“No. I’m sorry, I was just recalibrating. I promise you, I’d like to read it. I’d actuallyloveto read it.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Seriously, you do not have to oversell your interest.”
“No, I’m not, I… I’m actually really excited about this,” she says. “Like,reallyexcited.”
Which makes me feel like I’m missing something. Am I missing something?
“Spill.”
“Okay, this is not official yet. Like you can’t tell anyone.”
Anabel and I have been working together since the beginning, since she was a baby editor going through slush piles and I was her slush. She is a professional to the core, but she’s also a true friend. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“I’m getting my own imprint.”
My mouth goes dry. “You’re leaving me?”
“Frieda will be taking over my existing authors, yes. But?—”
“Oh. Well, congratulations. I guess I pitched all that to you for nothing.” I try to sound cheerful. Iamhappy for her. Anabel deserves this kind of creative opportunity. And Frieda’s great, I’ve worked with her here and there before. It’s just?—
“George. I’m starting aqueer romanceimprint. And I really, really need a few stellar books to launch it with. So will youpleasesend me your freaking manuscript?”
Oh.Oh. Ooooooh.
I clear my throat and try to sound casual. “Uh, yeah. I can do that.”
“Good. And George?”
“Yeah?” I am grinning like an idiot now.
“Finish the Steele book first.”
Right. “Yes, ma’am.”
I hang up the phone. I’m still grinning. I feel like I might break into hysterical laughter. Or tears. Or both. I don’t know what to do with myself.
The hugeness of this can’t be overstated. I made one phone call. I asked for one thing. A thing I really, really wanted and probably wouldn’t have asked for on my own.
And I got it.
What if I asked for other things I wanted?
And then my hands are shaking, and my heart is racing, and I’m still so high on everything that just happened that I manage to pull up my contacts and call before I can talk myself out of it.
It rings twice, and then he answers.
“Hello?”
Oh God, his voice. Soft and warm and low and sweet, like flannel and maple syrup and other lumberjacky things, and I can’t even think straight, and I do not care because I’m doing this.
“Hi, Owen.”
“Hey,” he says, and I can hear his smile. I did that. I made him smile. “I was wondering if I’d hear from you today. I didn’t want to bother you if you were working.”
“I was. Or sort of. I got a lot done, anyway, and—do you want to go out?”
There’s a beat of silence.
