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Characters that need slashing.

Dialogue that needs a total override.

And language that is, apparently, snobbish and utterly dénué de sens.

“Terrific.” Tom has thrown out his hands again, this time toppling a whole stack of books onto my feet. I gather them up in my arms, and when I stand, I discover Tom has slid into the remaining inches between us. His eyes are a twinkling mossy green, matching both his moss-green collared shirt, of which he’s ignored the top three buttons, and his rather gloomy, philosophical Camus-style books that discuss—far too often, in fact—moss. His voice is low. Sort of purring. “That’s just terrrrific.”

“I believe we haven’t met.”

And suddenly I see the sleeve of an arm being thrust between us and Tom taking a step back. He turns and, with a slight frown, surveys the man who has just intervened.

William—clean shaven, poised, and with an expression that conveys a thinly veiled Who the heck are you, and why are you talking to my editor?—stands eye to eye with Tom. The sameness of their height is, most refreshingly, where the commonality ends.

“William Pennington,” William says, taking a slightly dazed Tom’s hand. “New publisher of the Pennington Pen division.” His eyes dart down to Tom’s name badge. “And you must be Tom, one of our authors. What a surprise to see you.”

And now it’s my turn to feel a flash of delight sparking in my eyes.

“Yes, well,” Tom says, his eyes brightening. He shakes William’s hand heartily. “I had the weekend off, and I thought to myself, who’s the only person in the world I want to see?” He turns his gaze on me. “And of course I knew the answer immediately.”

I give a little smile in return. I seem to be one of Tom’s favorite people.

My ankles throb at the reminder of that hideous evening just a few months ago. I look down at Tom’s shoes and grimace. He’s wearing them. The pointy red cowboy boots with at least a dozen rhinestones.

“Ah. Yes,” William says, retracting his hand and putting it in his pants pocket. “So you have some work to go over together, I gather?”

That’s funny. William didn’t ask once about work with any of the other authors.

“Work. Of course. Yes. And then”—Tom gives a cheeky grin while he surreptitiously pulls up his jeans to highlight his boots—“I imagine we’ll paint the town red again like last time. That was one-of-a-kind fun, wasn’t it, Savannah?”

“One-of-a-kind, indeed.” In reality, the idea of heading to every karaoke bar and line-dancing saloon in Nashville is so unoriginal it’s laughable.

I spot Lyla in some sort of altercation with an elderly woman, the librarian’s beaded eyeglass chain swinging as she tries to yank back the massive foam board of Oswald’s face from Lyla’s hands.

“Excuse me, I’m going to have to . . .” I trail off as I move toward the couple, and both men’s faces turn. William’s expression, for his part, doesn’t flicker. Clearly he’s been to so many of these things he’s come to expect the odd librarian-trying-to-make-off-with-our-cargo situation.

“I’ll just wander around for a while, then!” Tom calls merrily, and stuffing both hands into his pockets, he drifts out of the booth. “See you soon, Savannah!”

I force the smallest smile that could still pass for professional interest and call back, “Okay, Tom.”

Tom Haggerty. Line dancing.

And forty-four days.

Chapter 7

The music inside the Painted Pony Saloon crackles so loudly over the speakers I’m going to need aspirin for days. Between the noise, the swirling kaleidoscopic lights on the dance floor the past three hours, and the calluses currently forming on my inner thighs from their consistent rubbing beneath my jeans, I would gladly dive into one of those sensory deprivation tanks over this.

“Whooooeeeee!” Tom hollers. My ears quake with the thunder of his clap by my head as he follows the line dancer demonstrating onstage.

He grabs me by the hand and throws me into another twirl.

I could have taken an editor position at another publishing house two years ago. A nice, sane house, with sane bosses and sane editors and sane authors who, when they come to town, want to do things like eat asparagus wrapped in bacon while discussing possible endorsements.

But noooo.

Instead, I get Tom. And a publishing house that wants me to tour Tom around like I’m some kind of line-dancing hostess at—I check my watch—eleven o’clock on a Saturday night. When I’m already exhausted. And overwhelmed. And have to deal with a full day tomorrow as well.

The song ends and transitions into a new one, and as a single note slowly rakes across a violin, the man onstage holds the microphone to his lips and tips his cowboy hat down. His voice lowers as though he’s got an intimate secret to share. “Ladies and gents, we’re gonna take this one easy. So slow ’er down, hold your sweetheart close, and sway to an old country favorite, ‘Just Another Woman in Love.’”