But she can’t help but think that those things wouldn’t happen to one ofEleanor Vandenberg’s authors.
Dan is a nice guy, but Millie’s got plenty ofniceon her own. What she wants—what she needs, if she’s going to truly break out—is a shark.
“Welcome,” Eleanor says again, her gaze sliding over them. “For those of you who don’t know, my name is Eleanor Vandenberg.”
Millie scoffs. How can anyone not know who she is? But judging by the ripple of surprise running through the room, maybe the others didn’t recognize her. Now that they do, the air gets a little tighter.
“It’s so nice to put faces to names.” Eleanor looks around, making brief but pointed eye contact with each of them. “I’ve been Arthur Fletch’s agent for more than thirty years.”
She runs a hand over her hair, an updo of glossy silver that, paired with her smooth skin, makes her look elegant and ageless (even though Millie knows, thanks to her research, that Eleanor is fifty-seven).
“Arthur was one of my very first clients,” she says. “And Miss Newhouse here is one of my most recent. Hello, dear.”
Millie glances at Cate, who’s looking equal parts flattered and embarrassed. She manages an awkward wave, and Millie remembers what she said.
I just signed with my agent.
Jealousy sparks in Millie’s chest, but she tamps it down before it can catch fire. Just because Cate is so young—younger even than she was when she was starting out. And just because she somehow managed to sign with Vandenberg, that doesn’t mean they can’t get along as colleagues, equals. Well, not equals; after all, Millie isseveralsteps ahead but she could be a mentor, a publishing big sister. The kind she always wanted, and never had.
Let’s be honest, this isn’t a business for the faint of heart, not when you have to market yourself as much as your work, and judging by the fact that she’s barely said ten words since they arrived, and the way she’s making eye contact with the marble floor, publishing will probably eat Cate whole. And not even bother to spit out the bones.
Besides, it would be good to have a writer friend. Not the fake kind who is nice to your face at festivals and says you should hang out sometime but never invites you to their retreat, or the kind who insists on taking selfies and then spreads rumors about you having deformed toes just because you don’t like to wear sandals.
Millie doesn’t realize she’s been staring at Cate until the girl looks back, eyebrows quirking up in question, and Millie forces her attention back to the landing.
“Whether or not we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” Eleanor continues, “I do believe you’ve all queried me at some point, and if you’re here, it’s because I’ve continued to follow your careers with interest.”
Millie’s heart flutters in her chest. As the agent’s gaze drifts toward her again, she tries to shape her face intoeager professionalism, or at leastnormal human being.
She thinks she’s doing a decent job until she feels a pair of eyes on her and glances back to find Priscilla staring, a look of bemusement on her face. Millie blushes and bristles at the same time. She has nothing against romance authors—god knows there’s a whole Venn diagram overlap between romance and YA, and they’re supposed to support each other against the general snobbishness of the other genres—but something about Priscilla rubs her the wrong way. Millie can’t explain why, not yet, but she’s gotten very good at reading people, and—
Jaxon nudges her playfully, waggling his eyebrows behind his chunky black hipster glasses, and she wonders if he’s as cool as he seems. The heroines in her books always take one look at a boy andknowwhether or not he can be trusted. Whether he’s a bad guy or a good one. Whether he’s an enemy or The One. But in real life, it isn’t that simple.
She forces her attention back to the landing, hoping she hasn’t missed anything important. Which is when the second person on the landing clears his throat.
Eleanor glances toward him, as if suddenly reminded of his existence. “Oh yes,” she says with a flick of her fingers. “This is Rufus Beaumont, Arthur’s editor.”
Rufus does an odd little salute, tapping one finger against the frame of his glasses, which are thinner than Jaxon’s, and purple, and match the pocket square poking out of his vest.
He’s kind of hot—not like Jaxon, who clearly puts a lot of time and energy into his physique, but in a nerdy way, dark curls tumbling into his face. And now that she’s noticed him, Millie can’t believe she didn’t sooner.
He’s definitely giving off main character energy.
“I thought Fletch’s editor was a woman,” says Malcolm. “They made a whole fuss about it...” he adds, and she’s not sure whotheyare, but she does remember seeing an interview—or at least, a headline—that mentioned it.
Eleanor’s about to answer, but Rufus gets there first.
“Indeed!” he says in a crisp English accent that instantly makes him ten percent hotter. “You’re thinking of Ava Paulson. She was very talented, of course, but—”
“Due to unforeseen circumstances—” Eleanor cuts in with a warning look, but Rufus carries on, undeterred.
“Yes, nasty business, that,” he says, polishing his glasses with his pocket square before carefully folding it and returning it to his vest. “I won’t go into details—can’t, really, for legal reasons—but let’s just say I’ll be handling Arthur’s work from here on out. In fact, we’ve been working together for almost six months, and in that time, we’ve become very close. Like father and—”
Paper crinkles loudly, and Millie glances over to see Priscilla clutching the NDAs they all signed. She must have grabbed them on the way out of the drawing room.
“Ah yes,” Eleanor cuts in, upstaging the editor. “Priscilla, isn’t it? Be a dear and pass them up?”
Rufus jogs down the steps to take them from her, and Millie swears she sees something pass between them—or at least, from Rufus to Priscilla. The way his eyes flick toward her, the way they linger, a fraction of a second too long. It’s the kind of moment Millie wouldtotallywrite between two characters who have a history—or are going to end up together.
