Page 130 of We Met Like This
“I’m good. Good.”
“Next,” the barista at the register said, obviously not for the first time.
Somehow the two people that were in line in front of me had already ordered without me realizing. I lifted my hand inan apology and stepped to the side, plugging my left ear so I could hear better. “Do you have good news for me?”
“This book, Margot, is amazing.”
My chest expanded, close to bursting. “I knew you’d love it.”
“I wasn’t going to read it, but your passion for the project convinced me.” He cleared his throat. “Now, who is my competition, and which boxing gloves do I need to pull out to acquire this?”
I tried not to react. As far as he was concerned, this was what I had expected. I was confident and calm. “I can let you know in the next day or two.” Now it was my turn to use some leverage. Not for a different editor—he was the right one for this book—but to drum up more interest, which would result in a higher advance from him. “Put together your best offer.”
“Will do,” he said.
“Oh, and James. She wants to keep all the elements of all the different genres. You’re open to that?”
“I am very open to that.”
“Great. I’ll speak with you soon.”
I tapped the red button on my screen, disconnecting the call, and then silently screamed, spinning a circle and doing a little dance while I did.
“Excuse me, Miss?”
The voice had my head whipping in the direction of its owner, the blood draining from my face.
“I think they mixed up our drinks,” Oliver said, a softness in his eyes. He held up an iced chai for me.
I looked at my hands, which held only a cell phone.
“You were supposed to get a drink,” he said. “You didn’t get a drink.”
“I got a phone call,” I said.
“Shit,” he said.
I stared at the drink he held out for several long beats. It was like both my brain and my emotions had ceased functioning.
He slowly lowered his hand. “I’m sorry. This was a stupid idea that seemed more romantic in my head… I’ll go.”
“No,” I said, and he stopped his retreat.
I took in our surroundings. I’d worked my way over to the side of the café when on the phone and that’s where we stood, out of the way, by a bookcase that didn’t hold a single book. There were plants and packages of coffee for sale and even candles. But no books.
He held out the drink again, and this time I took it, our hands brushing in the exchange.
“You didn’t swipe right on me,” I said, cupping the tea in my hands, like it was the only thing grounding me right now.
“What?”
“That was days ago. Which means you must’ve swiped left. I swiped right. And you swiped left. We weren’t a match,” I said, my throat tight from the memory, from the disappointment I felt.
“No,” he said. “I’m not swiping. I didn’t swipe at all.”
“You’re not swiping?” I asked, a little confused.
“I would’ve deleted the apps, but that’s where our messages are. I reread them a lot. I know it’s unhealthy and obsessive but I do it because… because I miss you, Margot. So much.”
