Page 48 of Not a Strong Enough Word

My eyebrows shoot up at that, because that’s not how publishing works. Imprints don’t compete against their own. Is that why he didn’t want me to tell anyone I saw him at Anastasios? Because he’s secretly trying to pit them against each other? But luckily, I’m saved from trying to come up with an answer because Charles leans toward me suddenly. He’s so close I can smell the beer on his breath. “Let me give you a little tip.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t trust anyone in this industry. They’re all out to make money off you. They might say they’re interested in your book or that they want what’s best for the manuscript, but they don’t. Not really. Everyone’s always watching the bottom line—how much and what percentage and how many sales to get what in royalties.”

He pauses to take another drink, so it seems like a good time to say something. “Sounds like you’ve been burned before.”

“Me? Nah. I’m too cautious for that.” He shrugs. “But I’ve seen it happen time and time again. You got a good agent?”

“The best,” I say quickly.

Charles nods. “Good, good. And that guy who came to get you this morning? He’s your editor?”

“Ryan. Yeah.”

“He’s being good to you?”

I snicker to myself. If this guy only knew. “He’s been great. Really goes above and beyond.”

“Don’t expect that to continue. They’ve got plans for you right now, but once your book releases and they see what you’re really worth, that’s when their true colors will come out, mark my words. You excited about your release?”

Well, if I hadn’t been through all of this before—and sold more copies than him, I have to keep telling myself—I would be terrified now. It’s not that these things are untrue, per se. I’ve worked with my share of money-hungry people who had dollar signs in their eyes every time they looked at me, but what a thing to say to someone he thinks is a debut author. Is he trying to scare me away from publishing altogether?

“Yeah,” I reply instead of telling him what I’m really thinking. He probably wouldn’t hear me anyway.

“What’s it about?” He takes another swig of beer.

“It’s a coming-of-age story about a young girl.” I could talk about my book all day, but he’s not interested. Not really. All I had to do was mention “coming-of-age” and “girl” in the same sentence, and his eyes started glazing over. Suddenly, I’m wishing I were curled up with Ryan, talking about themes and words and structure. The ache for him is almost palpable, and it catches me off guard. I take sip of my soda, then decide to change the subject. “So, tell me. How does a writer have the time to work out as much as you clearly do?”

I had been banking on a hunch that Charles’s favorite subject is himself, and boy, was I right. He launches straight into a lengthy overview of his workout plan. Our food comes somewhere between an estimate of how much he thinks he’ll be able to squat tomorrow and his warning to me that sitting all day will surely cause cancer, so I’d better start working out, too.

Charles serves himself some of the food, so I do the same, though I avoid the grilled octopus because they actually look like little baby octopuses, and my stomach flips. As with everything I’ve done so far, he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s also oblivious to the fact that I’m just pushing food around my plate and not really eating.

I’m not even sure what he’s talking about anymore because I’m not paying much attention. But a gentle hand between my shoulder blades wakes me up a bit. My spine straightens at the touch as a familiar voice croons into my ear.

“Imagine seeing you here,” Ryan says, his voice smooth and soft—the exact opposite of the barking Charles has been doing. I turn my head to the left, and sure enough, he’s standing there with his hand still resting almost possessively on my back.

“Ryan?” My voice is breathy. It’s almost embarrassing how relieved I am. But the relief is short-lived because what the fuck is he doing here? Did he find out where we were going and when and follow us?

“I’m picking up takeout,” he explains, as if reading my mind. “Charles mentioned tapas earlier, and I had a taste for it.”

“This place is great,” Charles says approvingly. “Good choice.”

Ryan nods but doesn’t really pay any attention to him. By the way his hand is still on my back and his eyes track my movements as I take another drink, it’s clear that he’s here to see me. I’m not seething about it, but I am annoyed. What is his purpose? Is he worried I’ll lose my cool? Start crying? Engage in some risk-taking, after-dinner behavior?

And so what if I do? I’m not his anymore. Maybe Trina is right. Maybe it’d be good for me.

The bartender comes over, and Ryan gives him his name. He goes back to the kitchen to check on the order. Ryan’s hand is still lying on my back, warming me. And as much as I want to lean into his touch—close my eyes and relish in it—that little voice at the back of my head won’t let me forget he’s full of shit. He has no right to crash this dinner, no matter how jealous he is.

I glare up at him. “You don’t live near here.”

He shrugs as if this doesn’t matter. “I was passing through. Heard this place is pretty good.”

“You seem to find yourself ‘passing through’ the South Loop a lot these days,” I grumble. Ryan chuckles lightly.

The bartender returns with several to-go containers in a plastic bag. He hands the bag over the bar to Ryan, who takes it. I shiver at the cool air that meets my back at the loss of his hand.

Ryan looks back and forth between Charles—who has gone weirdly silent—and me. Apparently satisfied, he jams the hand not holding his food into his pocket. “Well, I’d better get going. Have a nice night, Sc—S.J. Charles.” He nods at each of us, then turns on his heel and leaves.

Charles lets out a low whistle and shakes his head in dismay. “He’s kind of a weird guy, huh? If you don’t like working with him, you can always ask—”

“I like working with him a lot, actually.” I cut him off. That might have been strange as hell, but the only person I’m not enjoying spending time with right now is Charles. I track Ryan’s movements back through the restaurant and out the front door. “Can you… Wait here. I’ll be right back.”