I’m drumming my fingers idly against the bar when I hear a masculine voice say, “I take it you’re an Agatha Christie fan?”
Shivers run down my spine. That’s unexpected . . . but not unwelcome. I turn in the direction of the gravelly, sexy voice . . . and be still my beating heart. The smoky tones belong to the hot tamale from the office, and now his shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing toned forearms.
“Of course I adore her,” I say. “Is there anything better than reading the ending of Murder on the Orient Express for the first time? Or the fifth, for that matter?”
“Or the eighth. If you count the audiobook.” He’s wearing a books are my guilty pleasure grin, and that’s officially the best kind of smile ever. “I just finished Dan Stevens’s version the other week.”
“Which is sooooo much better than Kenneth Branagh’s,” I say.
“Not even in the same league.”
“I just discovered Dan Stevens’s narrations and I’m gobbling them up. Also, audiobooks completely count. Personally, I’m an omnivore when it comes to books. I’ll devour them in any form,” I say, and somehow I manage to resist biting my lip or smiling like a flirty fool. I don’t want it to be lipstick-on-a-collar obvious that I find him delicious.
“Glad to hear you don’t discriminate when it comes to consuming books. I don’t either.”
He’s. Too. Perfect. And I can’t stop talking to him. “I see you found our friendly neighborhood watering hole. Clearly Baldwin debriefed you on all the truly important things.”
“Let’s see.” He counts off on his fingers. “I learned how to beat the break room cake rush and where to find good liquor. Those were pretty much the key takeaways. Along with don’t bring brownies with shrimp in them to work.”
I cringe. “Please tell me you weren’t considering that.”
“No. I was just getting the lowdown on office allergies.” He moves closer, leaning against the bar, looking like a tall drink of man. I break out my mental yardstick. Yup, I’m betting he’s over six feet. I’m going with six foot one. Which might even push him to a fifteen on the goes-to-ten babe-o-meter.
“So you’re on drinks detail,” I say, trying to sound all cool and casual, like I’m not busy sizing him up.
Not consumed with checking out his arms.
Not occupied admiring his blue eyes.
Not tied up enjoying his smile.
He points his thumb at his sternum. “New guy. That means I fetch all the drinks and buy them too. And you? What put you on errand duty?”
“I made my friend snort her drink out her nose.”
He looks impressed. “You officially have the best reason for being on drink detail.”
I preen, enjoying his praise. “Why, thank you. I was hoping to win that contest.”
“What was the snort-inducing remark, may I ask?”
Flashing back, I recall the culprit—my “you need V-time” comment to Peyton—but that’s too personal to share. I give him another one. “I referred to her ex-fiancé by his proper name.”
Clark Kent gives me a curious look. “Is his proper name amusing?”
“Of course. It’s Richard Cranium,” I say, and I wait. Will he pass the test?
His blue eyes sparkle, then his smile ignites, and he has dimples. Dear God, the man has dimples and loves Agatha Christie. I’d like to put a saddle on him. Giddy up indeed.
“So, he’s a dickhead,” Clark Kent says.
I beam and give him a showy victory salute, since he’s passed with flying colors. “First person to get that in under five seconds.”
He taps the side of his skull. “Crossword puzzle fan here. You’ll have to wake up real early to beat me at word games.”
Shut the front door.
“Fortunately, I rise at five a.m.,” I say.
“Nice to meet you, then, early bird. I’m Linc Silvers,” he says and extends a hand.
Laughing, I take his hand. “Your name is too perfect. You should be on a soap opera.”
“Maybe I am.”
“And did you just discover your long-lost twin?”
His eyes twinkle. “Let’s hope we’re not related.”
My chest flutters from the hint of flirtation in his comment. “Amy Summers,” I say, and he repeats it like it’s a tasty treat then lets go of my hand.
Truly returns, and I’m both glad and sad.
If she hadn’t come back, I might have gone for a record in marathon verbal volleyball, because Linc gives good banter.
She slides the trio of drinks to me. “Here you go. On the house.”
“No, let me pay.” I reach for my wallet.
She waves me off. “Evangelists of your stature drink for free.”
Linc flashes a smile at Truly then points to me. “Have I mentioned I’m with her?”
“Nice try,” she says to the guy with the great dimples. “And what can I get you?”
Before he can answer, Baldwin shouts from where he and some of the others from the office are sitting. “Superman! We can’t wait much longer. We’re dying of thirst.”
Guess I’m not the only one who’s spotted the resemblance.
And now I wonder if he bats for the boys, like nearly every other single guy in the office, or if he has a girlfriend somewhere in this city. Either would be just my luck.
Wait. I don’t care what team he plays for.
I don’t care about romance.
The only luck that matters right now is the career kind.
“Nice to meet you, Superman,” I say, gathering the drinks.
“Nice to meet you too, my not long-lost twin,” he adds with a sexy smile and a vibe that says he definitely makes plays for women.
But it doesn’t matter.
It definitely doesn’t matter.
Boys lead to trouble. Boys lead to distractions.
I return to my girls, ready to plot my path to a promotion rather than to pantslessness on the third date.
