Cate taps out of the article, and back to her inbox. To the email at the top, the one forwarded by her literary agent—the impressive, and terrifying, Eleanor Vandenberg. Who also happens to represent the one and only Arthur Fletch. Which still blows Cate’s mind.
When her agent’s name popped up in her inbox that morning, she’d hoped it was news.
Eleanor, there to say her book was ready to go out to publishers. Or that somehow, she’d already sold it. The last time she’d asked, Eleanor had given her a light verbal pat on the shoulder and said “Soon.”
Soon—that had to be one of the most infuriating words in the English language.
But this email was something else entirely.
Cate—
You’ve so much potential.
It’s time to let others see it, too.
Do us both a favor and say yes.
—Eleanor
Attached was a message from Arthur Fletch himself.
She opens it again now, just to make sure it’s real.
And it is.
Not just a message but aninvitation, summoningherto one of his exclusive and legendary literary salons.
On his private island, Skelbrae.
In Scotland.
In less than three weeks.
Cate’s knee bobs as she reads it for the hundredth time, excitement washing over her all over again. Followed quickly by terror.
The fear that Arthur Fletch—and whoever else he’s invited—will take one look at Cate Newhouse, twenty-two years old and plucked out of a slush pile by one of Eleanor Vandenberg’s assistants, andknowshe doesn’t belong.
She folds forward, head resting on her knees. And tries to remind herself what Eleanor said when she first signed her.
“You’ve a rare talent, Miss Newhouse. With a bit of work, I think you could be the next Arthur Fletch.”
Cate lifts her head off her knees, takes a deep breath, and opens her drafted reply, deleting a block of text about what an honor it is, and how she doesn’t feel worthy, and there must be some mistake. Instead, she types five short words.
Wouldn’t miss it!
Thanks,
Cate
She forces the air from her lungs, and hitsSEND.
A fist bangs on the bathroom door, and she shouts back that she’ll be just a minute. As if her legs haven’t gone to sleep from sitting on the porcelain for nearly half an hour.
She sets the phone on the sink and goes to wipe only to realize—
Of course.
There’s no fucking loo roll.
