Page 4 of Not on the Same Page

“I’m not asking you to.” Suzanna puts her hands up, palms out. “I’m just asking you to open yourself to some queries. See what’s out there. And…” As she trails off, I know immediately that I’m not going to like whatever she’s going to say next. “I’m sending you to the Writers and Agents Conference in Denver next month. We need someone to sit on a panel about querying and another about finding the next bestseller. With your credentials, you’re a perfect fit. But it will also be a good way for you to meet with new authors in the pitch sessions.”

Oh, shit. I must be in some kind of trouble because she only ever sends junior agents to this thing to help them build their client lists. The last time I was there, I was as green as could be, but I skated by on having just signed rising star Scarlett Frye. My reputation preceded me. I can only imagine all the backhanded questions about her that are going to get fired at me this time around.

But Suzanna’s expression allows for no argument. She’s sending me, and that’s that.

“Yes, ma’am.” I try to keep the bite out of my words. I’m not entirely sure I’m successful.

She arches a delicate eyebrow. “Good. I’ll send the details soon.” And with that, she disconnects the call.

Slouching forward and hanging my head between my shoulders, I let out a long breath. Fuck. Now, not only do I need to wade through queries, but I have to get ready for this conference I hadn’t planned on attending. And sitting on panels, no less.

God, I hate sitting on panels.

But if this is what I have to do to keep Suzanna happy, then I’ll find a way to be fine with it. This job is the most permanent thing I have in my life. It’s too important to me to lose it over something silly like whining about a conference and adding another author to my list. Even if I already have seven urgent emails from authors in my inbox just in the time that meeting was taking place—three of them from the same author. Not to mention that Scarlett’s new book is going to be another blockbuster hit, and she’s going to need more from me to sell it when the time comes.

That’s Future-Trina’s problem. Present-Trina needs to find an author with a half-decent manuscript. And to stop biting her nails, I realize as I sit on my chewed-up hands.

I can absolutely, definitely handle all of this.

Right?

2

CASEY

It’s a few minutes before my brain registers the tap-tap-tapping of my pen against the wood of my desk. It’s otherwise silent in my office at Anastasios Press, with the light streaming in through the west-facing windows to my right. It’s golden light, I realize now that my mind has been dragged from the manuscript on my computer screen by the unconscious rhythm of my pen. Which means it’s late afternoon. It also means I haven’t moved from this position for around four hours.

If I don’t stand up now, I might as well never stand up again. It sounds a little dramatic, but at thirty-five years old, I can already feel the effects of over a decade of office work on my body—stiff joints, eyes that don’t focus the way they used to, a twinge in my left shoulder that has been bothering me off and on for the past year or so.

As it is, I have to brace my hands on my knees to push myself out of the chair. I’m almost surprised my bones don’t creak like the spine of a new paperback as I unfurl my body and stretch out my arms. As soon as my limbs are fully extended, my elbows let out two loud pops.

That’s a new one.

Just add it to the catalog of weird quirks my body has developed as a result of this relatively sedentary job. This press was founded on the very real need for more work-life balance in publishing. It was why I moved here from JMP three years ago—I desperately needed that. But Anastasios generally lets us dictate our own lists and schedules based on what we can take on at any given time. And I’ve been taking on more and more over the past year.

“Hey,” a familiar voice comes from the doorway. I turn to see Ryan Whitlock, my friend and one of the other editors here, popping his head around the doorframe.

“What time is it?” I ask by way of greeting.

“Close of business.” He steps fully into my office and nods, indicating my still-open laptop. “So, close your business.”

Is it five o’clock already? Have I really been sitting here for four hours since lunch? That can’t be right.

“I’m really close to done with this⁠—”

“Nope,” Ryan cuts me off. “It’s the freaking weekend. Close the laptop and let’s go.”

Frowning, I blink at him in silence for a moment. “Go where?”

“Home. To a bar. Out of here. Wherever it is you go on a Friday when you’re young and single and don’t have any work to do until Monday,” he says as if it’s obvious. Then he tilts his head and regards me for a minute. “You’re not working over the weekend, are you?”

Well, I had planned on it, but now I’m feeling like that might be the wrong answer.

Turns out I don’t even need to admit it—my face must say it all. Ryan lets out an exasperated sigh as he adjusts his dark-rimmed glasses. “Whatever you’re working on can’t be that important.”

The book is due back to the author next week, but he’s right. It’s not like I can’t get it done on Monday. It’s just that, aside from visiting my brother every Sunday morning, I don’t have much else to do.

“Okay. That’s it. You’re coming with us.” Ryan tips his head back toward the door.