Though I bet he’d be good in the sack.
Brainy guys often are.
5
Amy
Ah, the lure of a good book.
It’s the promise of a magic carpet ride to whisk you away.
It’s the potential of knowledge, insight, and information.
And it’s the reminder of what I don’t have.
As my brother and I wander through the aisles at An Open Book that Saturday, I force myself to face some of the manuscripts I’d wanted to buy but lost out on for a kaleidoscope of reasons. A twisty, turny psychological tale that Bailey & Brooks didn’t offer enough on to win. A Clever! Fantastic! Amazing!—or so says the front cover—and amusing modern love story that I adored and worked tirelessly to find the right hook for why I should edit it. A detective tale with an L.A. Confidential sexiness that made you want to climb the hero like a tree, and Madison Turnbell, an editor at Athena Publishing, snagged it because she’s a total badass.
I run my hands over the covers with a pang of longing. These could have been mine. These were in my grasp.
“The ones who got away,” I say forlornly, pushing out my bottom lip, affecting a sniffle.
My brother tsks. “There’s no crying in baseball.”
“Ugh. Did you just use a sports analogy?”
“No. It’s a movie analogy. Presumably you’ve seen A League of Their Own.”
“Ten times. But I just prefer if you don’t talk sports around me.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Did I ever tell you that Quinn, Tab, and I briefly considered selling you when you were born? Because we knew you’d be a total pain in the ass. We only kept you because you were cute.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He gives me a noogie. “You’re still cute, but now you’re full of so much sass too.”
“You should give yourself props, then,” I toss back as I slip away from his knuckles. “I learned it from you.”
He picks up the exclamation point–laden cover. “Back to business
. Why did you want to buy this one?”
My heart goes warm and glowy. “I got lost in the story the night I read it. But that barely covers it. The romance just had that it factor, that buzzy, page-turning quality that makes you stay up well past midnight.”
“And why were you the right editor for it?”
I squint. “What do you mean?”
He’s no-nonsense as he presses on. “Why were you the best one to edit it and bring it to the world?”
“Because,” I say, flapping my hand, “the author’s a tease, and I wanted her to bring out just a bit more detail in some areas. But that’s not the point. The book’s so good I would have been lucky to bring it to the world.”
He nods like my answer makes perfect sense, then he heads to the next aisle and thumbs through the psychological thriller, all businesslike. “And this one?”
I clasp my hands together, a spark of the whodunit glee racing through me once more. “I couldn’t figure out who the bad guy was till the last page. I was guessing this person, then that person, then maybe the dog. The twist literally made my jaw drop to the side of my bed.” I demonstrate as best I can.
“And what did you want to do with the book?”
“Just fix this one minor plot hole in the beginning, and then make everyone in the world read it. And everyone did. After someone else acquired it.” I park my hands on my hips and shoot him my sternest stare. “Now, you really owe me a latte for making me dig into this deep well of professional sadness.” I thump my chest. “Right here, where it hurts.”
He circles around to one more display, picking the sexy detective story.
I jerk my head away. “Don’t make me suffer more.”
But torture me he does. “We’re almost done. You can handle this. Stick with me. What about this one, Ames?”
I force myself to stare at the pretty book. “Because Madison Turnbell was vying for it. She’s like a goddess in the industry. She’s smart and savvy and she loves rescue dogs too. How could I compete against her?”
“That’s what I want you to tell me. What did you want to do with the book?”
“Make it even sexier, of course.”
He rolls his eyes. “You and your Jackie Collins worship.”
“Hey! Nothing wrong with Jackie or Agatha or Janet. That’s Ms. Evanovich to you, sir.”
Laughing, we head into the café, where he orders me my trademark vanilla latte and a coffee for himself.
When the latte arrives, I reach for it, cooing at the beverage I adore. “Come to me, O heavenly dispenser of life-sustaining energy.” I take the first sip and nearly dance a jig before we sit at the closest table. “Best latte ever.”
Amused, he gestures to the drink. “You say that every time.”
“And every time it’s true.” I tap the mug. “It has the perfect hint of sugar, chased by the smooth taste you want in a latte. You should get one.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m good with my coffee.”
I narrow my eyes. “You will regret it later if you don’t.”
“I might regret missing opening day at Yankee Stadium or box seats at the Super Bowl, but I’m pretty sure I won’t regret an unordered latte.”
“I beg to differ. This basically tastes like you’re swallowing heaven. You need to try it. Now.”
Huffing, he mutters, “Fine,” then returns to the counter and places another order.
I call out to him, “Grab me a slice of coconut cake too, pretty please, best brother in the world.”
“Only brother in the world.”
“But still the best.”
A minute later, he returns with the latte and cake, pushes aside his coffee, and takes a drink of his new beverage. I watch him intently, waiting for the moment of latte gloriousness to click. Then it comes in a slight smile. “Yes, it’s smooth and fantastic and all that.”
“Say it.”
He rolls his eyes. “You were right. Would you like me to put that on a Christmas ornament?”
“I very much would.”
