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“Yes, but how well has that worked the past fiscal year?”

The only sound in the room is Brittney’s pen scraping furiously on the paper as she writes down the conversation. None of us dare breathe.

Finally, after several long moments have passed, Ms. Pennington tilts her chin. “I’ve just remembered an urgent email I need to attend to. I’ll leave you all to things here and will be looking for a report from Mr. Pennington this evening.”

And in one smooth move, Ms. Pennington somehow manages to slide through the crowded group surrounding the table and standing against the walls, Brittney with pen and pad following closely behind.

All of our eyes now shift to Will, waiting for what comes next.

Will stands. His face is emotionless, as though in his mind the conversation was prudently handled and it’s time to move on to the next line item on the docket. Instead of looking like his thoughts are churning with shouts of I can’t believe I just spoke to my mother like that! I must amend myself immediately! like I would, he’s calm. Eerily calm.

“Hello, everyone. Thank you, especially the sales team, for coming in and joining us today from your travels. We appreciate you.”

The men and women lining the walls give frozen smiles.

“Now, first off, you’ll notice we have a new face here today. Allow me to introduce Moira.” He gestures at the new woman at the table. “Our newest intern.”

New. Intern.

A new, unpaid intern.

Oh.

“She’s just begun spring term of her junior year at Belmont, so she will be joining us mostly in the afternoons and using most of her time filling in to meet the needs of the editorial staff. But I also want to see that she gets her feet wet with all the departments so that she can learn about the workings of the publishing industry. I can assure you she will be a great benefit to all of us here, and at the same time I hope we can benefit her with great work experience as well. So please, be sure to give her a warm welcome after the meeting.”

He gives Moira a nod. Moira, the poor girl, looks like a popsicle stick with a smiley face. What a first day on the job.

“Second, I want to be the first to inform you all of Yossi’s promotion to editorial director.”

At this, I nearly knock over my coffee.

“Yossi, as you all are aware,” continues Will, “has been an asset to Pennington Publishing since the beginning. What he lacks, I hear, in . . . punctuality”—at this, Will at last lets a wry smile slip onto his face, and a few chuckles go around the room—“he makes up for in loyalty, goodwill, and a passion for the job that has already stood the test of time.”

I feel my breath halt as Will’s eyes meet mine.

He wasn’t planning to fire him.

He was listening to my advice. In fact, he’s using my exact words that I said to him. How? is the question running through my mind. How is it possible that Will Pennington, son of the CEO of Pennington Publishing, cares enough about my words to lean on them for his decisions?

Who am I? Nothing but a lowly assistant acquisitions editor at the bottom rung in a company full of experts. I wasn’t offended when I wasn’t included in that upper-level meeting at the Polar Star. In fact, the thought never crossed my mind. Why? Because I am Savannah Cade. Not my mother, Laurie Cade, not my grandmother, Hazel Cade, not even my great-grandfather, Geoffrey Cade, caught out of his hospital bed after having his arm amputated in the first world war fixing the creaky bed. Just . . . me.

So what is it he sees in me that he finds worth trusting?

I’m not sure, but what I see in his eyes now, the telepathic message I feel sent through the airwaves to me at this very moment, tells me one thing: he does. For whatever odd, crazy reason, he respects my opinion. Respects me.

The shock of the realization lingers with me through the rest of the meeting, the afterglow of the rare sensation making a home inside my chest. I’ve never been respected before. Not really. Not with my family. Not with Ferris. Not with Giselle. Maybe, just maybe, this’ll be the start of something good.

The meeting goes more smoothly than ever. Surprisingly, it isn’t the sales team that turns down my proposed author but Will himself halfway through as he interrupts to say, “I’m unconvinced. Let’s move on.” It’s crisp. To others it looks most certainly cutting. But given I told him as much myself that night during darts, I don’t take it personally.

I stand at the coffee maker in the corner after the meeting is over. It’s late, the meeting having gone on much longer than usual, and a feeling of euphoria is fading out of the room as I pour myself a cup of coffee. It was a rare moment of team bonding back there. Yossi certainly surprised us all with that pep talk about the power of words and our work, and the ruddiness is still on my face as the steaming liquid fills my cup.

I take a sip, and the fact that it tastes like burnt cheap grounds can’t even dampen my mood.

“How is it?” Will sidles up to me and reaches for a paper cup off the stack. He looks good. Certainly less stressed than the person we saw two hours ago going toe to toe with his CEO . . . and mother.

“Do you want honesty?” I say, turning to lean against the counter of the station with a small grin.

“If that’s okay with you. Yes.”