Sylvia:What are you doing this weekend?
I tapped the edge of my wineglass as I weighed my options. 1) Answer her, a choice that hadn’t ended well for me lately. Or 2) Ignore her, text her back on Monday, and suffer her agent wrath.
My phone lit up with a new notification.
Sylvia:It’s Friday night. I know you’re not busy. Call me.
Sylvia:Unless your hot cop is with you. Then by all means, take whatever time you need and call me when you’re done.
I put my phone down out of spite. I had no intention of working this weekend. I had turned in my last revision less than two weeksago and my newest book was off to production. I deserved a break, and I was damn well taking one. The screen lit up again.
Sylvia:If I don’t hear from you in ten minutes, I’m calling your next of kin.
I swore to myself as I muted the television. I had no idea if Sylvia actually had my mother’s phone number, but I wasn’t willing to test that theory. Georgia and I had both been avoiding our mother’s calls about a dinner invitation since we’d returned home from Atlantic City, and the last thing I needed was for Sylvia to ping my mother’s radar.
I dialed Sylvia’s number.
She answered on the first ring. “Is he there?”
“Who?”
“You know who! Your hot cop. How was it? Tell me everything.”
“All ten minutes of it?” I asked, pointing out the ridiculousness of her last text message.
“I saw your hot cop on those TV interviews, Finlay. He’s exactly how you described him in your books. If it takes you more than ten minutes to climax with that man, there’s definitely something wrong with you.”
“You can call off the search party. And no, he isn’t here.”
“Good, then there’s nothing to distract you.”
“From what?”
“Work. Something urgent has come up, and I need you to meet me in the city on Monday.”
“That’s three days from now! I can’t go to New York.”
“Not New York. I’m coming to you.”
I sat up, my wineglass nearly tumbling onto my lap. “You’re coming here?” Last time my agent had splurged on a train ticket to meet me, it had been to tell me my career was in the toilet and I wasabout to lose a book deal. That otherwise normal morning had then spiraled into disaster. “Why?” My next book proposal wasn’t due to my editor for at least another month.
“Remember that Hollywood executive I told you about? The one who wants to turn your novels into a TV series? He’ll be in DC next week filming some hot new FBI drama. I told him you live just outside the Beltway. He wants you to come into the city and have lunch with him on Monday. But don’t worry, I’m coming, too.”
My stomach bottomed out. “I can’t!” I sputtered.
“Get your ex to take the kids. Or better yet, let your accountant do it. I’ve seen your royalty statements, Finlay. It’s not like she has anything better to do.”
“I have company,” I argued, grasping on to Mrs. Haggerty for an excuse.
“Unless your houseguest is Reese Witherspoon, you’re going to this meeting. I’m leaving on the first train Monday morning. I’ll need you to pick me up at the station in time for lunch.”
“Sylvia, please, it’s not a good time—”
She growled in frustration. “We’ve discussed this, Finlay! We both know exactly what your problem is.”
“I don’t have a problem! I just…” Iwhat? There wasn’t a single legitimate reason I couldn’t make that meeting. This was exactly what Sylvia had diagnosed me with in Atlantic City—impostor syndrome, she’d called it. She and Nick were right. I was terrified of my own success. Of what it could lead to. But I’d be crazy to pass up an opportunity like this, wouldn’t I? “What time does your train get in?” I asked, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“I’ll text you the details,” Sylvia said in a rush. “I need to book my ticket. I’ll see you Monday.”