“Anyway, sassy pants, tell me what’s going on at work. That’s why we’re here.”
Sighing heavily, I give him the gist. “The usual. I don’t get the great submissions, and when I do, some senior editor tries to claim it. I hate pitch meetings, but I can’t hate them because they’re literally the most important meetings at the house.”
He holds up a hand. “Why do you hate them?”
My stomach curls as I imagine a pitch meeting. “They make me feel like a used-car salesman. I have to tell everyone why I’m the best person to sell them that hatchback or that minivan. It’s weird, Josh. It’s weird to me to just wax on about why I’d be great at midwifing this book.”
He looks at me with earnestness in his eyes. Even though we needle each other, he’s always been in my corner. “But you would be great at delivering them into the world.”
“I’d like to think so too, but when I’m assigned a book, it’s usually a midlist book, since I’m a junior editor and the cream of the crop goes to the senior people. So I wind up spinning in place.”
He nods thoughtfully as he drinks his latte. “But there’s an opening now?”
“Yes. And I want it. I have the skills. I’m a great editor when it comes to putting pen to paper and figuring out what a story needs, and my nose for a yarn is impeccable.”
“Except skills aren’t enough. Noses aren’t enough.”
“What else do I need?” I ask as I stab a forkful of the cake, then moan in pleasure, grateful for the distraction. “My God, what do they put into this cake? It’s like a magical mixture of flour and sugar, and I have to get this recipe. Try some.”
He shakes his head. “I had dessert last night. The dessert window won’t reopen for another week.”
“What language are you speaking?”
“I’m not having dessert two days in a row.” He pats his flat stomach.
“Wrong.” I point the fork at him. “You are. You want this. You need this. Because dessert is best two days in a row. Dessert is best every day. Dessert must be a daily practice, or else you become bitter, sad, lonely, and angry.”
A smile seems to tug at his lips. “One bite. I will take one bite,” he says, acquiescing as he picks up my cake for a sample. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” I raise a brow, then gesture to the delicious morsel. “Take some home to Haven. She will marry you if you give her this cake.”
He rolls his eyes. “She already said yes when I asked her to marry me.”
“And you don’t want to ever give her a reason to leave you, so take her cake.”
“Anything else you want me to grab for you when I get Haven a slice? A cookie? A scone? A six-pack of vanilla lattes to get you through the week, sugar monster?”
“All excellent ideas. But let’s be magnanimous. Why don’t we grab a slice for Quinn too, and take it to her when we’re done? She’s been craving cake.”
“She’s been craving everything.”
“And she’s allowed to. Hello? She’s bringing our first niece or nephew into the world. We can take her a treat. But for now, I’ll finish this one as you impart all your hard-won wisdom.”
Josh is a superstar at business. He recently started his own sports agency with some of his friends and colleagues, and they’re making it rain. No surprise, though, since he made it rain for his clients for the last several years when he was at a corporate firm. He’s top of his field wherever he works, and I’m damn proud of him—and envious of his chutzpah. He’s confident, maybe even cocky, but it works wonders for him. “How do I do it? How do I get the job? How do I get them to buy the books I want to buy, and how do I get my books to become the lead titles?”
He smiles, leans back in his chair, and spreads his arms out wide. “It’s easy.”
I shoot lasers at him. “Easy? Seriously? How can you say it’s easy?”
He lifts the plate with the cake. “Ames, it’s like this cake. How did you get me to e
at it?”
“I told you how good it was?” I ask, trying to connect the dots.
He lifts the mug. “And the latte I didn’t want?”
“I made sure you knew what you were missing.”
“Exactly.” His eyes twinkle with something like delight. “You can sell a cake and sell a latte. You can also sell the hell out of a story.” He gestures to the shelves in the store. “You had zero problem telling me everything you fell in love with about those books.”
“Because they’re incredible,” I say, my tone rising with the passion I feel for those tales. “It was easy to tell you why they rock.”
He sits up straight and fixes on a stern stare. “But you know what you can’t sell?”
“What?” I ask, dying to know.
“Yourself. You need to sell yourself.”
For a few seconds, I say nothing.
I let his words register.
But it doesn’t take long.
Because he’s right. Holy shit, he’s right.
But how the hell does a woman who hates selling herself improve her personal sales pitch?
6
Linc
Even though a bus tries to clip me on Monday, a cab attempts to ding me on Tuesday, and a silver-spandexed rollerblader flips me double birds when I have the mere audacity to cross the street at the green light on Wednesday, the first full week on the job appears to be smooth sailing so far.
After the angry rollerblader curses me with a string of invectives that suggest he might need anger management, I run into the spitfire brunette in the elevator. Her fingers are busy adjusting a silver chain around her neck. I can’t make out what’s on the pendant that dangles from it—looks like a slice of pink next to a pair of big eyes—before she tugs at the front of her short-sleeve sweater, covering it up.
The doors close, and I meet her gaze. “Question: is rollerblading a crime in New York City? Because it should be.”
“Let me guess. You were nearly mauled by Peter?”
“Peter? He has a name? The rollerblader who tried to kill me has a name?”
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