Page 4 of The Perfect Rom-Com

In other words, utterly unremarkable in any way.

Agent Kerry Cross’s eyes zing with mine as soon as I enter. She’s perched at her table directly ahead, fingers looped through one another.

Immediately I avert my gaze.

She’s the one who told me not three hours ago that my writing was “like eating a burrito. Burritos are nice, but they aren’t filet mignon. And the publishing industry is much too congested for a burrito.”

My eyes then land on Agent Tim Graves and ricochet away immediately like a bouncy ball let loose in the room. He was the one I actually had a tremendously pleasant conversation with—fourteen of the fifteen minutes, that is. He nodded with what appeared to be genuine interest as I rattled off details about my grandmother’s history and the inspiration for the novel. He read my sample chapter thoughtfully. Laughed at my jokes. I remember I had glanced over while he read and actually felt sorry for the girl at the table to my right, sweating bullets as she tried to convince the disinterested agent on the other end that her story was not a total rip-off of Orwell’s Animal Farm, that it was “just about a farm full of animals who overthrow the leadership and create a peaceful economy of their own . . . but . . . in space.”

And then the one-minute bell rang, and I slipped out my business card, feeling incredibly sure of myself. I slid it over to him. Gave it a little tap with my index finger. Said in a quietly thrilled way, “Here’s my information. This was an absolute pleasure.”

And then, to my utter shock, he slid it back. “It was a true pleasure, Bryony. You’ve got real potential here. I look forward to seeing it one day out in the world.”

And then he slid back everything toward me. All of it. As though he’d rented my materials from the library and had enjoyed them, but now it was time they return.

I slid my business card back. “That is so kind of you,” I said a little unsteadily. “I so respect your opinion in this business. It would be an honor to work with you. Here is my email.”

At which point he slid it back, with a few more confusing and uplifting niceties. We slid it back and forth several more times, and long story short, it was the timekeeper who eventually stepped in with a waiting conference attendee behind her, picked up the business card, and pushed it into my hands. “He’s saying no. He’s saying he doesn’t want you.”

Apparently, as I found out later, Tim Graves has a reputation for being nice to the point that he is incapable of turning someone down to her face. He just spouts out compliments and avoids taking on folders until the attendees eventually get it and walk away. Which worked for everyone, apparently, except the most desperate ones. Like me.

Okay. New plan.

I just can’t look at anyone in this room. Every time my eyes lock with someone else’s here, it’s a punch to my confidence.

I’ll just have to . . . keep my gaze to the floor, then find where I’m supposed to go by clues.

My eyes skirt around tables, focusing on shoes and laptop bags lying on the floor, and I glance up only for the briefest squint at nameplates before ducking back down.

It’s not until I’m at the very end of the room, isolated from all the other tables deep in conversation, and wondering if maybe I need to turn around, that I finally spot the name.

JACK STERLING.

His nameplate is askew.

He’s wearing a T-shirt. A charcoal-gray T-shirt—the kind of T-shirt that exudes quiet luxury in its simplicity. The mere fact that you can’t tell if it’s part of a six-pack from aisle six of the grocery store or handspun in the Himalayas somehow makes it all the more boastful. A blazer is tossed on the chair beside him.

His shoes are athletic. The brand name something foreign. His feet are crossed one over the other on the table as he leans back in his chair and thumbs through his phone, not a care in the world.

Not one single care.

He may as well be at home right now, watching soccer on the television.

One glance up to his face and there’s no question that this is the man I’m supposed to meet.

They are the same striking gulf water–green eyes as those on a dozen tabs on my laptop—every ounce of research I could find about the senior agent of the titanic agency, The Foundry Literary. His squeaky-clean, freshly shaven face and perfectly trimmed and oh-so-slightly swooped brown hair is plastered on everything from decade-old interviews about the state of the publishing industry to the recent breakup announced on his former girlfriend’s Instagram page. (Yes, I, and every other crazy conference attendee here, am a stalker.) Every single thing about his life and interests I could possibly find to help me create the mask I would need to wear to impress him.

The same coffee order in his hand I’d learned through a podcast Q&A two months ago. Black but for one pack of sugar.

The same thin, unconcerned lips as he looks through his phone.

Honestly, it’s startling. Other agents and editors and their hopefuls are engaging in earnest conversation, and here Jack is, appearing like he’s absolutely forgotten about me. As if he couldn’t care less if I’m here or not. I’m not sure what’s better: the unsettling intensity of other agents . . . or this.

I slide into my seat.

He holds up a finger. Without looking at me.

And it’s a full, agonizing three minutes before he peers up from his phone. Three minutes out of a possible fifteen total where every tick of the clock rings in my bones. The chatter in the room has grown to a roar. The conversations and missions around me rush forward while I’m sitting here, stuck in the mud as I watch this man spin through his phone. And there is nothing I can do about it. I am completely at his mercy.