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He throws his, and the total comes to 40.

“So,” he says, pulling the darts off the board. “Why do you want executive voting power at pub board next week? What’s your angle?”

“No angle. It’s just . . .” I shrug. “Rob is going to push for the Weaver proposal, and Giselle is going to sway the group toward that influencer singing group, and they’re both bad calls.”

“Because you want Smith,” Will says matter-of-factly.

“No, I’ve reread his proposal and done a little more digging, and I’m losing my enthusiasm for him. I’ll still take him to the meeting, but between you and me, I’m not sold.”

Will gives another one of those rare laughs and throws a dart. Then another. “That’s quite the candid statement.”

I smile a little as I watch him throw his third. “Well . . .” I shrug, warming up to the realization that I do always say too much to him. And he never seems to mind. “I’ll still do my best to sell him in there, but let’s just say if I end up convincing you all, I’ll have also convinced myself.”

“Then what’s wrong with the Weaver project or the singing group? If you aren’t gunning for your own author, what’s your opinion on them?”

“Well, Rob may think Weaver has all the potential in the world, but I’m nearly positive his social media platform is bolstered by paid bots on his Instagram.” I pause as I move into position before the board, then cast a look back. “I mean, honestly, Will. His area is taxidermy. Where are these two hundred thousand passionate followers of taxidermy? Where? And as for the singing group . . .” I shrug. “They may technically be celebrities, but they’re still pretty low on the totem pole. Mostly, though, the issue is the manuscript. It lacks originality, passion, and purpose. They never have a clearly defined goal, they never captured my interest, and frankly, they’re not famous enough to have us assume people will buy it based off their brand alone. They’re not a household name, which means sales would have to actually rely on good content. Which it doesn’t have.”

I throw a dart, and it lands on a beige 15.

“Wow. A spitfire response from such a fair face,” he says.

My cheeks tingle at the compliment. Right? Was that sincere? “Well, it’s the truth. And I don’t get paid to give fluff.”

“And can you take it like you give it?”

There’s a playfulness in the question, but even so, I’m slightly stilled. It does sound quite critical, doesn’t it? I never had thought of myself as harsh before, but isn’t this just the way my mystery editor would say it too? But then, there’s the difference. I would never say any of this directly to those authors. I’d pack it deep, deep within a thick layer of compliments.

“No,” I admit. “I get wounded easily. It’s a flaw, really. One shot and I act like a wounded doe, limping around for a week. Anyway,” I say, throwing another dart, “we were talking about the proposed projects.”

“So you don’t trust Giselle’s judgment?” he says, crossing his arms as he waits for his turn. “She does have several stellar clients.”

“Sure,” I say, taking aim and putting the board in my line of sight. “Because she always dumps the worst authors on us and takes the best for herself. Last year I discovered two authors from the slush pile, wooed them, got them through pub board, and the second everyone got on board she slid her name into the contracts and bumped me out.”

It’s not until after I throw my third, watch it land on the triple twenty, and turn with a gleeful grin that I realize Will is no longer looking as relaxed as I am. No. He’s frowning now, suddenly looking quite a bit taller, shoulders broader, as he gazes at me with arms still crossed over his chest. In fact, he doesn’t seem to look like he saw my winning shot at all.

“Which contracts?” he says.

I stiffen.

But his gaze is penetrating, and I’ve learned enough in the last two weeks never to dance around a reply. “Dutton and Seuss.”

I can’t be sure, but I feel like the lighting must have shifted. It’s the only way to explain how his eyes are starting to take on that iceberg-blue fire. “What about Harry Sullivan? Surely he would’ve put a stop to that. He was her boss.”

I clench my jaw. “Well . . . if you haven’t noticed, Giselle is fairly intimidating.”

And then I realize. He really hasn’t noticed. He’s so scary himself, he hasn’t had a clue.

“Does my mother know about this?” he says.

“Your mom?” I can’t help but reply. “Your mom is her biggest fan. Nobody would dare tell on her.”

Except me, apparently, I think, biting my lip. The one who just revealed this information oh so candidly to her son.

“The mismanagement of this company is overwhelming,” he says, spitting out the words more to himself than to me.

For a moment I feel a swell of pity for him. Coming home with no other options, discovering his mother’s empire she built from the sweat of her brow under not just financial crisis but intense management duress. Being hit with waves of new problems every day, some of which his own mother is to blame for, while also dealing with the confusion of their mingled professional and personal relationship. It certainly would be a shock.

“Well, it’s not all that bad,” I say. “We’ve made it this far, after all.”