Page 61 of The Seven Year Slip

“We’re small but mighty,” Drew replied, and motioned to me. “Clementine here is one of our senior publicists. She’s the mastermind behind a lot of our books’ success.”

“Ah, Rhonda Adder’s second-in-command, I waswonderingwhen I’d meet you!” Parker greeted me, extending a hand. “I’ve heard nothing but great things. I’m surprised she let you out from under that rock where she keeps you!” he added with a laugh.

My smile was strained.

“Well, I’m surprised your publisher let you out from under yours,” came a deep, soft voice, and Drew and I both looked over to watch a towering giant stride over. Dark gelled-back hair, thick glasses, his face an expression of artistically placed moles. He gave his fellow editor a knowing look. “You can stop being awful, Parker.”

Parker gave Benji Andor a surprised look. “I was just joking! She knows I was joking! Right?”

I told him, “Oh, yes, obviously.”

“See? Obviously.” Parker slapped me on the shoulder. I tensed, trying not to reel away, when someone on the other side of the restaurant called Parker’s name, and he said his goodbyes and wandered over to them. I shivered when he finally let go of me.

Drew said in a mock whisper, “See? He’s the worst.”

“You weren’t kidding.”

Benji Andor gave us an apologetic look. “I would say he means well, but we all know he doesn’t.”

“I would’ve called you a liar, anyway,” I replied before I could stop myself.

“He’s someone’s villain origin story,” Drew agreed, and then cocked her head in thought. “Probably mine, to be honest.”

He rumbled a good-natured laugh. “If Parker comes over to bother you again, let me know.”

“Thank you, but I think we can handle him ourselves,” Drew replied.

“Absolutely, I’d just like to watch,” he said with a wink, and after a goodbye, he migrated over to a different corner to stand silently again, like the brooding tree he was.

We didn’t have to stand around awkwardly for too much longer, because James Ashton breezed into the restaurant, all smiles and charming dimples, in a button-down maroon shirt and insanelywell-fitting jeans, and I tried to school my face as best I could. I didn’t want him to get the wrong impression of me—again.

Drew elbowed me in the side and hissed, “Stop looking like you want to murder him!”

Apparently, it wasn’t working. I groaned. “That’s just my face!”

James rounded to the front of the kitchen and clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Welcome!” he greeted. “It’s so nice to see all of your lovely faces. I hope you have all come ready with open hearts and empty stomachs. Now, follow me back to the kitchen. I’ve prepared different stations for everyone so we can learn how to cook a specialty here at the Olive Branch...”

Drew really shouldn’t havebeen all that worried aboutcooking. As it turned out, we weren’t the worst cooks in the kitchen—that honor went, full tilt, to Parker, who, along with his publicist and marketing director, set their entire station on fire. James rushed over with an extinguisher and patted him on the shoulder afterward with a laugh.

“Happens to the best of us!” he said.

In this intimate setting, James Ashton was nice and personable, and he was a very patient teacher, but there was something distant about the way he smiled at everyone, something guarded whenever editors asked questions. I kept looking for some crack in his facade to see the man I knew underneath—like I saw in the meeting room—but he seemed to have practiced. He wasn’t letting anyone get close, which on one hand was smart and professional—oh, he wassovery professional—and it made me wonder how and why he’d become so practiced and refined.

Despite that, the cooking class was so much fun, I soon forgot that I’d been worried at all. We ended up getting flour everywhereas we made ravioli, stealing sips of cooking wine between learning how to reduce the sauce, and we teared up when cutting onions and said our final rights to the chicken as we slit the breasts down the middle. Benji Andor was beside himself at the station next to us, laughing so much he had to excuse himself to sit down and catch his breath. (“I haven’t been this winded since a car knocked the spirit out of me.”) We had somehow blundered our way through the cooking class, but we knew we weren’t going to get top marks for presentation.

And when James Ashton finally came around to our station, he looked moderately entertained by our ravioli. “They look...”

Like vaginas. Not that any of us were going to say it.

“Like the Olive Branch’s specialty,” I said instead, echoing his declaration from earlier, and took another sip of the cooking wine.

Drew wanted to die.

James bit the inside of his cheek, trying hard to keep his professional persona—but there. I saw it. The crack in his image. “How did you even manage this?” he asked only after he was able to look away.

“They kept falling apart,” Drew said meekly. “So we just kind of... squished them together?”

He nodded, his face earnest. “They’ll taste great regardless, I’m sure.”

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