Page 82 of The Perfect Rom-Com

No, what makes me nervous is her reaction. Florence Peters. Will she take kindly to an aspiring author jumping in to talk potential business without the gatekeeper around? Or is she one of those old-fashioned types who’d scratch me off just for trying?

Will it make me look too desperate?

Possibly.

Will she get angry?

Maybe.

Do I have to try?

Absolutely.

This is my opportunity.

I feel the double angst as I carefully maneuver forward, keeping one eye on her and the other on Jack. It’s not like I am hiding this meeting from him, but if he sees me, he will probably stop me, and if he stops me, I will probably die. I have waited for two years for a moment like this.

I end up halting just off from the drink area, and wait.

This must be what a mountain lion feels like sitting in the shadows beside the watering hole, waiting for the deer after what feels like months since having a decent meal. My wait really has been that long. I’ve been waiting on her response after her request for the full book for literal months. I’ve been living off crumbs of hope from Jack. Hearing she liked the sound of my book proposal. Hearing she found it intriguing. Hearing she was looking forward to reading the book on holiday and getting back with him. Holiday. As in months ago.

Forget all the people Jack has reached out to during the past two weeks.

She’s the dream.

She’s the big kahuna of publishing hope-fors.

She is the metaphorical deer at my metaphorical watering hole.

And looking at the way her glass is empty, it’s only (please, oh please!) a matter of time before she goes for a refill.

Five minutes go by.

Amelia is laughing loudly now as she smiles gayly (i.e., maniacally) and clutches a gaggle of ladies closer for a picture. I bite my lip as the staffed victims of the folding chair incident watch in the distance with mildly disturbed frowns.

Ten minutes pass.

I start to flip through backup plans of ways to meet.

Nothing is coming to mind.

I mean, how exactly can you not rudely interrupt a tête-à-tête between two strangers to introduce yourself? Especially when your goal is not to look like a stalking, desperate aspiring author preying on the editor in question?

Conveniently trip into the conversation? “Oh, I’m so sorry. I slipped right on my dress there. Oh, hiiii. Is that you? I’m that wannabe author with lots of potential. Let’s shake hands.”

Pretend to be on staff and offer a refill? “Sorry to interrupt, miss, but can I refill your drink and discuss my manuscript?”

“Those crab cakes are so salty, right?” I feel myself trying to send a telepathic message, zeroing in on Florence’s plate with my eyes. “You know what would be nice right now? Oh, I know. A nice big glass of water. Or tea. Or coffee. Or champagne. Or decaf coffee. Or lemon water. Or this very spritely looking strawberry water. Really, anything liquid would be such a good idea right now, wouldn’t it?”

I almost startle myself when she says something in parting and actually moves forward, toward the drink table!

This is my moment!

My moment!

I rush forward, then slow my steps just in time to line up with her.

We reach the table at the same time. This part is going to be tricky.