“Hi, there!” she says brightly. “I’m so glad we could connect.”
“Me too,” I manage, my voice wobbling. “Thanks for reaching out. I’m Olive.”
We talk. About my blog, about the kind of stories I want to tell, about female characters who take up space even when they’re afraid they shouldn’t. I tell her how writing lately has felt like spilling, likebleeding on the page. Eliza nods and says, “That’s exactly what I want to publish.”
She asks if I’ve ever thought about writing a full romance novel. I laugh and say, “Oh, I already have. I’m two-thirds done.”
She grins. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”
Halfway through the call, while I’m explaining the character arc I’m working on, my phone buzzes beside my laptop. Liam. Not now. I hit decline and refocus on the meeting.
The phone buzzes again. A text preview flashes.
Liam:
Can we talk?
I ignore it for now. This might be the most important meeting of my life and Liam will have to wait.
Eliza’s still talking. I swallow, set the phone facedown, and refocus. I owe myself this moment. This call ismine.
By the time we hang up, I feel different. Like something inside me has shifted. Like maybe—just maybe—there’s still a version of my life that doesn’t orbit around someone else’s gravity.
“Nina!” I shout, stumbling off the couch like I’ve just been electrocuted. “Nina!”
She peeks her head around the hallway. “If this is about the ice cream pint I finished, I have a very good explanation.”
“No—better!” I practically tackle her in a hug.
She squeaks, nearly drops her coffee, and stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Okay, what’s going on? You’re glowing.”
I’m practically bouncing. “I just got off a call with an editor fromBloom & Finch. She read my blog. She loved my voice. She wants to work with me.On a book.”
Nina’s jaw drops. “Wait.Wait.Like… arealbook? A published, printed, ‘buy it in a bookstore and make strangers cry’ kind of book?”
“Yes!” I squeal. “She said my writing has strong commercial potential—and they would love to publish my novel. I will send her the first few chapters and we will go from there.”
Nina’s jaw drops. “Oh my God, Olive!”
I nod so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. “I know! We talked about comps—like similar authors and titles—and market trends, and how the emotional tone of my book could hit that perfect sweet spot between heart and heat.”
“She actually said that?” Nina gasps.
“She actually said that.” I clutch my chest dramatically. “She wants the full manuscript. She said if the book is anything like what she’s read on the blog, it could be a serious contender for their spring romance lineup.”
“You’realmostdone, right?” Nina asks, eyes wide.
“Basically! A few more chapters and a polish. I could send it by the end of the week.”
Nina puts her coffee down like she’s afraid she’ll throw it in excitement, then grabs both my hands and shouts directly in my face: “YOU ARE GOING TO BE APUBLISHED ROMANCE AUTHOR!”
I let out a shriek that probably violates at least three apartment building rules.
Then we’re jumping up and down in the living room like two giddy kids on a sugar high, knocking into furniture, laughing like lunatics.
We collapse on the couch, tangled in throw pillows and each other’s limbs.
“This couldn’t have come at a better time,” I say softly, breathless.
