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Tom spins on me, his thin lips lifting in a wiry smile as if to say, “Welp, I guess we have no choice but to do what we’re ordered to,” and I immediately put up two hands.

“Oh no, Tom. I think I’m going to sit this one out.”

But even as I speak, I feel him tug on both of my elbows. “Aw, c’mon. Listen to this song.” His eyes are brimming with elation as he tugs me an inch toward him. “This song is a classic.”

“Yes, it’s very nice,” I say, struggling to unwrap his fingers from my elbows. “All the same, it’s getting late.”

“Late?” His forehead wrinkles at such an insinuation, and I realize as the lights fall upon his glassy eyes that he may have snuck yet another pint of beer down somewhere in the last half hour. “No such thing as late when you’re accompanied by such fine music and fine women.”

“No, really—” I begin but, despite my protest, feel his hands grab onto my wrists and pull them firmly toward him.

As he does so my face grows hot—as hot as it can be on this packed dance floor surrounded by beer and cheap leather. I feel myself finally losing my last, shaky grip on the self-control I’ve been warring to keep hold of all evening, and all thoughts of Tom’s New York Times bestseller rankings and Pennington’s profits and the world’s tough economic times fly from my mind. I’m like a two-liter of soda that’s been shaken one too many times, and cap or no cap, I’m going to explode.

I’m just about to make my stand, no matter what he might say to Giselle (who’d slay me) or William or even Ms. Pennington herself tomorrow, when I feel somebody step in and grab Tom by the arm.

“I think that’s enough,” William says, and my mouth practically falls open as I see him.

He’s still clad in his blue suit and tan oxfords from earlier in the day. But he looks different now, less polished than the poised professional I saw this morning. His tie is crooked, the perfect creases in his perfect blue trousers gone. There’s even what appears to be a bit of gum and torn-off paper stuck to the bottom side of one shoe. By clothing alone, he looks weary. But in his frank blue eyes there is an icy steeliness that says he can go all night.

Tom takes a step back, clearly seeing the same thing I’m seeing. “We were just having a bit of fun,” he says, then adds an overripe laugh. He turns his head toward me. “Weren’t we, Savannah? Just some good fun.”

My eyes widen as I turn from Tom to William, unsure of how to respond. I’m about to open my mouth to give the best noncommittal yet professional reply I can come up with when I find I don’t need to.

William takes a step in and faces him, completely blocking me out. And then I’m standing there, staring into a sea of blue on the back of my boss’s suit as colorful lights from above pan slowly by.

“Even so, there’s an Uber waiting outside for you,” I hear William say coolly. “It will take you wherever you need to go.”

“But . . . Savannah was going to drive me back to the hotel. And we had some things to talk about for my next book.”

“Good news, Tom. You will be pleased to know you have been promoted. I am now personally taking responsibility for you as editor, and unfortunately, I don’t have time to dance with you. Good night.”

For several seconds I stand there, hidden behind William’s stoic hold on the dance floor, barely able to breathe from what I just heard. Did he just say that? Did he just do that? On my account?

When William does turn around at last, there is no sign of Tom anywhere.

I look around, but all I can see around us is a sea of slow-dancing couples.

Couples and slow-moving strobe lights and, most important, no more Tom.

I look up into William’s face and for the first time all night feel my shoulders begin to droop. My pent-up breath exhales. When I do, a bubble of laughter wells up inside me. A bubbling of anxiety, of release from anxiety, of disbelief at what just happened. Just remembering the shocked look on Tom’s face is almost too much.

William’s face, for his part, is still steely as he keeps his eyes on the doors. Drawn. And frankly, exhausted.

I can’t help it. My shoulders shake a little as I let out a quiet chuckle.

He turns as if noticing me for the first time. His expression shifts.

The single line on his forehead creases deeper.

Gone is his concern at watching the uncivilized, handsy man exit. Here is the concern at watching his petite, bizarre employee in the center of the dance floor, laughing.

“I can’t believe you did that,” I say, fighting a new round of laughter building up in the pit of my stomach. Boss or no boss, I can’t help myself.

For a moment he just looks at me, frowning slightly, as if he’s come across some small, odd creature and he’s trying to figure it out. “I can’t believe you danced with him at all.”

The threat of laughter stops.

Surely he’s not going to put any of the blame for tonight on me. “You said to entertain our authors,” I reply. “You said it was vital to let them know how important they are.”