Page 13 of The Perfect Rom-Com

Where were we?

Oh yes.

A woman is leading the fun activities on a cruise ship. Singing. Dancing. A man is the leader of the cruise ship. Keeping the whole thing afloat. He is ordered to fire her, I grasp pretty quickly. But secretly he is in love with her. All fairly fluffy stuff that goes great with eating Doritos in the checkout line.

Nothing new.

Nothing to blow people’s minds.

Nothing to expand their horizons and give them a deeper appreciation for the goodness of mankind.

And a lot of the word glorious. A glorious sunrise. A glorious lounge chair. A glorious schedule. Gloriously clean hair that frames her gloriously beautiful face.

Beautiful: That’s all we get for character description here.

No, wait—we’ve got another one. Hot.

A hot, beautiful character with gloriously clean hair and a gloriously glossy face.

It’s screaming for a Pulitzer Prize, really.

I jump, my backside literally breaking contact with the chair, as the volunteer rings a cowbell directly behind me. “Time’s up!” she cries, and proceeds to give gracious nods and winks at various agents as if to say, “I know, right? You’re so welcome.”

Chairs begin sliding backward. Bags are being picked up off the floor. Weeping, or shrill laughter, commences.

“Well, it seems our time is up here.” Jack pulls an apologetic face, although his tone is entirely otherwise. He pushes back his chair and reaches out a hand toward me as though he is about to offer up a consolation prize of a handshake to make sure I know without question this is the end of the line. Our interview is over.

This is it.

This is my five seconds to say something. And it will be dazzling or nothing.

Come on, Bryony. What can you say now—NOW—short, concise, and knocks him off his feet?

I look down at the chapter, nothing coming to mind.

Nothing.

I can’t say anything.

Well . . . that’s not true, is it?

I’m supposed to say it’s wonderful. I’m supposed to gawk and confirm that this book, the book he represents, is absolutely inspiring. Except for this teeny tiny typo right here on page 12 that could change the whole thing.

Before he is standing all the way, I blurt out the one thing that is true.

And, unfortunately, the one thing I’m not allowed to say.

“The one thing wrong with this is . . . everything.”

Chapter 3

“Everything,” Jack says. “Just . . . everything.”

Jack Sterling’s startlingly green eyes narrow to slits, and for quite some time he just stares at me.

I shrug. “I am trying to find something that is good about this book and coming up short.”

“Nothing. You, very literally, can think of nothing good about this book. Amelia Benedict’s book.”