Page 3 of A Billion Dollar Romance
Don’t trip,I thought to myself with a smile. Flora’s joke–the classic opening to a thousand romance novels that we’d shared. I hadn’t had time to text her beyond a simplegood morningto let her know I was alive and safe, but I’d read the dozen texts she’d sent last night, detailing her safe arrival home and her–ahem–enthusiasticwell-wishes for me and“your sexy professor.”
I rolled my shoulders back as I walked from the coffee shop to next door.
My new office occupied a beautiful old brick building among the glass and steel towers downtown: fourteen stories of everything it took to turn a book from manuscript to bestseller. The black and gold signage over the doors read Verity Publishing.
And I would be part of that. My stomach fluttered. Sure, I was walking into the office as aneditor, not an author,but maybe someday…
“Excuse me,” a woman said, brushing past me toward the entrance. My grip on the coffee carriers tightened as I forced myself to stop gaping like a tourist.
“Sorry, could you–” I gestured with my full hands, and she smirked and held open the door. Her face was unlined, but she had silvery gray streaks in her dark hair, making it hard to tell exactly how old she might be. Thirty? A well-preserved fifty? I wasn’t sure.
“Only if you’re willing to give up one of those,” she said, but she stood aside, allowing me to pass.
“I– Well,” I stammered, and she laughed.
“Are you new? I haven’t seen you before.” Her eyes swept from my low ponytail to my unfashionable modest pumps. “Oh,” she said. “You’re the new editor.”
“Junior Editor,” I grimaced. “Edie Taylor.”
“You’re early, Edie,” she said. “And you brought coffee.”
“I hope that’s alright?” I said as the woman gestured for me to follow her, ushering me past the receptionist’s desk and into the elevator.
“More than alright,” she said, and held out her hand. I hesitated–I couldn’t shake it with my hands full–before realizing she was asking for a coffee. I held up the carriers. “I’m Margaret Woods. Senior Editor. And this…” She inspected the sides of the cups, markedLatte, Capp, Drip.“Thisis my latte.”
CHAPTER3
James
“Good morning, sir,”Alice said as I strode toward my office.
“Good morning, Alice,” I responded. Although Alice always seemed to mean hers, usually my pleasantries were more out of duty than pleasure. Today, though… I rolled my shoulders back, feelingexcellent.
Feelingmostlyexcellent.
I’d reluctantly called my chauffeur to drive her home without insisting on her number. I had gotten the distinct impression that she–Penelope, I corrected myself with an ironic twist of my lips–hadn’t wanted a repeat of last night.But what if…
“You have your stand-up with Bridget and Lyle at ten, Mr. Martin, and before that, there’s a new hire in Editorial, if you want to meet her.”
“Of course.” There was no use wondering if I’d made the right choice last night–this morning. I had a business to run.
I slid my briefcase under my desk, getting half-way through removing my suit jacket before pulling it back on again. I was the CEO, and people expected me to look like it, to wear the dark suits and the ties, to go to meetings and frown at the reports.
It was what I was born for, after all: August Martin’s grandson. He’d started the business, growing it from a small local press to a nationally known name: Verity Publishing. The name never failed to make me think of him and my grandmother Vera, the company’s namesake.
Now it was mine. I checked my calendar for the day, every minute accounted for by Alice. There was a thirty minute block for lunch; I could get a sandwich from the deli and sit at my desk and write for… what, ten minutes? It wasn’t worth it. The familiar guilt began its ascent from the depths of my stomach up into my chest, the familiar thoughts circling my skull.
Will I ever finish another book?
Will everyone have moved past me, even if I do?
And the worst:
Am I a writer if I’m not writing?
It was all I ever wanted–but then again, that wasn’t quite true either.
What I craved wasn’t the long hours at my laptop.
