Page 93 of Darling Venom
She opened her mouth.
The balloon grew, floating in my chest, filled with hope.
“Thanks,” Leah muttered.
And then she set it on her lap and went back to half-paying attention to Fran Drescher prancing around a gazillion-dollar home.
The balloon popped.
I deflated.
Leah didn’t want the book.
She wanted to hurt me.
The following day, I zoned out. Distracted by The Imperfections.
Not even Reagan’s weekly meeting could snap me out of it.
“Charlotte?”
I felt like I’d donated an organ, only to learn it ended up unused. And now I was missing a piece of me for no reason, trying to convince myself it would be okay with a heavy dose of delusion.
Tate will ask Terry for another signed copy for me.
Yeah, no way I believed that.
He hated Terry.
I assumed asking for favors fell under the hatred umbrella. He’d also made it clear he didn’t want to see me again. But it would make a good opportunity to grill him about Harvard. The idea had merit.
“Charlotte?”
What to do. What to do. What to do.
“Charlotte!”
I jerked my head up, startled to find everyone staring at me. “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Reagan shrugged.
She’d reached the thirty-two-week mark of her pregnancy, a milestone she’d never hit before. I figured I could accidentally toss the next Harry Potter from the agency inbox, and she’d still speak to me in the sickly-sweet voice she’d been using all week.
“Did you read anything promising this week?”
“Nothing popped. Are you searching for something specific?” As soon as I said it, I regretted it.
Irene winced, which told me they’d just concluded the portion of the meeting that included publishing trends and submissions criteria.
There goes the promotion you wanted.
Reagan tapped her fingers on her belly as if it were a table. She had a pregnancy glow. It radiated off every inch of her body. “Young adult urban fantasy. Maybe adult UF if it’s written well enough. I want the next Hunger Games or Twilight. Something that’ll run up a bidding war and break Netflix.”
I was in charge of the slush pile addressed to no particular agent, which meant I received manuscripts from a variety of niches and genres. Most lacked a spark to keep me hooked.
“About ninety percent of my latest reads were thrillers. Wannabe Gone Girls with plot twists I can spot a mile away.”
Reagan nodded, and Irene took over.
