by Lila Monroe
I’m half-expecting to find the office festooned with the national flag of Panem when I step off the elevator later that morning, but I should have known our tight-fisted new boss would never waste money on anything so frivolous as themed decorations. In fact, Liam hasn’t even sprung for so much as a dozen donuts. The entire editorial staff sits dolefully around the danish-free conference table, just waiting to be sent into… the Thunderdome? The Capitol?
Don’t tell Liam, but I haven’t read the books, either.
“I won’t waste time with formalities,” he says from his position up at the front of the conference room, looking obnoxiously handsome in his suit pants and tailored white button-down. You could bounce a quarter off his ass, though let’s be real: he’d probably make you go get it from under the table and invest it back into the business. “You all know what we’re doing here. Jason, why don’t you start us off.”
Ugh. Jason is the closest thing I have to a work nemesis, a total bro who’s made his entire career hogging precious marketing dollars for his equally bro-y authors. He’s just coming off an admittedly huge season: his author Dick Johnson’s Real Man’s Guide to Being a Real Man was the only Sterling book that did better than Katie’s debut self-help book back in the spring, and Jason has never once let me forget it.
“Picture this,” he says now as he strolls oh-so-casually across the room, the very picture of entitlement in madras plaid pants and a bright blue polo shirt. “This fall’s hottest dating guide: Dick Johnson’s Real Man’s Guide to Bagging the Hottie of Your Dreams.”
I barely keep from regurgitating my bagel, but Liam looks… enthused? “Well, I have to admit,” he says cheerfully, “what you lack in good taste you make up for in cold hard cash. What else have you got?”
So, Dick Johnson makes it through…and so do all the rest of Jason’s authors. Liam even keeps the guy who goes by the pseudonym King of Thrones, author of a quartet of Chicken Soup for the Soul-type books full of stories just long enough to be read on the toilet.
Not everyone is so lucky, though. My colleague Martine’s list gets ripped to shreds, despite the fact that two of her authors won prestigious literary prizes last year. And David loses three different pervy professors. “This is outrageous,” he sputters, but Liam is unmoved.
“The profit just isn’t there,” he says flatly. “Now, who’s next?” He looks around the room. “Eliza?”
I take a deep breath, reminding myself to stay calm and keep my cool despite the way my heart is slamming away against the inside of my rib cage. “I wanted to start by saying thank you for the opportunity to introduce you to my authors,” I begin, smiling my brightest and most confident smile. “I’ve selected my list carefully, picking and choosing authors I love and believe in over the course of my years at Sterling. All of them are important to me, and to the company.” I turn slightly, looking Liam directly in the eye. “None of them are disposable.”
I know Katie, at least, is a shoo-in—The Breakup Artist was a runaway bestseller, and her follow-up promises to do just as well—and I try to carry that confidence with me as I pitch the rest of my authors. There’s Suzanne, who writes the kind of breezy but still thoughtful fiction that suburban book clubs can’t get enough of; Jasmine, who’s published a trio of quirky, offbeat cookbooks specifically for singles cooking in small kitchens; and Ana, who does a series about a slightly uptight private investigator and her plucky male assistant. “We definitely need to keep Ana,” I finish with a laugh, “if only so we can see Vicki and Jay finally get together!”
Liam doesn’t smile. “Vicki and Jay aren’t real,” he reminds me, as if I might possibly be confused about what fiction means, exactly. “But the sales numbers are passable on that series.” He glances down at the stack of papers in front of him. “We’ll keep them, and your breakup books. Everyone else can go.” He looks blandly around the room. “Who’s next?”
I’m too shocked to say anything in the moment, I just fall back down in my seat with a dazed thump.
Everyone else can go.
Just like that?
My chest gets tighter when I think about breaking the news to my authors that their contracts are cancelled. Suzanne just had her second kid, and Jasmine finally quit her awful office job to write full-time… Oh God, what am I going to tell them?
