“I don’t know.” Isn’t that the truth? “I came in on a whim.”
Now she’s looking at me like I might be crazy. “So, you were just walking by and thought hey, I should get into publishing?”
“Honestly, I’ve always wanted to work with books. I majored in British Literature at Valmont.”
“What have you done since then?” she asks.
She might not be hiring, but it feels like I found myself at an impromptu job interview anyway.
“My dad was sick,” I explain. “I haven’t really done anything with my degree yet. I only graduated last year.”
“The job market for English majors is a pretty slim one.” She sounds sympathetic. “What were your areas of interest?”
“I did my thesis on Jane Austen.”
The look on her face says who hasn’t, but she’s nice enough to keep the thought to herself. “What was the topic?”
I’m losing her. I’m just another hapless English major with your standard thesis on Jane Austen.
“I said all of her books were about how much she hated marriage.”
Her lips tug into a smile. “But she wrote love stories.”
“That’s debatable.” I’m used to having this argument. Only one professor in my department thought it was a good topic. The rest said I was misreading the text. “Take Pride and Prejudice. Do you really think Elizabeth is happy with Darcy?”
“I think that’s the whole point of the book.”
“Darcy is a total jerk,” I disagree. It had taken me years to understand this. “Lizzie gave into him because he did something nice for her sister. It doesn’t change all the terrible things he said.”
Trish doesn’t look like she’s buying it, but she’s definitely interested. “It’s an original take. I’ll give you that. So you don’t know what job you’re looking for. What would you like to do with books?”
“Read them. Champion them.” I quickly add, “Fix the spelling, I guess.”
“Here,” she says, passing me a thick manila envelope. “This is from a creative writing grad student at Valmont. I saw him give a reading recently and requested he send me his book. Read it. Take some notes. We’ll see what you’ve got.”
“I can do it tonight!” I can’t help feeling like she just handed me a golden ticket.
“Writers are used to waiting forever for responses.” She shrugs and gives me a wicked smile. “It’s good for them. Feeds their torturous souls. Take your time.”
“Okay.” I spare a sheepish glance at her. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Honestly, the owner just passed away. We haven’t heard yet what’s going to happen to the press. We might all be out of a job soon. We might get sold or shut down. I’m surprised we’ve stuck around this long.”
“Really?” I hope she interprets the heat painting my cheeks as something other than guilt. I should tell her who I am. But I can’t. Why?
“I think the only reason we’ve lasted this long is because he forgot about us. We weren’t important enough to worry about.”
“When will you know what’s going to happen?” An alarm bell rings inside my brain. I’m making this worse each moment I don’t come clean about who I am.
“When someone changes the locks or tells us to pack up, I’m guessing.” She looks grim at the prospect.
“Maybe the family will keep it going,” I suggest.
“I hope so, but I wouldn’t count on it. I’ve already started sending out my CV.”
“I’ve got a good feeling.” I don’t know why I don’t tell her the truth. That I’m the new owner. That I have no plans of shutting down the press. Maybe it’s the manuscript in my hands. Maybe it’s the opportunity to make a different first impression—one not based on my last name. Maybe I just need to earn something in life rather than have it handed to me, even if it’s only the truth. The reality is that I might be a shit editor. I might not have the eye. There’s no way she’ll tell me that if she knows my last name.
“You’re an optimistic little thing,” she says.
No one’s ever called me optimistic before. I like the way it sounds. “I guess I am.”
I leave Bluebird, manuscript in hand, hope in my heart, and a text with Sterling’s address waiting in my notifications. I’ve already dodged reality today. I can’t avoid him. According to the address, he lives nearby. I should call and see if he’s home. Instead, I decide to take my chances, hoping like hell that he’s busy doing whatever job it is that makes it possible for him to drop $10,000 at a charity gala on a dog with a fifty-dollar adoption fee. When I arrive at Twelve and South, my curiosity deepens. Sterling Ford lives in the penthouse—and this isn’t some standard apartment building. It’s a luxury high-rise in the heart of the Gulch, one of Nashville’s more elite pockets. There’s no reception desk. Instead, in true Southern fashion, there’s a bellhop ferrying visitors and residents to their respective floors.
He whistles when I tell him I’m here to see Sterling Ford.
“He just moved in,” he tells me as he sends the elevator toward the top floor. “I think that you’re one of his first visitors.”
I hate that this pleases me. “Is he here?”
I try to sound as disinterested as possible.
He gives me a quizzical look as if to say why would you come, if you didn’t know. “Haven’t seen him leave yet for the day. He took his new dog out earlier. Sweet boy.”
I assume he’s talking about the dog. No one would refer to Sterling as sweet—or a boy.
“I wanted to surprise them,” I explain, nervous that he’ll tell Sterling I was asking questions about him later. I want to make this quick and painless like ripping off a Band-Aid. The last thing I need is for someone to reopen the wound later.
“Old friends?”
“Something like that,” I say through gritted teeth. When we arrive at the top floor, I’m surprised to discover that not only is Sterling’s new apartment on the highest
