“Noah.” I stare him down, putting every ounce of professional dignity I have into my voice. “If I wanted to leave, I would. Clearly, I don’t want to, as I’m here. Furthermore, the fact that you think I might need backup in order to leave a meeting with you says more about your behavior than anything else. What is it exactly that you might do that I should be afraid of?”
His face falls, all the antagonism draining away like water through a sieve. The triumph that sweeps through me is euphoric, tingling through my veins. I didn’t just check him. I won the whole damn match.
Folding my hands on the table, I smile sweetly, the expression sharp as a knife. “What about you? Do you havebackup? Is one of your employees going to burst out here halfway through our meeting with some story about how a pack of wild dogs got into the flour and the staff needs your help chasing them away?”
He snorts, a surprised laugh that transforms his face for just a moment. “Creative.”
I purse my lips, fighting my own smile. “We both want your book to be a success. It makes the both of us look good. How about we just... put down our weapons?”
His lashes flutter as he considers it, dark against his cheeks. I watch him process, see the moment he decides. “All right. Then let’s get to work.”
I sigh in relief, not even realizing I was holding in a breath until it rushes out of me. “Great. And I want to say...”
My pride holds me back, makes the words stick in my throat, but I know that telling him this will only help our relationship. Professional relationship. “Thank you for agreeing to work with me, despite... our past.”
He nods down at the table, studying the wood grain like it holds answers. “I didn’t really have a choice.”
“You did. You could have asked for another editor, and?—”
“I did.” He looks up at me from under his thick brow, something vulnerable in his expression. “I asked the publisher for someone else.”
My jaw drops. The words hit like cold water. “Oh.”
Don’t I feel like an idiot. An unwanted idiot. The rejection stings more than it should.
He’s not meeting with me today because he thinks my contributions to his book will be well worth it. There’s literally no one else to help. I’m the last resort, the only option left.
I fight the urge to flee, to tell him to have fun crafting his book on his own. My legs tense, ready to stand, but my need forthe publishing job keeps me rooted in my seat. This is bigger than my pride.
“Yeah.” He taps his fingers on the table, a nervous rhythm. “So there’s that.”
Before I can respond, the tall blond man who was here last time comes over and slides a tray laden with coffee and slices of bread onto the table. The china clinks softly as he sets it down.
“We didn’t order anything, Lawrence,” Noah tells him, but there’s fondness in his exasperation.
“Oh, you didn’t?” The man winks, not even trying to be subtle. “You looked like you could use a little pick-me up over here. Both of you.”
I turn to Noah, seizing the moment of levity. “Is he your backup?”
“No,” Noah says firmly, at the same time Lawrence says, “Yes.”
“Got it.” I eye the bread, golden and perfectly crusted, but nerves still have a hold of my stomach and I can’t possibly think about eating. My appetite has completely vanished.
Noah waits until Lawrence is gone, watching his retreat, before speaking again. “He’s not my backup.”
“Whatever you say.” I hold my hands up in surrender, palms out.
“Let’s just get started.” He sounds irritated, the words clipped, but the fact that he pours me a cup of coffee before serving himself isn’t lost on me. The gesture is automatic, unconscious. Despite his bad attitude, someone must have done their best to raise him right. There’s courtesy beneath the antagonism.
“So, I read your cookbook proposal. The project editor sent it to me.”
“O-Kay.” He draws out the word, spreading butter onto a slice of bread with methodical strokes but doesn’t take a bite. The knife scrapes softly against the crust.
“It was great. Extremely detailed and impressive. You didn’t have to include the introduction. Or the list of all the exact recipes... or the sections you plan to organize the recipes into... or your preferred index formatting.”
I try not to laugh at that last one, but I am at least telling the truth. Noah’s love for the craft shows in his detailed proposal, every page revealing someone who cares deeply about getting things right. He wants perfection, which is a good sign that we’re a great match for each other.
Work wise. Strictly work wise.
