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For a moment I’m so thrown by this comment in the midst of our banter I fumble for a response. He seizes the moment in stride. His expression shifts. “For the record, thank you also for what you did today. There aren’t many people who would hand a business card back to Jim Arrowood. For what it’s worth, I appreciated it.”

He appreciated it.

Not Pennington. Not him on behalf of Pennington.

He.

Will.

“Well, your former colleagues are real scurrilous,” I say, inwardly tucking away the compliment while, on the outside, brushing it off. “And besides, you now are subjected to being Tom’s editor. I’d say tonight, your sacrifice was far greater.”

“Ah, yes. Tom. Well, we’ll just see how long Tom lasts with Pennington in the end. I have a feeling he’ll be moving on soon, so I wouldn’t worry too much about me.”

He grins while I raise a brow. “You do know he’s surprisingly successful, don’t you? He sold a hundred thousand copies of his book last year, nearly out of the gate.”

And there he goes again. The smile he’s hanging on to drifting down like an autumn leaf off his face. “Yes, well, for the record, it was an editorial and publishing misstep to allow him to all but plagiarize Camus as his own. He walked a razor-thin line throughout the novel, particularly—”

“—with the quote, I know!” I interrupt. “He all but claimed, ‘To be happy, it is essential not to be too concerned with others.’ That’s what I told everyone!”

Will pauses. Adjusts in his chair and looks at me, really looks at me.

“You told everyone what, exactly?”

His voice is so probing, I feel almost certain now I’ve made a mistake. My voice treads lightly as I respond. “Just that . . . it seemed dangerously close to a copyright issue for him to follow the same storyline and themes, and even title, as those in The Fall. Regardless of what Tom claimed, to even have the appearance of lifting Camus’s quotes by replacing words with a few well-chosen synonyms was—”

“—absolutely reckless to allow,” he interjects. “It was. And nobody agreed with you?”

I shrug. It doesn’t seem wise to give the specific details of how Giselle had all but told me I was like a child in meetings: there to be seen, not heard. “I’m just an assistant acquisitions editor.”

The crease in Will’s forehead deepens. He doesn’t respond right away, but when he does, it sounds as though he’s made up his mind. “I see. Well, where I come from, everyone has a voice. Evidently, those in Pennington may need that reminder.”

We let the silence linger.

What is there to say?

And after several moments pass of twisting my glass on the countertop, thinking of what topic to approach next while watching the condensation bubble up on the heavily polyurethaned wood, I give in. Change the subject to the first reasonable thing that comes to mind. “At any rate, I hope you enjoy the shift from New York. I’m sure there’s a lot to be missed, but hopefully you’ll like the change.”

“Thank you and yes.” He pauses, and I can see thought clouds starting to form in his eyes. “Much to be missed, but at the same time, I hope, much to be gained.”

What does that mean? Is this about more than his job? Does he have some long-lost girlfriend up there, perhaps? Someone he yearns to get back to?

But of course he left his life up there. He probably had a slew of close friends and, even though I don’t find myself liking to admit it, a number of stunning girlfriends over the years. It’s New York. They breed pretty people there.

Besides, it’s none of my business. And more important, he’s my boss. And classy. And sophisticated. And truly a man. Settled into a mature life, no doubt uninterested in someone who can’t even pull together her life enough to move out of her sister’s apartment.

But most pertinent here is the reminder that it doesn’t matter, and I don’t care.

At last the bartender comes over, and Will points at both our glasses. “I’ll get these.”

“Oh no, please,” I say immediately and begin scrabbling in my back pocket. “I couldn’t let you.”

“On the company,” he says, pulling out a flashy silver card. “Our apologies for one heck of a night.”

For a moment I wonder if he’s serious, if he’s really trying to represent Pennington Publishing and make amends for the disastrous author in our house with a twelve-dollar cocktail. But then I see his name on the personal debit card and catch the light in his arctic eyes.

“You’re all forgiven,” I say, grinning as I slide off my seat to stand. “Consider the slate wiped clean.”

A new topic looms over my head, and before I can wimp out, I snatch at the opportune moment. This is the time to find out what he knows. If I say it just right, I can ask without giving anything away. “And . . . about that manuscript I dropped at the meeting.” My finger taps on the counter. “I’m sorry about that and—”