“Welcome to a writing conference, by the way,” he says wryly and in a quiet tone that only I can hear. With only a quick glance in my direction, he redirects his focus so he doesn’t accidently knock into anyone while traversing the hotel. “I’m assuming this is your first one?”
“You assume correctly.” Although I’ve attended many vicariouslythrough social media pictures of other authors I follow. There was a virtual one a few years ago too. But neither experience really prepared me for this in-person event.
“Well, while everyone attends the opening ceremony this morning and listens to the guest speaker, we’ll get settled in the pitch room with the other agents and editors. Anyone attending the conference had the opportunity to sign up to pitch to three industry professionals of their choosing, one of course being us. Because this is one of the largest children’s literature conferences, the pitch appointments last no longer than fifteen minutes.”
“That’s not a lot of time, is it?”
“Considering we’ll be listening to around a hundred story ideas, I’d say fifteen minutes each is still going to make for some long days. Add on to it that we are also taking the current Squire authors in attendance out for a publishing house rendezvous dinner tonight and that one of us needs to represent Squire on the editors panel the day after tomorrow, I’d say this is going to be a very busy long weekend.”
“Wow, that is a lot.” And the first I’m hearing about a dinner or a panel. “But a hundred pitches. One of those has to be the masterpiece that saves Squire.”
He pauses walking long enough to look down at me. “You’re right. One of them has to be.”
17
The conference directors already had everything set up and ready to go when Julien and Martha found the room allocated for pitch appointments. Because of the number of attendees, there weren’t enough private rooms available at the hotel for each agent, editor, and mentor to have their own individual space to interact with the writers. Instead, a larger conference room was utilized with folding tables interspersed about ten feet apart to provide as much privacy as possible. While maybe not ideal, it allowed for everyone who had paid to attend the conference to have an opportunity to get their stories in the hands of industry leaders and possibly on the road to publication.
“Here you are.” The woman in charge of the pitch room stopped in front of a table with both Julien’s and Martha’s names printed on a tented piece of cardstock. “Is there anything else you need?”
“No, I think we’re all set. Thank you so much.”
She nodded in acknowledgment of Julien’s thanks, then left them to attend to an editor from another publishing house that focused on folklore and fairy-tale retellings.
Julien pulled his laptop out of its leather case and set it on the table in front of him. “We have about an hour before thefirst appointment. Do you mind if we use the time to weed through some book proposals that Caroline forwarded to me?”
“Caroline is Squire’s acquisitions editor?” Martha pulled out the second chair and took a seat.
“Correct.” He typed in his password and waited for his computer to load the home screen. “She sent me a handful of proposals she thinks have promise.”
Martha scooted closer, her gaze pinned on the open laptop. “Let’s see what she’s got.”
With Martha inches away from his face, Julien shallowed his breathing in an effort not to inhale her scent. The effort was futile, however, as his lungs filled with the fresh aroma of orange blossoms and vanilla. His eyes closed of their own accord. Man, she smelled good.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was on a mission to torture him. First her adorable pajamas and now her intoxicating scent. Why couldn’t they have come back into each other’s lives under different circumstances? In any other scenario, Julien wouldn’t have hesitated a second before asking Martha out. Was she feeling the same sort of connection that he was?
Using all his self-control to ignore the nearness of the woman next to him and the memories of how her hips felt in his hands when he’d had to hold her steady after she’d run into him the night before, he clicked into his email provider and brought up the first book proposal.
“This one is a sweeping fantasy filled with dragons and an intricate magic system. Caroline thinks dragon books are perennial and that Squire should piggyback on the popularity of the Wings ofFireseries as well as the live-action remake ofHow to Train Your Dragon.”
Martha tilted her chin. “She’s not wrong. Fantasy books are always pretty popular at the library, especially for middle grade and YA readers.”
They both read from the screen at the same time, beginningwith the details the author included about the manuscript—a synopsis, the target audience, and comparative titles—as well as the information on the author herself—bio, social media and newsletter platform numbers—and her marketing plan. Julien scrolled to the beginning of the first sample chapter when his phone rang. He glanced down and was surprised to see Tomiko calling.
“Excuse me. I should probably take this.” He stood but motioned to the laptop. “Go ahead and keep reading. You can tell me if you think it has any credibility.”
Martha nodded and reangled the computer toward herself as Julien hit the button to accept the call. “Tomiko, everything all right?” he asked as he walked to the back of the room that afforded the most privacy at the moment.
“Sorry,” his assistant said, a slight tremble to her voice. “I know you’re busy and have a lot on your plate, a lot riding on this weekend. It’s just ... I thought you’d want to know...”
“Know what, Tomiko?”
“Mr. King, Senior, sir. He said he’d fire me if I told, but it seemed like something you or Mrs. King should know about. I really love my job, Mr. King, and I don’t want to be fired. But I also feel like I have to say something to someone. I’d feel so guilty if something worse happened and I hadn’t said anything...”
Julien’s heart was in his throat. If something had happened to Dad and he was making threats, it couldn’t have been good.
“You won’t get fired. I promise.” He tried to keep his tone level and ended up grinding his molars to keep the impatience out of his voice. “Now, tell me what happened.”
“You promise I won’t get fired?”
