? Color me deceived myself,” Jack says. “Again, Bryony, most of this, I didn’t know . Of course I knew she was a handful. We all do. But it wasn’t until lately, as I was trying to get you out of this mess—”
“But you knew some of it.” I wheel around. Look him in the face. “Tell me this, Jack. Did you send out my manuscript this past year? To anyone?
At all?”
And at this his face falls.
And I know my answer.
“I have a plan. Just trust me. Please. ”
He holds out the jacket to me.
His eyes are steady, a heavy deep green, as if he has gathered up every conversation we’ve had in the past two years, every
tear dropped, every text sent in the midnight hours, every moment shared that will forever be seared into both our memories
and is now relaying all of it in his eyes. Saying with them, Trust me. You may not like me in this moment, but TRUST ME.
Well.
That trust is gone now.
And I rip my eyes from his, leaving him standing at the corner, holding the jacket out for me.
“Goodbye, Jack,” I call over my shoulder, and I begin to run. Run like my life depends on it. Across the street. Around the
corner.
And out of his life forever.