She purses her lips, unconvinced. “If you’re going to be this stubborn for the next two weeks, you’re going to be even more insufferable than usual. The last thing you want to do is sabotage the tour yourself by assuming he’s going to ruin it.”
To my dismay, yet again she has a point. I don’t want to do anything that could threaten this tour. I realize I’m clenching my jaw and try to relax my muscles.
Make nice it is.
Storm clouds do pass, after all. The sun always comes out eventually.
If Ryan is surprised by the seating arrangements, he shows no sign of it. He placed my carry-on in the overhead compartment, lifting it as though it were filled with feathers, before settling into the aisle seat next to me. He’s since been typing witheringly into his phone—probably dealing with publishing crises of various proportions, including tomorrow’s event venue—ignoring the announcement to set devices to airplane mode.
I can’t help feeling smug that, if the plane explodes because of Ryan (and whatever the reason is behind airplane mode), Maral will be proven wrong for once.
I regard the advance review copy of a book sitting next to the Starbucks cup on his tray. The author is a famous astrophysicist. Must Ryan be so predictable?
“Looks like a fun read,” I say.
He glances from his phone to the ARC. “That’s for work. It releases next year—I have to pitch it over the next few weeks.”
“I suppose your old buddy Daniel Fox would love to feature an astrophysicist inTalon. Such a worthy profession.” I’m grateful Mar is too far away to overhear us lest she chastise me for the dig.
“He probably would,” he affirms. “Dr. Conrad’s world-renowned—”
Confirmation bias has me itching to roll my eyes.
“—but I don’t pitch to Daniel anymore,” he finishes.
I stop short. “Really? I imagine he’d fawn all over a science darling writing about astronomical phenomena for the highly educated layman.”
The corner of his mouth quirks—the first sign of a non-scowl I’ve ever seen on his face. “Did you finagle an ARC from Meredith?” he asks.
“No, but I’ve read enough of this kind of book to know its deal.”
He puts his phone down on the tray table. “I would have thought you’d go for a different kind of book.”
Oh, I’ll bet.“Let me guess.UntamedorWe Were Dreamers?” Surely all celebrities-turned-authors are on his shit list.
“I was thinking moreWhen Breath Becomes AirorWomen in White Coats.”
So he remembers my bio. I suppose it was his job to pitchmefor a while there too. It’s not like it’s a secret, anyway, the fact that I went to med school. “Believe it or not, I don’t only read books that reflect my education. Do you only read about publicity?”
“Believe it or not, I didn’t study publicity.”
Inwardly I gasp.But you’re such a pro.Nary a misstep to be seen.
He moves his phone and book to his lap as he stows his tray table. The screen keeps lighting up, notification after notification filling the space. Emails with all-caps subject lines and exclamation points galore, and a few texts from someone named Celine. The last one is three heart emojis.
Huh. Ryan has a girlfriend.
I guess it’s nottotallypreposterous. He’s attractive enough. AssumingCelinedoesn’t mind going out with a starched shirt.
“You’re supposed to turn that off,” I say, nodding at his device.
He locks eyes with me for a moment too long before he taps open his contacts. “That reminds me, we should exchange numbers in case we need to communicate on the road.”
“We have each other’s emails.”
“I’m willing to bet you get a million email notifications a day. Texts will sift to the top, priority-wise.”
Idoget a shitload of emails and historically am not the greatestat keeping up with them, which is why Maral triages my inbox regularly. And therearemany logistical reasons we’ll need to stay in touch these next couple of weeks.
