He places the two cup carriers down on the ground beside me, then settles himself into the second balcony chair. “It’s not a big deal and also the least I could do.”
My mind is blown. I’d never in a lifetime consider ordering one of everything from anywhere, mostly because I can’t afford the tab and also because it’s such a waste—these drinks will go bad before either one of us can consume them. But the fact that Julien did so without a second’s consideration or thinking how very much of a big deal it is showcases how different the worlds we come from are. I’ve always known it, but this time the starkness is painted in caffeine and cream and staring straight at me.
“I can see from that look on your face that you think I’ve been wildly extravagant and wasteful, but before you judge me too harshly, I figured we could give anything you don’t want away to the other conference attendees. That way the drinks won’t just get poured down the drain.”
I spin a cup in front of me to read the order sticker on the side and hopefully disguise the fact that he read me so easily.It’s very disconcerting that we keep doing this—intrinsically knowing the other’s thoughts without explanation.
Plain black coffee. Yuck.
“I’m sorry about last night.” He takes cups out of the holder and places them in front of me, labels faced in my direction so I can read the contents inside. “I didn’t think the snoring was so bad anymore. I have a CPAP machine but forgot to pick up distilled water for it yesterday. I bought some while I was out getting the coffee, so I promise, no more sleeping in balcony chairs.” He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, sincerity and contriteness in his supplication. “I’m really sorry, Martha.”
I pluck a peppermint hot chocolate from the line of cups and take a sip, peeking at him over the rim. Pulling the drink away, I lick my lips, then sigh dramatically. “Fine. I guess I’ll stop planning on how to get away with your murder.”
Julien’s grin unfolds in slow motion. “Much appreciated.”
He needs to stop looking at me like this. All charming and easy natured. It’s messing with my head. Or is it my heart? Either way, it’s convoluting the script of our agreement, which has been a bit precarious from the start. It’s also the reason I don’t tell him he could have used tap water in his CPAP machine last night. Mom has one for her sleep apnea, and while distilled water is preferred, tap water will do in a pinch.
Julien catches me rubbing at the crick in my neck and winces. “I can make an appointment for you to get a massage at the hotel spa since your tight muscles are my fault.”
Maybe in more ways than one.
I stand suddenly, and my blanket falls to the ground. Julien is quick to avert his gaze away from me in my pajamas. The lack of sleep is really messing with my brain because there’s a slight ache behind my breastbone starting to flare at his swiftness to look away. I remind myself that he’s being a gentleman, a professional. But even confident women have their momentsof self-doubt, and the fact that my mind is sluggish from the long night isn’t doing me any favors.
“Don’t worry about it,” I assure him, ready to have a moment to myself. All these to-go cups around me are starting to look too much like a grand gesture. I still haven’t fully convinced myself that my childhood infatuation hasn’t resurfaced, and now my stupid feelings are deciding to get hurt because he’s doing the right thing by not ogling me. Ridiculous.
“I just need to take a long, hot shower and I’m sure the kinks from last night will work themselves out.” I hold up my hot chocolate in salute. “Thanks for the drink.”
Twenty minutes later, I’ve turned the bathroom into a steam room with the near-scalding water I let beat down on my neck and shoulders. The muscles feel looser, but more importantly, my mind is also clearer. When I step out of the bathroom, Julien is nowhere to be found, and the additional coffee cups are gone as well. There’s a text waiting for me on my phone letting me know he went down to the lobby and will wait for me there.
Getting ready in the morning is never a quick process, but I do my best to speed through all the steps to get my hair not to look like a ragamuffin’s, which is how my mother used to describe it when I was a kid. After applying a heat shield, sealing the moisture in with a small dose of hair oil, then completely drying it with the diffuser on the blow dryer, I slip a hair tie around my wrist just in case all the product still loses the fight against Florida’s humidity. A small application of makeup, and I’m done.
I take one last look at myself in the mirror, feeling like an imposter. The high-rise linen pants with the bow belt and cream-colored wrap top with a cinched waist make me look the part of a publishing gatekeeper, but really, I’m just a backwoods girl with a love of books and not enough formal education to keep her job. I can’t believe for a moment that all theseaspiring authors we’re about to meet won’t see right through me. I imagine one of them calling me out for my ruse and berating me until all my inadequacies are bare for everyone to see. Asking me how I have the audacity to think I belong on the other side of the table judging whether their writing is good enough to be published when my own so clearly isn’t.
Not a happy thought.
I take the last sip of hot chocolate, wishing I could swallow back my insecurities as easily, then toss the cup in the trash. Grabbing my key card, I march out of the room, pretending like I belong here while praying that I’m not wasting Julien’s one and only chance to prove himself to his impossible-to-please father.
The elevator deposits me in the lobby. The space is buzzing with people—mostly middle-aged and older women, if I’m honest. No judgment. I fit into that category myself. Although there is a sporadic male or younger female milling about. The vibration of lots of little conversations happening all at once thrums in my ears, and my gaze is pulled in multiple directions as I try to find Julien in the throng.
Finally, I spot the breadth of his shoulders in his blue suit amidst a tight-knit group of people. I pick my way over to him, noticing how many are sipping from familiar to-go cups. His back is toward me, but he turns before I can say a word or even step up to his side, as if he was physically aware of my approaching presence. The smile he gives me is friendly but not overly so, and he holds out his arm to invite me into his circle, but his hand doesn’t land anywhere on my body when I do so. Strictly professional, like he promised.
“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Martha Aldridge. If you have a pitch appointment with me, you have one with her as well, since we’re a team for this conference.”
All eyes turn to me, and I put on the warmest Southern smile I can muster. “Good morning.”
Everyone answers with agood morningof their own. One woman, however, also reaches out and lightly grazes my sleeve. “That is a beautiful blouse you have on, my dear.”
The compliment is sweet and reminds me of home even though this lady doesn’t have even a hint of an Appalachia accent. “That’s very kind, thank you so much.”
Another woman makes a show of taking in our surroundings. “This place is so grand. It’s like a dream being here.”
Everyone nods in agreement.
“There’s bound to be some dreams coming true over the course of the next few days.” She peeks not so subtly at Julien. “Writing for Squire would be like a real-life fairy tale.”
The chorus of women concur, and it’s like that one comment opened a door that they are now all trying to take advantage of, if politely. One name-drops a few titles in Squire’s last catalog and how her own manuscript would fit perfectly in their collection and then gives an unsolicited elevator pitch. Another nervously shoves a one-sheet at Julien’s chest before curtsying—yes, curtsying! I know his last name is King, but he’s not royalty—then nearly sprinting away. Red splotches stain her cheeks, and my heart goes out to her. I remember how nervous I was when I approached Mr. King all those years ago. The memory makes me want to give all these women a big hug, even the ones being a bit too forceful.
Julien listens to them all with his business face on. When they pause to take a breath before launching in again, he offers a quick “If you’ll excuse us,” then steers me away with a loose grasp around my elbow.
