Page 28 of Keeping Knight

I’ve never understood why some clients think it’s my fault their book didn’t succeed.

As I re-read the snippish email I just received, I sigh. Looks like I’ve got a new opening in my schedule, since I don’t think this author will be using me again. And considering the rude tone of their message, I can’t say I’m sorry about it.

Fifty rejections, the email emphasizes. Fifty. This is unacceptable. Your services are unacceptable. I expect a full refund immediately. And an apology.

An apology? I shake my head in disbelief. I didn’t write the darn thing. My job was to polish what I was given. If the agents the client submitted to didn’t like the concept, that’s not my fault.

But this isn’t the first client who’s taken out their frustrations on me, and I’m sure they won’t be the last. I can almost understand—they spend hundreds of hours on their creation only to receive rejection after rejection, because, unfortunately, that’s how the publishing business works. It’s got to hurt. A lot.

But that doesn’t mean they should take it out on me.

My finger hovers over the keyboard as I debate how to respond. I could remind my client—well, ex-client, now—about the signed contract that clearly stated that once he accepted the edited manuscript, the payment was final. And I’m almost certain if he tries to file a claim with his bank, he won’t get anywhere with it.

Could is the operative word. But I won’t. Continuing to engage with this man will only breed more negativity, which I really don’t need right now. And I can afford to refund his payment. I don’t like it, because I don’t think it’s fair, but I’ve got plenty of money to make up for it.

So, with that in mind, I compose a politely concise reply.

I’m sorry you were unhappy with my services. I’ll initiate the refund today. Best of luck in your future endeavors.

I read the message a couple of times to make sure I’m satisfied with it, then hit send with a sharp jab of my finger. As the email shoots off into the ether with a little swoosh, I make a face at my phone.

They’re not all like that, I remind myself. Most of my clients are lovely. They’re polite and funny and self-deprecating, and I get almost as invested in their successes as they do. I still remember when my first-ever editing client got a publishing deal, and she sent me a bouquet of carnations in thanks. Along with it was the message, I couldn’t have done it without you, Ruby. And I’ll forever be thankful.

She didn’t have to send me flowers. I was just doing my job, after all. But it was nice. And I still have that note tacked on the wall above my desk as a reminder that what I do matters.

I know my parents hoped I’d go into medicine, like they had. When I was young, my mom would bring me into her office and let me practice dental cleanings on my dolls. When I was in high school, my dad would take me to his medical conferences with him, always making sure to introduce me to doctors in a variety of specialities.

“Of course, I think neurology is best,” he said on more than one occasion. “But I could see you in psychiatry, Ruby. Or maybe family medicine.”

Halfway through junior year, I sat him down and told him I wanted to major in English instead. I wanted to be a writer, or an editor, or get my PhD and teach at a college. He was a little disappointed, I could tell, but he took it in stride. And when I wanted to visit a string of liberal arts colleges during the summer before senior year, he fully supported me.

Sighing again, I lean back against the headboard and set my phone on the mattress beside me. My throat goes thick. My nose goes all prickly.

I wish my dad were here. I wish I could talk to him about everything.

I wish he could meet Micah.

Swiping at the tears welling up, I sniff a few times. Then I cast my gaze around the bedroom, looking for something to distract me. There’s a bookshelf with an artful arrangement of antique books on one wall, a sleek chaise that faces the window near another, and on the wall opposite the bed, there’s an enormous painting done all in shades of blue and gold, to match the rest of the room.

It’s a nice room, for sure. The colors are tasteful, the furniture comfortable but clearly expensive, the rug is thick enough to bury my toes, and there’s a magnificent view of the city skyline from the window. Still, I prefer my bedroom at my apartment. I have all my things there, to start—my framed photos of my parents, my diplomas, a couple of the paint-by-numbers that turned out the best, my journals from the creative writing courses I took in college, and even the stuffed unicorn my mom gave me when I was six.

Thinking back to the list I gave Micah, worry niggles at me. Will he think it’s silly that I want my stuffed unicorn with me? Or the paintings that are clearly not to the quality of the ones he has in his condo?

“No,” I say to myself. “Micah’s not like that.”

I don’t think he is, at least. I can’t know for sure, since we’re definitely still in the getting to know each other stage. But Micah’s told me things I don’t think he shares with many people, like how he goes to the Museum of Natural History twice a year by himself because he loves to look at the dinosaur skeletons. Or that he still has his entire collection of Transformers from when he was a kid, not just stored in a box, but displayed on a shelf in his office.

When he first told me that a few weeks ago, I wasn’t sure he was serious. How could this tough guy who’d spent over a decade serving his country, who practically oozed toughness, still hang on to his childhood interests?

But I saw the Transformers when he gave me a tour of the condo. At least forty of them, all well-worn from use, posed in various stages of transformation. “I don’t play with them,” Micah said quickly when I went over to the shelf to look at them. His cheeks went the cutest shade of pink. “I just like having them out, is all. As kind of a reminder of simpler times.”

My irritation with my client fades as I think about Micah. A smile tugs at my lips. Staying at his condo has already turned out to be much better than I could have expected. I knew it would be safe here. I trusted that Micah would protect me. But I didn’t imagine how quickly my feelings would grow for him in such a short time.

But they have. And that’s the unexpected silver lining in all of this.

Fizzy anticipation builds as I think about practicing self-defense with Micah later. I’ve read scenes with similar scenarios—the guy all confident and sexy while he demonstrates the moves, then using his hands to position the woman just so, putting them on her hips, her back, her arms…

I didn’t have an ulterior motive when I asked Micah to teach me. I really did—do—think it’ll make me feel safer. It was only afterwards, when I was thinking about the logistics of it that I realized the other benefits.