Page 96 of The Perfect Rom-Com

So I do what we did at our first meeting. Try to match her moves to my moves by the millimeter.

We end up hugging. With limbs awkwardly at our chests. Hands weirdly touching. Like two Tyrannosaurus rexes.

I quickly step back with an overbright smile. “Well!” I exclaim, throwing my gaze around the table. “They’ve already brought water. Wonderful!” I sit down quickly.

Take a sip.

Pretend I don’t sound like a person with a hyperfixation on common commodities.

To her credit, she doesn’t seem fazed and sits down like the class act she is. Classy Florence Peters.

My editor soulmate and future best friend.

“Have you eaten yet?” she says, peering over her menu.

“I had a bite a couple hours ago, but I could absolutely eat again.” No. That doesn’t sound right either. I have got to tone down the enthusiasm.

We both peer at our menus for a bit. Get down to ordering when the waiter arrives. Make small talk until the meal arrives. It’s decent enough. I successfully prove I can be normal.

And then, precisely when her lentil soup has hit the halfway-gone level, she speaks. There’s a new tone in her voice.

I can’t put a finger on it, but it screams, “Now down to business!”

“I’m sorry Jack wasn’t able to come.”

I pull a face, then set my napkin down. “Yes. Too bad. He’s just so busy . . .”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” I echo.

“But he won’t mind if we have this little chat, I’m sure—”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I echo, quietly kicking myself for repeating her words.

What is wrong with me?

It’s tenth grade symphonic band recital all over again. I am the absolute worst under pressure. I morph into some bizarre other human who is incapable of using her brain cells.

It’s just so hard dealing with all these intrusive thoughts like, You know what would be the absolute worst right now? What if you spit out your soup all of a sudden on her face? Wouldn’t that just be crazy?

And then I’m staring at her face, telling my head to shut up and let me listen while she talks, all the while feeling incredibly anxious because what if I suddenly clicked my brain off and something awful like that happened and I missed everything she’s saying?

Again, I am horrible under pressure.

And that’s when I realize she’s looking at me expectantly. There’s a smile on her face as she’s just finished saying something.

What was it again? “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

“Oh, of course. I was just saying, do you think you have your manuscript on email? If you could email it over to me now, I could take a look while we talk.”

I whip out my phone so quickly my hand knocks the little table between us and ice quakes in the glasses. “Yes. Absolutely. Here it is,” I say, ignoring the new throb of my hand. I email the manuscript over to her and hear the ding a moment later.

“Perfect.” She settles glasses on her nose as she pulls out a tablet and sets it on the table. Already she’s beginning to look at it and touch various points on the screen as she says, “So how did you and Jack get started working together?”

“Well . . . we met at a writers’ conference in Nashville a few years ago.”

“Oh?” She glances up in surprise, her brows knitting together briefly. “And you’re still unpublished?”