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I fumble with my keys to the front door.

Oh, but remember! You’re going to make your deadline after all!

He’s probably addicted to her siren-like ways. Can’t help himself falling for her over and over again for this very reason. Maybe that’s how she does it, in fact. On their off seasons, she corners him in some very unsuspecting way and grabs him by the collar, making him yield to her with her silky locks that fall perfectly over one eye and raspberry lip gloss.

Just three more days until you send it in! You’ve done it!

And no matter what happens between us, she’ll always be lurking in the corners, ready to steal him back.

“Savvy, you okay?”

I look up to find I’ve been standing in the middle of the living room, a disgusted expression creeping over my face.

“You look like you might be ill.” Olivia, per usual, cycles on her Peloton, her finger holding a page in place.

“Fine,” I say, rearranging my face into an easy smile. “Fine. Just . . . thinking about a conversation at work.”

“Oh, good,” she says, looking genuinely relieved. “I couldn’t have you missing out on the fundraising banquet.”

In another context, one could construe the words as a sincere sentiment. Like a sister saying, Oh, I’m so relieved you feel well. After all, you are my sister and best friend, and I’d hate to go to any fun event without you. But I know better. I know what she’s really thinking.

The Steps-4-Life fundraising banquet happens at the end of every February. It serves as both a motivational moment for Olivia to step onstage and rally everyone into finishing their step-a-thon challenge strong and—with little silver bowls set at the center of each table—a place for the wealthy and fit to give back to the community and keep the program going. My job is kind of like the senator’s family’s job. We stand behind her during her speech, smiling and looking pretty.

“And don’t forget we’re wearing warrior blue,” she adds.

I frown. “I told you, Olivia. I don’t have anything in ‘warrior blue.’ And I don’t have time”—or money, I think to myself—“to go shopping. Can’t I just wear the red dress you had me get last year? I’ve only worn that one once.” Last year. For this same dull event.

Olivia’s frown deepens into one of disgust. “Red isn’t in the palette, Savvy. The theme colors are warrior blue and victory white. And we have to match. You’ll be onstage for pictures. Don’t you want to look nice in the pictures?”

She cycles faster, concerns over the color of my fabric revving her up. “And I’d be happy to let you borrow one of my dresses. It’s just . . .”

She trails off, and I finish for her. “I know. You’re a size 2, and I’m an elephant.” I turn toward the hallway.

“You wouldn’t have to feel that way if you just let me help you!” she cries out from behind me, over her own speeding, spider-web legs.

For the rest of the evening I finish up some edits for one of my authors and then work through my own manuscript on my computer, reading and rereading with the most critical eye I’ve ever had on it. And yet, by the time I click off the lamp and crawl into bed, I feel certain. Finally certain.

My manuscript is ready.

All except the final scene.

* * *

The next morning, I drop by the ARC room before the coffee is even brewing in the breakroom, and the halls are fresh and polished with the lemony scent of Pine-Sol. I don’t know if I am actually expecting anything miraculous to have happened overnight, but still, the desire to know if my mystery editor has responded is too strong to let me wait.

I won’t write the scene for you. But . . . maybe I can help.

I’m pretty sure at that moment I look like a praying mantis. A praying mantis with enormous eyes bugged out of her head.

He can . . . help.

Me.

To write a kissing scene.

It’s not the words exactly that I’m so focused on but the three periods in the middle. But dot dot dot maybe I can help.

My cheeks begin to grow hot. My forefinger and thumb get a bit slippery as they hold the page.