Page 11 of Rivals to Lovers
“Not as often as they’d like.” With a forced effort Wes could see from across the table, Maureen’s brow furrowed, then smoothed again. She picked up her spoon again, angling it into the custard. “So, what is on the agenda for the weekend?”
Wes turned to Estelle. “Yes, I guess we should discuss how you plan to put us through the ringer.”
Estelle lay her spoon on top of her empty dish. “We’ll get down to business in a minute. I’m going to attend to a few needs, and while I’m gone, feel free to have a little more coffee.”
She held up a finger, and a staff member refilled her cup. Estelle and Gary left the room. The gravity of the room changed without Estelle at the head of the table. Wes shook his head at the offer of coffee.
Maureen asked, “Decaf?” The server shook her head, and Maureen said, “Thank you, Angie. I’m okay.”
Angie left them alone in the dining room, the first time they had been alone since the car. “Do you know her?” Wes asked.
“She has a name tag, and that means she has a name.”
“I know she has a name.” Wes knew he sounded defensive. He shouldn’t be embarrassed that he hadn’t taken note of the staff members’ name tags. Should he? He realized, suddenly, that Maureen had not looked at him more than twice the entire meal. This lack of eye contact only made itself known now that they were alone. “You don’t need to know everyone’s names.”
“If we’re going to see Angie all weekend, I’d like to use her name,” Maureen said primly, examining her mug.
In the bustle of the past few hours, Wes had barely had time to consider his impression of Maureen. Not really a first impression, since he had fallen for her manuscript two years ago, but a book isn’t a person. He found himself curious about this woman who followed him on LinkedIn and shipped Sam and Frodo; this woman who had grabbed onto the dry-cleaning bar in his car for dear life an hour ago and was now staring into what he knew to be an empty mug in her hands. “No coffee past sixPMfor you, huh?” he tried.
“I don’t want to have more reasons to not sleep. I’m just—”
“Just what?”
She glanced behind her, probably checking for Estelle. When it was clear they were still alone, she spoke. “I’m mad at you.”
“Me!”
“Can you blame me? You could have said something in the car that we were up against each other.” She had no issue looking in his eyes now.
“I don’t represent the estate anymore, if that’s what you’re worried about. As of this weekend, my boss took that position over. I’m in the same situation you are.”
“Oh, sure,” she said with heat. “A publishing insider with a famous mother, a close connection to the estate, and a large social media following versus the pig girl. Absolutely square.”
“I can’t help any of that.”
“I thought this was a one-on-one type of thing, not aHunger Gamessituation.” Mo laughed coldly. “Not that I’m going to go shooting you through the heart or anything.”
“Maybe a little competition is a good thing. I’m not nervous,” he said, finding it was true. “I am anxious.”
Mo scoffed. “Same thing.”
“Oh no. One hundred percent not.” He was on firm ground in arguing semantics. “Nervous implies some amount of control over the situation. Anxiety is an acknowledgment of your lack of control.”
Shehmm-ed. “Well, I’m not good at not being the one in control.” Her voice was suddenly low and rough.
“I prefer someone else to be in control,” he said.
“Seems like a strange temperament for an agent.”
“Oh,” he said, “being an agent means being able to accept how powerless you really are. I’m good at making that personal connection and marketing projects, but I’m not sure I could ever be an acquiring editor. Or a politician.”
“Are those two jobs so alike?”
Her heard the thaw in her voice, wanted to keep it going. “Well, both jobs have to get used to asking for more money and disappointing people, so I’d say yes.”
“Agents disappoint people all the time.”
“Fair,” he said. “But publishing on the agent side doesn’t raise my anxiety like publishing on the writing side does. This is—well—torture paired with a nice dinner.”
