Page 7
Being an editor at Pennington Pub is my job. And being a writer is my dream—my very personal dream.
And I can’t risk both by letting my manuscript fall back into his hands.
Lyla blinks, charcoal-black eyelashes drifting down and then back up to meet her eyebrows. It looks like it’s taking absolutely everything in her to avoid rolling her eyes. “Fine. Just stash the goods in your desk and let’s go. Okay?”
She waves an arm down the hallway like Vanna White showing off a yacht behind a shimmering curtain. “Before we really do get fired. You heard the new boss. Head to the lobby so we can stand around like sorority girls welcoming the newest pledges on the lawn.”
“Right. But . . .” I pull away from her arm, backtracking out of her reach. “I . . . I forgot a book Oswald has been asking about. He wanted to see if he could get an advance copy of Jenny’s February release—”
“Thriving in Premenopause?” Lyla asks. “Why would old Ossie want a copy of Thriving in Premenopause?”
But before she can say anything more, I turn and book it down the rest of the hall.
“Are you at least going to bring back my bag?” she calls out.
“Three minutes!” I repeat over my shoulder and turn the corner.
As my footsteps widen the space between Lyla and me, I feel as if I’ve entered the last moments of the Titanic before it completely submerged. In a world typically humming with conversations and people passing to and fro, all the hallways are dead. The wallpaper—probably dating back to Titanic days itself—doesn’t help the mood. Everything around me screams the same vibe I would’ve felt had I been a passenger back then, recklessly running back, deep into the lower levels of the ship, to grab one last priceless thing.
I wind around the corner and take my first step onto the small spiral staircase in front of me. The tiny, ornate steps barely contain the balls of my feet. Halfway up and my breath comes in short spurts as I grip and regrip the curving railing. Had this not been my home, my refuge, had I not ventured up this very staircase so many of the last 687 days, I would’ve without question lost my footing.
A stretch of faded yellow wallpaper greets me at the top of the stairs. There is no carpeting on this floor, only creaky hardwood screeching like an off-key violin with every step. I can only assume the unusual lack of maintenance on this floor is because nobody ventures up to the attic level. Who cares about improving a floor nobody except the rare visiting author treads on?
I move to the door at the end of the hall and check my watch.
Two minutes and twenty seconds. Perfect. If anyone asks, I just had to step away for a twenty-second bathroom break.
The door is closed. There is a simple black plaque beside it, just as all the rooms at Pennington Publishing are marked. In small gold script it reads Storage. It’s not what we actually call it—we all call it the ARC room—but at any rate, that’s its given name.
Nothing wild. Nothing out of the ordinary from any publishing house. Just . . . an ARC room.
But even as I grab hold of the old glass knob, I feel a tingle.
Magic.
The door creaks in a kind of screeching harmony with the floorboards as I push it open. Inside, the ceiling slants precariously low this way and that, matching the exterior of the old Victorian house and its multigabled roof. The room is dark in the windowless space, but without hesitating I take three steps forward, two right, sidestep a cardboard box, and reach blindly up for the chain. The lightbulb flares to life, illuminating everything in a vintage yellow hue.
Books.
Rows and rows of books.
Aisles of books. Shelf after shelf, crate after crate of books as far as the eye can see.
I inhale the smell of old pine, baked insulation, and freshly printed paper and move to the next aisle, where I pull on another string. The light roars to life, then another. Floorboards creak as I pass aisle after aisle, trying my best to ignore the glinting hardcovers and sheening paperbacks of new releases.
I can’t help it. There’s something about being in a room filled with free books that always makes me feel like a kid in a candy shop.
Every publishing house has an ARC room—a place dedicated for advance review copies of books about to be released. Influencers and bookstagrammers need to see advance copies so they can polish and post their reviews on time. Authors need ARCs for endorsement blurbs. Magazines and publications need a lengthy lead time in order to get their articles lined up for release. And yes, on the rare occasions Pennington authors visit the office, their book-loving souls always spring to life at the mention of a trip to the ARC room. In fact, on more than one occasion I’ve had to drag an author out of the room when he or she took my words “Take whatever you want” to heart.
(And no, as I’ve had to explain multiple times, taking six copies of the same book for “Christmas presents” isn’t what we have in mind when we offer.)
But I can never be too hard on them. I understand them.
Free books.
Free prerelease books.
Only a true reader would understand. Saying the music-to-ears words, “Browse around. Anything in this room is yours”? Well, the cobwebs bordering the bookshelves and hovering around corner crevices always start to glint like gold. The room suddenly smells like a field of tulips. Every creak in the floorboard is a choir singing, “Hallelujah.”
