“Look,” I tell him finally. “If you’re going to be such a grouch about the whole thing, do me a favor and let me do the talking here, okay?”
Liam crosses his arms. “What does that mean?”
“I’m just saying, you might want to rethink your—” I break off and wave my hand at him in a way that’s meant to communicate tone, attitude, and general approach to life. “I’ve handled a lot of authors in my career, and they’re a delicate breed, you know? Trust me, the best way to handle this is going to be to stroke her ego a little bit.”
Liam doesn’t look convinced. “I mean, I’ll defer to your expertise,” he says, in a voice like he’s doing me some kind of favor, “but she’s not exactly writing the great American novel here.”
That irritates me. Nothing gets my back up as fast as wholesale dismissal of romance novels, especially from somebody who has no idea what they’re talking about. Still, I let it go for now. “Listen,” I tell him. “I’ve been doing this a long time, all right? Verity has sold a lot of books—”
“Sure, for other publishers—”
“And for all we know she’s suffering from writer’s block—”
Liam scoffs. “What could she possibly have to be blocked about?” he demands. “For god’s sake, I could write a romance novel. Insert tab A into slot B, add some panting, a throbbing member or two—”
I jump to my feet. “I know you did not just say ‘throbbing member’ to me.”
Liam’s cheeks get the tiniest bit pink at that, and I know we’re both thinking about that kiss outside the ice cream shop. I have a brief flashback to last night’s little bathtub-vibrator adventure, and push it out of my head as quickly as possible.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding strangled. “I certainly don’t mean to be… inappropriate with you. But acting like this woman is some sort of artistic genius is simply delusional—”
“I’m going to stop you right there,” I tell him, holding a hand up. I know I should probably let this go. After all, he’s my boss, and he’s made it perfectly clear what thin ice I’m on to begin with. But I’ve spent one too many Tinder dates smiling gamely while pretentious Hemingway fanboys talk crap about what I do. What I love. What I’m passionate about. “First of all, have you ever read a romance novel?”
“Well,” Liam admits. “No.”
“No,” I tell him triumphantly, “I didn’t think so. So maybe you should do a little research into your product before you go dismissing it, boss man.”
Liam shakes his head. “I hardly think—”
“Second of all,” I interrupt, “as a so-called ‘management consultant’ I’m sure you must realize that blockbusters like Verity’s are the engines that keep publishing companies running. Without authors like her, there is no great American novel—whatever that even means—because the publishers can’t afford to keep the lights on.”
“I realize that,” Liam says, though I can tell I’ve flustered him. “I was only making the point—”
“Third of all,” I say, really getting into it now, “whatever you might think of them, romance novels are one of the great feminist art forms. The centering of the female gaze, sex-positive representation of women seeking pleasure, stories where women are respected and catered to are actually radical and transgressive in a patriarchal society like ours. And the only reason men like you are so quick to dismiss them is because several millennia of misogyny makes books with pink covers an easy target for people who have no idea what they’re talking about.”
It feels good to blow off steam like this. In fact, it’s almost as pleasurable as Liam’s voice in my ear last night on the phone, if I’m being honest. I’m about to launch into a 300-level lecture about the semiotics of female desire when Liam interrupts.
“All right,” he says, holding a hand up to stop me. “Enough. You’ve made your point. You think I don’t realize how important Verity is to the company? You don’t think I realize what’s riding on all this? Sterling is on the knife’s edge of going under, Eliza. If I can’t get this book delivered—and if it isn’t a massive, runaway bestseller—every single one of your smug friends is going to lose their jobs.”
I’m struck silent for a moment. “I—I—”
“What?” Liam demands. He takes a step closer to me, the heat suddenly blistering between us. “What?”
“Well hello there, peaches!” calls a sultry, smoky voice from the doorway. Liam and I turn in unison and there’s Verity Lange herself, a vision in a deep purple caftan.
. She’s trailed by a full staff of half-a-dozen servers, all of whom are dressed in the same Diet Coke break uniform the butler was wearing. They quickly get to work laying the patio table with a linen tablecloth, lighting tapers and laying out a massive spread of food.
“Ms. Lange!” I say, a bit breathless with excitement. My heart is pounding and I’m feeling faintly lightheaded, and I’m honestly not sure if it’s the thrill of seeing my literary idol in the flesh—
Or whatever just happened between Liam and me.
“Hi yourself, sweet pea.” Verity offers us a dazzling smile, swanning across the patio with a swish of her caftan. “I have to admit, if I’d known you two were coming I would have planned more of a spread. But have a seat and let’s see what we can throw together, shall we? I never talk business without lobster and champagne.”
Liam’s eyes widen. I choke back a laugh.
“Some writer’s block,” he mutters.
7
Eliza
“—So then I spent a few years in Paris working on the French Kiss Trilogy—you remember the French Kiss Trilogy, don’t you, Eliza honey?—before finally I just missed this little slice of paradise so much that I had to jet on back to the States for good.” Verity smiles, holding out her wine glass for a refill. A waiter hurries over with a bottle. Verity’s partner, Dot, a practical-looking woman in her fifties, smiles with barely veiled amusement from her seat at Verity’s side. “And I’ve been living and working here ever since!”
“Wow,” I say with a shake of my head, leaning across the table and eagerly hanging on her every word. “You’ve had quite the career.”
“I’ve been lucky,” she says, with a modest wave of her hand.
“No,” I insist. “It’s more than that.” I know I’m laying it on a little thick, but I can’t help it. I’ve had the chance to meet a few celebrities in my line of work, and I don’t think of myself as a person who gets star-struck. But having dinner with Verity Lange is a bucket list moment if ever I’ve had one. I keep thinking of all the nights I spent curled up on the sofa at my grandma’s house, my nose buried in Love’s Last Stand or Touched by a Titan, and wishing that she was here to see this moment. “I have to tell you, Ms. Lange, I’m a real fan. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written.”