Page 70 of The Fear of Falling
Eric:
You should expect an email in the next day or two from someone named Cathy Stanton. She’s a huge literary agent who specializes in fantasy romance and is very interested in building a relationship with us. We got to talking during one of the breakouts, and I told her about how you’re the genius behind our catalog and that she should reach out to you specifically.
An agent?
Benson nudges my arm. “Good or bad? I can’t tell based on your face.”
I can’t decide, so I hand him my phone to let him read the text.
His eyebrows pull low as he reads. “Hmm.”
“Why would he be talking to an agent?” I ask, though I don’t think Benson will have the answer.
He shrugs as he returns my phone. “Because you’re a publishing company, and working with agents is pretty standard.”
“But if we start working with an agent like this, doesn’t that kind of mess with your brand idea of fostering new talent?” The brand idea I love. If an agent is finding all of our books for us, that doesn’t leave much room for anyone who would take our workshops.
“You don’t have to worry about this yet. Not until she contacts you and you can figure out what her intentions are.” Benson bumps his arm into mine again and keeps it there, our arms pressed together. I instantly want to fall against him, take his hand, drop my head on his shoulder like I would have in Italy. He has a spectacularly comfortable shoulder, and this day was exhausting.
And since I feel like I don’t have much to lose when it comes to him, I give in, leaning into him and taking his hand in one swift movement.
He groans but doesn’t move away. “You make this impossible, Avery Grace.”
“You started it.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “What kept you so busy today?”
I smile and breathe in his clean scent. I’ve missed this, enjoying a stunning view while being pressed up against him. The only thing missing is a cup of gelato or a cornetto. “Normal things. You?”
Again, it takes him a second to respond, during which he looks at his phone as if seeing something on the black screen. “Finding ways to keep you from having days like today. There isn’t the budget for more full-time employees, I know, but there will be. Especially with the way Phillip Rogers has been talking today. So I’m making sure all the tools are in place for when the money comes.”
I have no idea what those tools might be, but having resources sounds phenomenal. Most of the time, Eric and I can handle things, but days like today are the worst. “You’re pretty amazing, you know that?”
Benson chuckles, and I’m pretty sure he rests his cheek against my head as his thumb brushes along mine. “You’re saying that to a guy who fell asleep in the middle of a phone call with you last night.”
“After you didn’t sleep the night before. I wasn’t mad.” In fact, I kind of loved it. Eric was never a late night conversationalist, which is fine. I value my sleep as much as the next thirty-year-old. But there’s something endearing about listening to a man slowly drift off to dreamland. Benson pretends to be allergic to vulnerability, but what’s more vulnerable than falling asleep with someone?
“Done for the day?” he asks.
I nod without opening my eyes. “Technically I have a bunch of submissions I want to get through, but I’m too tired.”
“You should go home.”
“I don’t want to go home.”
His fingers gently touch the hair at my temple, tucking it behind my ear. That feels nice. “Why not?”
“Because it’s full of books.”
“Hate to break it to you, Ave, but I think that’s kind of your thing.”
I snort a laugh and stand up straight again, though I don’t let go of his hand. If he’s willing to be this close to me without complaint, maybe he’ll be willing to help me with my book nook nightmare. “When I was still jet lagged, I decided to update my second bedroom and turn it into a home library, only my shelves are too heavy for me to move, so everything is piled around the house and in my way.”
I could so easily ask him for his help, and he would most likely agree. But I don’t. I want him to volunteer, to give me some sort of sign that he’s willing to cross that professional line and come to my house. I’m making progress, and there’s a part of him that wants to give in, but hearing him talk about tools for when he’s gone makes it painfully obvious that I only have so much time with the man unless something changes.
He looks at me for a long time, thoughts warring in his mind, before he groans and pulls his hand from mine. “Do you want help moving the shelves?”
A triumphant smile threatens to break free, but I manage to rein it in. “Are you offering?”
