Page 79 of The Perfect Rom-Com
Jack and I, meanwhile, have been in a state of bliss, keeping our new state of things to ourselves as we sneak off for nightly adventures and steal kisses when no one’s around. Which is, for the record, virtually never.
“I really don’t like to say hate, Jack. It’s an unkind word.”
“Mm-hmm.” His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his light gray slacks. He leans against a car. Whose car? I don’t know. But he’s been standing here, with me, the past twenty minutes. “But . . .”
“But you know what? I just—I just—” I start pacing. Again.
In my long black dress.
More specifically a long black gala-suitable dress.
I borrowed Penny’s wretchedly high heels from her last night, just after we’d come back from our third group outing of the week.
As it turns out, the poor girl’s nerves are completely shot. But like me, she carries on. Her reasons are different. She stays because, as she says, on repeat, and usually while tracing cursive letters into ketchup on her plate (because Amelia has broken her, and now she practices her calligraphy on everything from food to shaving cream on the bathroom mirror), “I just need to make it to a year of working under her. A year is respectable.”
Penny repeats that phrase often to herself. A year is respectable.
She’s under the delusion that everyone will come rushing to her offering employment in publishing if they see “Personal Assistant to Amelia Benedict” on her résumé.
Of course, she also would need to garner a positive recommendation from Amelia. Which itself would be a miracle.
It’s been a week since Amelia told me to cut down my chapter in her Darth Vader’s bride getup.
A week of visiting bookstores and helping out at signings and eating more lobster bisque and crab cakes than I have in my entire life, of drinking champagne and taking evening walks and sneaking little kisses with Jack—and yes, becoming quite fond of Penny and our little trio sneak-outs—but I still can’t get what Amelia did out of my mind. The whole thing still boils me up.
“For goodness’ sake, Bryony.” Jack rubs the back of his neck and gazes up to the night sky. “Keep the page. It’s not like she’s going to read it.”
He fails to see my struggle.
Which comes down to two facts. One, Amelia is really quite evil. And two, she has decided to zero in on me and make my life miserable.
It was tolerable before. Now, it’s just beyond.
Of course, I don’t believe Jack has seen the full wrath of Amelia Benedict. And to be fair, he’s sort of in the business of managing fussy authors.
I honestly think he’s a little immune to it.
To some extent, that’s what makes him a good literary agent. He doesn’t take entitled behavior to heart. It’s like he wears an invisible shield of armor, and anything slung at him just slides right off.
Me, on the other hand . . .
I can’t help it.
“It’s not about whether she reads it or not.” My pacing speeds up to match my rising anxiety. I’m getting myself worked up too much. I know. But it feels necessary. “I just . . . I just don’t know how much longer I can take doing this. I can’t for the life of me imagine doing ten more books for this woman.”
“And our goal is that you won’t.”
I rub my forehead as I pace. “I know that. It’s just . . .”
“Waiting is the cross in publishing we all have to bear. Nobody likes it, Bryony. It’s not for the faint of heart. And most people, to be brutally honest, can’t take it. That’s what kills them off in the end. That’s what separates the wheat from the chaff. Not the roller coaster of book sales going up and down. Not the rejections. It’s the waiting that’ll get you. But—” I swing back in front of him, and he reaches out suddenly and grabs my hand, halting me. I look up at him and feel the shift from the wobbly vision of cars and telephone poles to the steadiness of his clear green eyes.
He takes a breath, then resumes in a measured calm. “But things are looking up for you. I have a feeling it won’t be too much longer.”
My heart skips a beat. “You heard back from Florence?”
He hesitates. Then shakes his head slightly.
“Anybody else?”