‘Sorry, when I offered you the book deal of your dreams, it was just temporary. My bad!’?
I made them a commitment! I gave them my word!
My heart is pounding with rage by the time the meeting finally ends. I march out of the conference room and directly into Liam’s office. “What was that?” I manage to sputter.
Liam barely looks up from his computer. “I’m sorry?” he murmurs distractedly. “What was what?”
“Those are my authors,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice level. “I’ve spent months and years building relationships with them—cultivating their talent and finding their audiences, not to mention correcting their comma splices—and now you’re just telling me to cut them loose?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you to do,” Liam informs me calmly. “It’s not personal, it’s business. Their books aren’t making a profit. They’re dragging the company down.”
He’s completely in control of his emotions—he’s not flustered at all—which of course makes me feel even closer to hysteria. “Good to know where I stand, at least.”
“Yes,” he says pleasantly, the sarcasm sailing right over his infuriatingly symmetrical head, “I’ve always thought so.”
I open my mouth, then shut it again. How dare he? Who does this guy he think he is? “This conversation isn’t over,” I inform him imperiously.
Liam shrugs. “I assure you, it is,” he says. Then, just as I’m about to turn and stomp out of his office to plan a street brawl or a general strike, a thought seems to occur to him. “Oh,” he says, “Eliza. Just one more question. Who’s Verity Lange?”
That stops me. Furious as I am, I can feel an involuntary smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. “Verity?” I ask, turning around. “She’s a romance legend. She wrote these incredibly soapy, twisty, scandalous romances and made millions for Holloway Publishers back in the 90s. She and Harry were old friends, and he wooed her away from them a decade ago, promising her the red carpet treatment. Her work is amazing—I grew up on it, actually—but she hasn’t written anything in ages.”
“Oh, I know it,” Liam says, looking down at his ledger. “She’s six years overdue submitting her new book.”
Now I really do smile. “Good luck with that. Her fans would go crazy for another release, but Harry could never get her to finish anything. He’d call her up every once in a while, go out to see her, and she’d charm him into forgetting why he’d gone out there in the first place.”
Liam isn’t laughing. “We paid her for it,” he points out. “A two-million-dollar advance. And she’s going to deliver.”
I manage not to laugh in his face, but barely. “I mean, good luck,” I tell him, “but you’re never going to get that book.”
“Oh, I know I’m not,” Liam says, with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “You are.” He looks at me pointedly. “Or else.”
Wait, what?
I spend the rest of the afternoon frantically trying to track down contact info for Verity Lange, who seems to have fallen off the face of the planet sometime before skinny jeans came back into style. The landline in the company database has long since been disconnected. Her agent died of old age sometime in 2012, and her old assistant is retired and living on a houseboat off the coast of Lake Champlain with an extremely spotty cell reception.
But I can’t quit looking. Liam has made it clear, failure is not an option—not unless I want to follow my poor authors out the door. Although, what I’ll do once I find the woman, I’m not quite sure. If all Harry’s charm—and six long years —couldn’t make Verity finish her book, then I’m not sure what use I’ll be. But I have to try something.
&nbs
p; It’s after five when I finally hit the jackpot—a cell number scrawled in Harry’s spidery hand, in the ancient Rolodex I dig out of storage. My heart is in my throat as I dial, but the call goes directly to voicemail. Still, I give the message my all: “Hi Verity!” I chirp, trying my best to walk the line between “excited, but polished” and “desperate maniac two seconds away from losing her job”. “This is Eliza at Sterling Publishers. I’m sure by now you’ve heard about Harry’s tragic passing, and I wanted to assure you that the company is in good hands. His son Liam has stepped in to fill the void. Everything is fine on this end, but if you could just give me a call, I’d love to touch base with you about—”
“That’s it!” David shouts just then, his voice echoing angrily from the direction of Liam’s office. “I quit! I’ve been in this business for twenty years, you miserable tight-ass. I don’t have to take this from anyone, let alone some stuffed suit who’s never read an actual book in his life.” He storms down the hall, catching sight of me through the open door of my office as he stomps toward the elevator. “Good luck, Eliza. You’re going to need it in this godforsaken snake pit.”
