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Will observes her. “Does this make you . . . happy, Tawnya?”

“Does it?” she says and pulls three small, thick paperbacks from her bag, lovestruck couples on each cover of peppy blues and pinks and greens.

And for the first time—in a long time, really—I see Will crack a smile. For the first time, his shoulders start to ease. “I’m glad to hear that. And I’d like to thank you for that nice segue into my next point. In addition to these changes, the ArcherPennington division here will be starting a second brand-new line of commercial fiction. A line devoted to publishing sweet, uplifting romances. It’s going to be called Archer Heart.”

My heart almost stops.

A new line. A . . . romance line.

“I’ve been working with your CEO and my mother for some time regarding its development. And while my mother, as many of you know, may have some quibbles with entertainment fiction as a whole, she has come to see the value in stories that are enjoyable for the masses to read but also offer some of the fundamental messages our literary greats have shared in their own time. Messages of unity. Of overcoming evil with good. Of love conquering all. And I can think of no one better to represent this line as an example of what the world at large can expect from Archer Heart . . . than an author I’ve been privileged to know for some time. Holly Ray.”

Now my heart really does stop.

I grab the chair in front of me for support.

“Holly Ray? Have you heard of her?” I hear from someone across the room.

“Oh yes, I read her for a book club. Quite good,” says another.

“Ohhhh. Holly Rayyyy,” whispers another, as though she just mentioned someone who’s been a favorite of hers for decades.

Will catches my eye then. There’s an unmistakable upturn of his lips peeking from his professional posture as he continues, holding the paper, shifting his gaze back to the audience.

“I have read and vetted this manuscript personally, and after multiple discussions with friends and colleagues in the mass markets, I sent the novel to Maggie Samson”—he pauses to give a nod her way—“who will be heading up the Archer Heart imprint. In short, she loved it.” He pauses again, and his grin grows. “And I am pleased to announce on her behalf that she and her team intend to pull together a competitive contract offer for a three-book deal. Now all we need to hope is that Holly takes it.”

An appreciative chuckle moves around the room.

Meanwhile I can’t breathe. Can’t move.

Will at last sets down the paper in his hand. Puts his speech aside as he addresses the room. “So, expect things to start shuffling around pretty soon. It’ll be a bear working out our new positions. And I have no doubt there will be tensions at times. But overall, my mother and I are very pleased with this decision and hope you are as well.” And then, with an unsolicited smile my way, he raises his green coffee mug in the air. “To ArcherPennington and a promising future.”

And while the meeting moves on to other, more logistical matters, I can’t hear any of it. Because the world around me has quaked so heavily whole columns that were holding up my previous beliefs have crumbled, leaving me unable to do anything but stare at the crushed pieces at my feet. My mystery editor wasn’t Sam. It was never Sam.

It was Will. All those notes, all those messages, were for him. From him.

It’s been him all along.

The energy in the air crackles as the meeting comes to an end. People all around are talking excitedly to one another, a buzz of questions including, “Who is going to take over each division, then?” And “Does that mean we get to pick which genre we’d like to specialize in?” And even “He’s not going to make me read thrillers, is he? Because I won’t, Gertrude. I won’t.”

As for me, I may as well have my shoes nailed to the carpet, because I don’t think I can walk.

Nearly everyone has trickled out by the time Will reaches me.

My head is whirring, my brain still trying to compute everything that has just happened and been confirmed, and failing.

As he walks up to me, his steps are wary. He’s grinning, but despite that, there’s some uncertainty in his eyes.

“Let me get this straight,” I say as he stops in front of me. “You’re offering me a contract.”

He shakes his head. “I am not offering you a contract. Maggie is offering you a contract.”

“Yes, right. Maggie.” I nod, then give about six extra nods to myself while glancing Maggie’s way. “Does she know it’s me?”

Again he shakes his head. “I’ll leave that up to your discretion.”

“Sure.” I nod again, letting this settle in. So Maggie chose my manuscript. Not because we shared a yogurt in the breakroom one time. Not because I purposefully went with pumpkin syrup in my coffee once because I knew she wanted the last of the vanilla. Not out of workplace-sister solidarity. But because she liked my book. She liked my book.

And then, because I am apparently incapable of letting a good thing lie, a little rain-cloud thought forms, and I narrow my eyes. “So basically you handed her the manuscript, and she liked it because she had to. You’re her boss.”