Page 10 of The Perfect Rom-Com

I slide into the seat opposite him, and to say he is startled—his feet again propped on the table—is an understatement. His sneakers kick back, jostling the coffee mug in his hand and throwing little drops over that pretty blazer of his on the chair beside him. All four legs of the folding chair land on the ground with a thud as he drops his phone and coffee mug on the table and begins rubbing the droplets off his hand.

There’s an expression on his face as he looks at me during all this. Something I’m not accustomed to seeing in my life’s goal of never inconveniencing anyone.

His mouth is open. His eyes are bulging at me like I am an alien. An alien who’s come in the middle of the night to stand over him while he sleeps soundly in his bed. And instead of reaching over for a little glass of water for a 2:00 a.m. sip, he finds himself being handed an Oreo from me. Green alien with an Oreo, smiling and full of goodwill me.

A new friend.

“I think you were saying the book was a bit on the long side,” I continue casually, pulse thrumming at the back of my throat. “I could cut it. If you would read just a few chapters first to see what I mean though, that’d be very helpful in making sure we’re on the same page. I know that some books are allowed to break the rules of commercial fiction. If they prove to have enough to say in this respect. Think of Middlemarch—”

“You are not George Eliot. And this is not the nineteenth century. And you do not have her level of talent.”

“How would you know if you haven’t read it?”

His brow quirks. And if I’m not mistaken, a tiny pilot light ignites in his eyes.

I shrug casually, like this is an ordinary conversation between friends. Because to me, it seems as if what Jack Sterling likes, given the twelve Instagram photos I’ve seen and the way he’s responded with general indifference to the conference directors following him into the elevators, is to be surrounded by successful people. He respects people who respect themselves.

Now, I don’t respect myself, but I can pretend.

He blinks a few times, surveying me. Then he leans forward. Just a smidge.

“What’re you doing?” he says, and his eyes flicker down for a half second to my badge. “Bryony?”

The announcement of my name feels like a little shower of trumpets, letting me know I passed the first level and may proceed to the next. My smile broadens. Casually, of course.

Then dims a little in case it’s too much.

“I’m discussing my book proposal.” I clutch the folder to my chest. The folder feels tarnished now. As though if he looked at it now, he’d reject it all over again. Better to just keep talking. Focus on the fact that I am a human. It is simple to reject a piece of paper. Look in my eyes, Jack Sterling, and let’s talk this out rationally. “And your amenability in reading a few chapters as we take this conversation further. I think you will find I’m a very agreeable person to work with.”

He laughs. Chortles, more like. A chortle of disbelief, but not altogether . . . unhappy sounding. One corner of his mouth lifts as he peers into my eyes. “Amenability, huh? Where are you from? A Jane Austen novel?”

“Florence, New York. Present day.”

“Nobody lives there.”

“I live there.”

His phone buzzes, but to my surprise, he ignores it. A long moment of silence ensues before he speaks. “Well, here’s the thing, Bryony of Florence: I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody, actually. I’m really only here because I was sent here by the agency. Metaphorically drew the shortest straw. So, unfortunately, despite how much I appreciate your . . . pluckiness, I’ll have to apologize, again, and tell you, again, that this”—he motions between us—“isn’t going to work. But go try your luck on Davis over there.” He points over my shoulder. “He takes on a new client every week.”

And then he gives an apologetic smile. As though he is sorry but this is a good alternative. As though suggesting that Davis, who collects authors like a kid collects marbles, is not only impossible to get in touch with, given I have no appointment, but also a terrible choice.

Even I as a rookie know it would be better to go without an agent altogether, what with his rows of client authors on his web page and giant advertisement of that one semi-successful political book he represented fifteen years ago.

If there’s one thing other attendees have harped upon the past three days, it’s that just because you could technically get an agent doesn’t mean you should. I’ve heard enough horror stories to last a lifetime.

So.

I have a choice here.

And really, I’ve gone this far into a land so far outside myself, I might as well just go all the way. “Terrific.” I smile in return. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Keep your shoulders straight, Bryony. Staple that confident grin on. “So. Are you big into skiing?”

That I’m-politely-letting-you-go smile slips off his face. “What’re you doing?”

“The way I see it, I have”—I glance down to the large clock on his phone—“eight minutes and twelve seconds until our meeting is over. I’d like to make the most of it.”

“And proving you stalk me on Instagram is the way to do it?”