I gulp, and then realize all at once I’m still recording. “So, like I was saying, Verity,” I continue, squeezing my eyes shut. “Everything’s… fine here. Call me!”
4
Liam
I stay in the office until late that night, downing cup after cup of black coffee and trying to make sense of my father’s archaic accounting system. The man was, by all accounts, a brilliant publisher.
A brilliant businessman? Not so much.
And a decent father? Well, let’s just say it wasn’t on his priority list.
Not for this kid, anyway. So why did I just travel across the country to try and save what’s left of his legacy?
I’m still asking myself that question. Of course, the work would probably be going faster if I could keep my mind off Eliza.
I sigh, pushing my chair back from the desk. Kissing her the other night outside the ice cream shop was a stupid impulse, that’s all. The kind I usually know better than to give into. Normally, I’m notorious for planning three steps ahead—calculating for every possible outcome, adjusting the sails to account for the slightest breeze. But there’s was something about her smile, and her ridiculous footwear—and, all right, her shirt slipping down over her stomach when she did those cartwheels—that had me throwing caution to the wind for once in my life.
And what did it get me? A potential HR crisis, that’s what.
Not that it’s going to be a problem. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s how to keep things professional.
Which is more than I can say for my late father. The deeper I wade into this godforsaken office the more I’m starting to understand why the whole place is about to go under. Fresh flowers on every available surface. Designer coffee in the kitchen. Long “working” lunches dripping with booze. Who orders dessert at lunch, for Pete’s sake? Dilettantes with no self-control, that’s who.
Not to mention the office furnishings. Deep leather couches and green banker’s lamps, plush Persian rugs. A velvet divan, for crying out loud. There’s even a working fireplace. How, exactly, do any of these creature comforts encourage productivity? All they do is invite long afternoon wine naps. But then again, Harry was a man who enjoyed the pleasures of life—and felt entitled to them, whenever he wanted.
It’s the reason I exist, after all. Hell, I’m probably one of the only consequences he couldn’t sweep under the rug entirely, although he certainly tried, with those fat checks and polite birthday calls.
I look around the office again, feeling that uneasy mix of resentment and grief that’s been bubbling ever since the old man passed away. I’ve always felt like an interloper in his world, and now is no different. I thought I could keep a cool head about things, but being right here at Sterling is bring up some unintended feelings. I’m off my game, for sure. So is it any wonder I’m doing wild, impulsive things—like making out with one of my junior editors?
I scribble a note to Harry’s old assistant—my assistant, now—to see about getting some actual office furniture in here, then pack up some files to take home, and hail a cab back to my apartment. I had the real estate agent find me a furnished rental not too far from the office—it’s more than serviceable, with a 24-hour concierge and laundry pickup, plus a spacious gym. I’m told there’s a pool on the roof, though I’ve never actually been up there to see for myself.
Honestly, who has the time when there’s work to be done?
I pick up a salad at the deli across the street and nod at the night doorman before taking the elevator upstairs to my unit. There’s a gift basket from the realtor on the granite countertop, a selection of tropical fruits along with her telephone number. I glance at it for a moment before tossing the card into the trash. She was perfectly nice-looking, with full lips and a sleek blonde bob, and the way she took my arm as she led me around the apartment made it clear she wouldn’t have minded spending a few nights here herself. Still, I make it a policy not to mix the personal and the professional.
At least, not usually.
Eliza pushes her way into my thoughts again— the haughty lift of her chin as she was defending her clients today at the meeting, the warm pink flush of her cheeks. I can’t help but wonder what it would take to make her blush like that in other contexts.
And in other places.
