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The furry spawn from hell growls.
“Yeah. I know.”
We’re fucked.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DELANEY
By twelve-thirty, I’ve learned that Angela knows where everything in Wilder House is, Liz drinks tea instead of coffee, Steve begins an alarming number of sentences with technically, and there are approximately four thousand tiny things about publishing that graduate school didn't prepare me for.
And I love every single one of them.
My desk isn’t really mine. It’s a small workstation tucked between two junior editors, and the chair squeaks every time I lean back. Not that I mind.
There are manuscripts everywhere. Two stacked beside my keyboard. Another open on my screen. Hundreds of sticky notes in at least six different colors cover the edges of pages, my monitor, and half the desk like someone let a stationery store explode. It’s wonderful.
I’ve spent the morning updating submission notes, sitting in on a production meeting, and trying not to look too excited every time someone asks my opinion about a book.
For the first time since Friday, everything feels exactly right.
Unfortunately, my stomach has started eating itself. Angela looks up from her desk when it growls loud enough to be heard from three workstations away.
“Please tell me you’ve eaten.” She smiles at me.
“Does coffee count?” That protein bar and three cups of office coffee are all I’ve had. I’m not even counting whatever that was in the mug at Bishop’s place.
“Depends on who you’re asking, but you are allowed to take a lunch, you know.”
“What if a person was hungry but coffee was still the main course?”
She points toward the door. “Midnight Press.”
“What’s that?”
Angela slowly lowers her glasses. “Oh, honey.”
Ten minutes later, I’m standing outside a narrow storefront a couple of blocks away, wondering how I’ve lived in Chicago for three whole days without knowing this place exists.
The bell above the door gives a soft jingle when I step inside.
The smell of coffee hits me first. Rich espresso, warm sugar, the buttery sweetness of fresh pastries baking somewhere behind the counter. Then, the smell of books.
Shelves climb the exposed brick walls, broken up by small tables and mismatched chairs that look collected rather than purchased. A few people type on laptops. Someone is reading near the front window with both hands wrapped around a mug. Music plays quietly beneath the hiss of the espresso machine and the low hum of conversation.
My shoulders relax.
“Oh my gosh.” I turn around in a complete circle. This place is amazing. I could live here. Possibly, literally, considering my current housing situation.
By the time I reach the counter, I’ve already decided Angela is my favorite person at Wilder House.
The menu above the register is ridiculous in the best possible way, covered in specialty drinks with names that make me want to order six of them just to find out what they are.
Meet Cute. Slow Burn. Enemies to Lovers. Forced Proximity.
I haven’t even gotten to the bottom of the menu before I've decided whoever named these deserves a raise.
A smaller sign beside it reads COFFEE • COCKTAILS • BOOKS, and I glance past the espresso machines to the shelves of bottles lining the back wall.
