Page 83 of The Perfect Rom-Com

I keep my eyes averted, straining, waiting for her to make her move.

What is she going to go for?

And more specifically, whom exactly was the sunset cruise trying not to offend by offering precisely this many drink options?

Nearly every square inch of the white tablecloth is covered with bottles and punch bowls and carafes with various little labels. There’s a carafe for black coffee. Carafe for organic black coffee. Carafe for organic, single-source, fair-trade black coffee that is mold free and tested for authenticity in three countries. (Serious question: Why not just use that one?)

My goal is to wait until the millisecond she moves toward one of the drinks and then move my hand toward the exact same thing at the same time. It’s a tricky thing, though. Wait too long and I’m just strange and bad-mannered. Too early and I may misjudge which one she’s after.

I have to be surgical about it.

Neurosurgeon level.

She’s made her move!

Out of the corner of my eye I see her reach toward a glass water jug (that, or it’s a speck in my eye, but it’s a gamble I’ll have to take) and I casually, decidedly reach for the jug as well.

“Oh,” she and I say at just the same time.

I grin (although what my cheeks want to do is grin like a madwoman, which I’m forcing down with all my mental ability). “Sorry. Go ahead.”

She says something similarly polite at the same time, then gives a breathy little chuckle when I wait and says, “Thank you.”

I take in a “surprised” breath. Put a hand to my heart. “Wait a moment. Are you . . . Florence Peters?”

A subtle respect permeates my tone. One that says, “I, too, am distinguished and have self-respect but am here to offer you respect as well.”

The best kind, not too groveling.

She looks a little taken aback.

Wow, she really doesn’t know aspiring writers all over the world have her face on their computers and would buy her baseball card, should it exist. “Yes. And I’m sorry, I’m not too good with faces. Have we met?”

“Oh no,” I say, giving a little laugh while trying to temper my internal response of Oh, I wish, I WISH. I wish we were best friends and had a standing coffee date every week to walk to our favorite shop together to buy croissants and drink black coffee like cool adults and talk books and you would lean on my wisdom about where you should plant your windowsill cilantro, and I would be granted goddaughter privilege at your granddaughter’s birth, and . . .

“I’m Bryony Page. I believe you’ve been chatting back and forth with my agent. Jack.”

She pauses.

What is that?

The light in her eyes dims. Just a little bit.

“Jack . . . ,” she says.

“Sterling,” I finish.

And oh the relief I feel as it comes back again. The recognition in her eyes. “Oh, Jack. Yes, I’ve worked with him plenty of times over the years. Is he here tonight?” She glances around.

“Yes,” I jump in, redirecting her attention to me. “But as for my book you two have been discussing . . .”

“Oh. Well. I’m not . . . recalling any recent correspondence . . .”

My fingers are beginning to wind around each other in front of me, poor immature habit, and I pull them back to my sides in a mature manner. “I think you’ve had my manuscript, Water Under the Bridge, for a few months now. You received the proposal. Asked for the manuscript to read over the holidays. I believe it’s been”—I pause, pretending I don’t know exactly how long it’s been—“about a year since his first email.”

Three hundred and eighty-two days.

Florence’s eyes give a flash of pity. “Oh. Hm.” She presses her lips together, thinking.