“Playing matchmaker from the shadows is different from laying down rules for someone to follow of their own accord. You need a case study specifically for this book. Someone to prove your advice works.”
My stomach bottoms out. One thing I’ve liked about writing as Gladys is the anonymity. The separation between me and the readers who ask for my advice. There’s no one to directly hurt. No one to look at me with disappointment in their eyes. If someone takes my advice and uses it, the responsibility is theirs, not mine, no matter how it turns out. Similarly, when I play matchmaker for unsuspecting friends or acquaintances, their actions and decisions are theirs alone. They never know what I’m scheming in the moment, for that would defeat the purpose.
Which means Mr. Fletcher is right. I have no proof.
He continues. “Coach an unattached woman seeking love. Teach her your most important principles and have her demonstrate them in real life. Put her in the same situations your readers have written to you about and have her execute your advice the right way. If she forms a favorable attachment by the end of your experiment, you’ll have a successful case study with a happy ending and a promising manuscript on your hands.”
I drum my fingertips against the arms of my chair, still wary at the thought of working so closely with a woman. A bachelorette at that. I’m not so vain as to consider myself the ultimate catch, and I am quite proficient at making myself unlikable when it serves my purposes. But still. There’s a reason I keep most people at arm’s length. A reason I never engage in any romantic entanglements other than the occasional tryst. And those trysts have rules. No kissing. No encores.
Mr. Fletcher speaks again. “I won’t guarantee a publishing contract now, for I want to see the results of your case study first. I’ll give you four months. Are you up to the challenge?”
Something bright and wicked ignites in my chest at the wordchallenge. When he puts it that way, how can I refuse? If I treat this case study like a game…
“Deal,” I say, “but let’s make it three months.”
Mr. Fletcher arches his brows as if impressed by my ambition.
Little does he know it’s not an ambitious work ethic that motivates me but a massive chunk of debt and a moneylender to appease.
He taps my manuscript again. “I’m serious when I say keep things appropriate. If I’m going to put the Fletcher-Wilson name behind this, I need all your face-to-face interactions on behalf of this book to be exemplary. No drugs, no orgies, no philandering.”
I quirk my lips at one corner. “You know you’re taking all the fun out of it, right?”
His eyes narrow to a glower.
“I’m kidding. I can be appropriate.”
He heaves a sigh. “I hope you’re right. The only reason I didn’t throw your query in the rubbish bin the minute I saw your name was because your column has done so well, salaciousness and all.” He pushes my manuscript across the desk. Lowering his voice, he adds, “That and the fact that your interview didn’t end up causing any backlash for Fletcher-Wilson.”
“Does that mean you regret firing me?”
“No. Now get out of here before I change my mind. Come back in three months with that case study.”
My mood isbuoyant as I leave Mr. Fletcher’s office and reach the editorial floor. Here the sounds of shuffling paper and the scratch of pens on parchment fill my ears. It’s so much like theGazettewith its open floor plan bearing rows upon rows of desks, its high ceilings, its exposed brick walls dressed in climbing ivy. Yet this place holds a spark of nostalgia I don’t have at my new place of employment.
Not only was Fletcher-Wilson the first job I liked, but it was also the first job where I made friends.
William and Edwina, thanks to The Heartbeats Tour.
Zane, William’s best friend who conspired with me in my matchmaking efforts.
And…
Daphne.
I stroll down the center aisle between the multitude of desks, nodding at the few familiar faces I see. None of them belong to her. None of them belong to the woman I hurt with my cold farewell the day I got fired.
I’ve never made peace with that. Never decided whether putting distance between us was the right thing to do.
Nice knowing you, Daffy Dear.
See you around.
Part of me hoped I’d see her today.
Part of me was terrified I would.
I take another glance across the editorial floor without seeing any sign of her, unsure if my relief or disappointment is stronger. I hate that I can’t recall which desk is hers.
