My phone rings.
I look up, disoriented. I don’t even remember moving to the computer. I look up at the clock on the wall. Half an hour has passed somehow. Me writing in flow state for the first time in God knows how long.
The ringing continues, and now I finally look over at the screen.
Anabel.
Right. Anabel. The book. TheSebastian Steelebook.
“Hi, Ana!” I say, too brightly. And, of course, she notices.
“What’s wrong, George?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I’m fine. Just… deeply immersed, that’s all.”
“In writing?” she says, with cautious optimism.
“Yeah, yes, yeah! Of course, in writing. I’m in Vermont, what else would I be immersed in? Maple syrup?”
“I don’t know,” she quips, “Depends what kind of company you’ve got there.”
My eyes inexplicably go to the puzzle box, which I seem to have placed on the table beside my laptop. “No one here but me and my thoughts,” I tell her.
“And you’re working,” she says, not really a question.
“Yep.” Not entirely an answer. At least not a fully accurate one.
“Well, good, good. Maybe your wackanana friend Zoe is actually onto something this time.”
“One of these days I’m going to tell her you call her that.”
“Be my guest. You’ve already told me what she says about me.”
“Yes, but you’re far too sensible to seek revenge.”
She laughs. “Probably true, but would you want an editor who wasn’t? Sensible?”
Part of me would like that very much, actually. An editor who would tell me screw the fans and the publishing house deadlines and expectations and go write that swoony historical romance I’m so passionate about.
But she wouldn’t, and not just because I haven’t told her about said swoony historical romance. Anabel is smart and practical and knows the business inside and out. She guided me to my first hit and my most recent hit and every single book inbetween. I owe her everything, and all she wants right now is a finished draft ofSteele Trap.
Her sensibility has gotten me where I am today. So no, I don’t want an editor who isn’t sensible. She’s amazing just as she is, and I’m so lucky she found me.
“Touché. I’d better get back to Sebastian,” I say finally.
“By all means. Let me know if there’s anything else you need from me. Otherwise…”
“I’ll be in touch when I have a draft.”
“That’s my boy!” She says brightly. Then there’s a pause, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter, more gentle. “I gotta tell you, George, I’ve been a little worried about you. I know you were struggling a little with this one. And with Luca and everything… well, I’m just happy this arrangement is working out for you.”
I force out an almost painful laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely helping.”
“I’m glad.”
We end the call, and I lean back in the chair and blow out a breath.
What the hell am I even doing?