I shake my head, stabbing half-heartedly at my salad. This is completely unacceptable. Unprofessional.
Uncontrollable?
I change into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and head down to the gym—if I’m too distracted to get work done, I may as well work out my frustrations in a productive way. I’m just hitting my stride when my phone rings with a call from my mentor, Aisling, back in LA. “How’s it going with Sterling?” she asks, not bothering with a greeting. One of Aisling’s inalienable principles for running a business is never to waste anything if she can help it—and that includes words.
“It’s a mess,” I tell her truthfully, ramping up the incline on the treadmill. Aisling was my boss in my first job out of college, and she taught me everything I know about running a business. “Ridiculous excess, all kinds of redundancy. And the expense accounts are… turgid.”
Aisling barks out a short, frills-free laugh. “Sounds like you’re getting comfortable with the romance novel lingo, at least.”
“Working on it,” I tell her. “Which reminds me—have you ever heard of Verity Lange?”
“Is that that new hedge fund out of Silicon Valley?” Aisling asks.
“Not quite.” I fill her in on the situation—the massive million-dollar advance, the missing manuscript. “So it’s just sitting there on the balance sheet,” I finish. “No delivery. No attempts even made to collect, from what I can understand. But this company needs a hit, and if I can push out a book by the summer, then maybe…” I trail off.
Maybe this whole ill advised trip won’t be for nothing.
“It’s not too late to call this whole thing off,” Aisling points out, as if reading my mind. “You went to assess the damage, and concluded it would be a waste of your time. Nobody would hold that against you. In fact, making a clear-headed assessment of the task is part of the job. And you know I could use you back here. I’ve got a tricky takeover coming up, and nobody’s better in finding those hidden assets.”
“Thanks,” I reply shortly. “But I’ve got a handle on things here. I’ll be fine.”
“Of course you will.” Aisling replies briskly. “Keep a cool head, watch the numbers, and you’ll be fine.”
And I will be. But what it is I’m trying to prove, I’m still not sure.
That Harry should have called me sooner? That the family who looked down on me and kept me at arm’s length all these years actually need me, after all?
I sigh, and turn back to the accounts. As long as I can keep my focus on the books, and away from Eliza, I’ll be fine.
/>
But when I arrive in the office the next morning, I nearly run straight into her. She’s in the kitchen area, fixing herself a complicated-looking latte that’s probably costing the company at least five dollars..I can hardly manage to muster up annoyance about it, though, because I’m so distracted by the sight of her in a navy belted shirtdress, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. For a moment I imagine reaching out and tucking it behind her ear, then trailing one finger down the elegant line of her jaw, before realizing that’s probably a great way to get a lawsuit filed against me.
I clear my throat. “So!” I ask, casting about for a conversational opening that has nothing to do with our… personal situation. “What’s the latest on Verity Lange?”
“Good, actually,” she says, giving me a measured look. “I finally got a hold of her late yesterday. We’re going to do an editorial call this morning, see where the book is at.”
“Almost done, I hope,” I say. “Lord knows she’s had long enough to work with it. We’re going to need to get it into production in a matter of weeks.”
“Wait.” Eliza gapes at me. “I’m sorry. Did you just say weeks? But that’s impossible. Our production schedule for a book is two years. Eighteen months, if we really hurry things along.”
I’m about to reply when a dark-haired woman from marketing whose name I haven’t bothered to learn comes into the kitchen. “Oh, Eliza, there you are,” she says. “I wanted to touch base with you about—” She breaks off midsentence as she catches sight of me. “Oh,” she squeaks, her eyes widening like she’s seen a ghost. “Ah, sorry. I didn’t realize you were—I mean—we can talk about it later.” She nods frantically, then darts away like a terrified rabbit.
“What was that about?” I ask.
Eliza shakes her head, like I’m being thick on purpose. “Are you kidding?” she asks. “She’s terrified of you. Everyone is terrified of you. They all think they’re about to lose their jobs.”
