Page 28

Then they came true. Sort of.

And now I have exactly—I check my watch—forty-four days to completely rewrite a book that took me four years to write in the first place.

Forty-four days.

Forty . . . four . . . days.

Six Mondays.

Six Tuesdays.

Six Saturdays.

Just six.

I can’t be sure—I only edited Breathe Your Way Through Panic Attacks last year—but if chapter 4 is any indicator, I believe I feel a panic attack coming on as the status of my situation starts to settle in.

I step into the aisle with booths on each side.

The Pennington booth is still packed, the crowd less angsty here in the afternoon (no doubt because everyone has already cruised by the booths at least once) than it was this morning. People now are actually perusing the stacks of books on the tables, making the atmosphere more like that of a bookshop and less of a hijacking. I squeeze between two women holding up a black-and-yellow-striped disk as they discuss Linden’s new audio.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot Lyla, whose typically glossy curls now look like they’ve been beaten in a windstorm. Her smile looks like she’s put Vaseline on her teeth (one of several odd cheerleading tricks she once used in high school to keep smiling for long periods of time). She holds a scanner out to a man’s badge as she talks, but when our eyes meet, she breaks off her speech to give me a look that says, Run, Sav! Run for your life!

I halt immediately.

“Savannah!” Just as the librarians in front of me break apart, Giselle’s figure comes into view. “Tom was just asking about you.”

Tom.

I frown.

Who’s Tom?

And then the bell clangs loudly in my head.

“Tom?” I say, suddenly on the receiving end of a hug. As his rather round, Santa-bowl belly bumps into me, I inhale the distinct smells of sour-cream-and-onion chips, cigarettes, and ancient recliners. I squeeze out words while he squeezes me: “Tom. I didn’t realize you were going to be in town.”

“I wasn’t,” he says, then lets go to step back with a huge grin. As though this was his little ruse. As though he’s just given me the best surprise. “But then I thought to myself, what’s six hours for a fine opportunity like this? You didn’t get my email?”

“Uh . . . no,” I hedge, taking another step backward for good measure. Tom is one of those authors who likes to send me thirty emails a week, mostly about cats. “I must’ve missed it.”

“Ah, well, I thought that’s what happened. Anyway, here I am!” he says and throws his arms out grandly, causing at least three people to duck.

Tom Haggerty was picked up by another editor, Siri, a handful of years ago. When Siri got the boot six months ago, Giselle divvied up his authors among the team. Which meant she gained Francine Thomas, a perennial bestseller who sends Giselle cupcakes on her birthday. And I got Tom, a perennial bestseller who prefers really tight, full-frontal hugs lasting thirty seconds too long.

“Don’t mind me, though,” Tom says, scratching the fabric on his stomach. “I know you’ll be all kinds of busy at these things. I won’t get in the way.”

“Nonsense,” says Giselle, sidling up beside him and giving his shoulder a pat. “You’re part of the Pennington family. I just know Savannah would love to tour you around.”

Forty-four days.

“Actually,” I begin, but then I see a familiar pair of oxfords stepping up beside me. My teeth are clenched so tightly I can barely force out my own Vaseline smile. “I can’t think of a single thing I’d rather do.”

I try to ignore the ache in my sternum.

Forty-four days. That’s basically a chapter a day. A brand-new chapter every single day.

With a meet cute that needs a total transformation.