Page 107 of Spearcrest Queen

Spring

Evan

I thought my fatherwould be disappointed when I finally told him about my decision to turn down his offer and stay at Inkspill.

But when I step into his office on the thirtieth floor and close the glass door behind me, he just looks at me with an expectant spark in his eyes. His office, which once felt intimidatingly large and serious, seems smaller for some reason, more welcoming than I remember it, a photo of Mom in a sundress smiling from one of the bookshelves.

“So?” he says, watching me as I take a seat opposite him. “Have you had a good think?”

I nod. He tilts his head, a smile playing on the corner of his lips. For some reason, I have the impression that he already knows what I’m about to say.

“I’d like to stay at Inkspill,” I tell him. My voice is steady even though I expected to be nervous.

Dad shifts back against his desk, arms folding over his chest. “Well, I thought you might, but you understand that means I can’t make good on our deal, right? Inés’s in charge of Inkspill,” he says. “Sheruns it, she loves it, and she’s not going anywhere. If you stay, it’ll be in the same capacity as you’re in right now.”

“I know.”

He lifts an eyebrow.

“I like the position I’m in, Dad.”

And as I say it, I realise how much I mean it.

I like my dusty corner desk, tucked between old bookshelves and half-broken filing cabinets. I like looking after the plants that have been steadily dying for years, bringing them slowly back to life—I even made a watering schedule now pinned above my computer screen, which Matt makes fun of constantly. I even like Matt’s insults, sharing late-night takeaway Chinese with him while we problem-solve distribution nightmares and he complains about being underpaid and over-caffeinated.

I like the smell of the office, old books and dust and paper and warm printers and coffee and the perfume of cinnamon buns floating from the little café next door. I like listening to Inés and Patch bickering over marketing campaigns and placing bets on anything and everything. I like being sent on errands around the country like the office knight-errant, showing up to last-minute book events, meeting authors and cranky, interesting academics.

I like all of it.A lot.

And maybe my father sees that; there’s no disappointment in his face, no tired sigh, no attempt to persuade me otherwise. Just a long, considering look before he says, simply, “I’m proud of you, son.”

I blink and let out an awkward chuckle, brushing my hand through my hair. “What, even though I’m just some publishing dogsbody?”

Dad scoffs, shaking his head.

“Istarted as some office dogsbody, too.” He leans against the desk, eyes glittering. “There’s value in that, son. In hard work, in learning, in being part of a team. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you: the best thing you can do with it is spend your time doing something meaningful.”

I swallow thickly, suddenly overwhelmed with a wave of unexpected emotion. “You don’t think I’m making a mistake?”

Dad smiles, a genuine grin that has the exact same dimples framing it as when I smile.

“I don’t think you’re making a mistake, son. I think you’re finding your way.”

I bring a boxof cupcakes and a bottle of champagne into work when I announce that I’m staying. Matt, his mouth stuffed full of cupcakes, sits up in alarm.

“Is that why we’re getting a new floor?” He almost chokes on his food and is forced to take three hasty sips of coffee. “You’re not getting the new office, no chance.”

“Relax,” Inés says, rolling her eyes. “The new floor is yours, since you’re getting your own team.”

“I don’t even want your office,” I add. “I like my desk.”

“You’ve done a great job with the plants, to be fair,” Mina points out, grabbing a second cupcake out of the box. “You’ve earned me fifty dollars.”

“Anotherpool?” I shake my head. “Patch, you bet against me?Again?”

Patch shrugs. “To be fair, I thought those plants were already dead.”

“It’s thatpsychotic little watering schedule he’s made. Why are you saving those plants anyway?” Matt asks me with a suspicious frown. “Is this a metaphorical thing?”

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