Publishers (competing houses, invite out of professional courtesy): 4/6 confirmed.
BookTok influencers (Savannah's request, not mine): 8/10 confirmed.
Celebrities who'd posted about the book: 2/3 confirmed.
Everything was going according to plan, which should have made me happy. Instead, I felt the familiar tightness in my chest that came from orchestrating someone else's perfect moment while my own life was a meticulously organized disaster.
"Farley!" Savannah swept toward me in a floor-length pink gown that matched her book cover, her dark hair piled in an artful updo, diamonds glittering at her throat. She looked like a goddess, which was fitting considering she'd just hit number one on the New York Times list for the third time. "This is amazing. How do you always make everything so perfect?"
"It's a gift," I said, forcing a smile. "And a curse. Mostly a curse."
She laughed and squeezed my arm, her eyes scanning the room. "Is that Reese Witherspoon's book club coordinator over there?"
"Yes. She's been here for ten minutes. I seated her near the champagne fountain and made sure she had first access to the advanced reader copies."
"You're a miracle worker." Savannah leaned in conspiratorially. "Where's Ollie? I wanted to thank you both for everything you've done for this book."
My smile felt like it might crack my face in half. "He's around somewhere. Probably networking. You know how he is."
"The power couple of publishing," Savannah said warmly. "You two are relationship goals, you know that?"
I made a noncommittal sound and pretended to check my clipboard. Goals. Right. If the goal was to slowly lose yourself in someone else's ambition while pretending everything was fine.
Ollie and I had been together for three years, four months, and—I checked my watch—approximately six hours. Not that I was counting. I definitely wasn't the type of person who kept track of relationship milestones in a color-coded spreadsheet. That would be obsessive.
(I absolutely kept a color-coded spreadsheet.)
We'd met at a book launch for a literary thriller that neither of our houses had published, which made it neutral territory. He'd been charming, brilliant, and shared my love of obscure poetry and pretentious coffee. Within three months, we were the couple everyone in publishing knew about. We co-hosted dinner parties. We attended award ceremonies together. We'd even done a panel at BookExpo about "The Future of Literary Fiction" that had been live-tweeted by at least a dozen industry insiders.
And tonight, I was finally going to surprise him.
I reached into my jacket pocket and felt the printed confirmation for the cabin rental in Ashford Gap, Virginia. One month in the Blue Ridge Mountains, just the two of us. No agents, no authors, no publishing drama. Just us, a fireplace, and maybe—finally—a chance to remember why we'd fallen in love in the first place.
I'd been planning this for two months. Made lists. Checked them twice. Hell, I'd made lists of my lists.
Things to Pack for Romantic Mountain Getaway:
1. Wine (the good stuff from that boutique place in Brooklyn)
2. Ollie's favorite coffee beans
3. That cashmere sweater he always steals from me
4. The first edition of his favorite Auden collection (wrapped)
I was going to tell him tonight, after the party wound down. We'd go back to my apartment, and I'd present him with the printed itinerary in a tasteful envelope, and he'd—
"Farley? Earth to Farley?"
I blinked and found Roger standing in front of me, my twenty-four-year-old personal assistant who looked like he'd stepped out of a GQ spread for "Twinks Who Could Ruin Your Life."Blond highlights, a perfectly tailored suit, and a smile that could sell ice to penguins.
"Sorry," I said. "Just making sure everything's running smoothly. Did you confirm the photographer for the—"
"Done. She's setting up near the book display." Roger tilted his head, studying me with those unsettlingly blue eyes. "You okay? You seem tense."
"I'm always tense. It's my brand."
"True." He laughed. "Hey, have you seen Ollie? He was looking for you earlier."
