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At this he chuckles, almost as though he expected as much from me. “Actually, Savannah, I purposefully sent her a dozen proposals. Particularly for that reason. She chose yours.”

I can’t help it. The idea that she actually chose mine over others is elating, and I can’t help grinning. “And where, exactly, did you get a dozen proposals?”

“Why, from Claire Donovan,” he replies. “An old friend. Of course.”

When I stare at him, he continues. “I wasn’t making it up when I said in that meeting that Claire is a friend, and one whom I intended to meet with before her retirement. I did get that meeting to discuss a potential project—which, as you know, was this one—and she happily offered up several rejected proposals she thought had promise but that she’d been unable, for one reason or another, to take on.”

“And of the stack of proposals . . .”

“Maggie decided to pursue three, yours being the most promising.”

And here his temples crinkle with his smile as he watches my bewildered face, and his voice softens. “Which isn’t surprising. Because I meant it when I said your story is a good one. And that it deserves to be heard.”

“Even though . . .” I can’t help pressing the point. I can’t help wanting to be absolutely sure he realizes what he’s saying. “It was turned down by Baird Books.”

“Their loss,” he parries, undeterred in the slightest. “Savannah, I have had a decade at Sterling in the book business. Beyond that, I was quite literally born into this book business. I know the industry. And I know that if you let us give your book a chance, we can sell it to the world.”

If I let him. If. He has to know there’s no question. Doesn’t he?

“I must tell you, I’m really awful at TikTok,” I say after a lengthy pause. “I’ve been at it two weeks and have five followers. And I’m not sure any of them are real people.”

He’s pressing his lips together, trying to smother his smile. “I think we will be able to succeed despite that setback.”

“And I created a newsletter. But right now the only subscribers are my sister and parents.”

“I’m sure you have terrific open-and-click rates, then,” he responds. “And for that matter, I’ll let you go ahead and subscribe me to that list.”

He’s serious.

He truly believes in my book, despite all those other things. There is truly a contract on the table.

And for a long second I can’t think of anything else to say. All I can do is try my best to gather up the threads of this conversation in a big heap in my arms and hold tight to them as the tangle they are until I can slip away and take the time to unravel it all. And take a snapshot in my mind of this moment. So I can remember everything about the way he’s looking at me now.

His crinkly smile lessens, and his expression shifts as the banter falls away. “I want you to know that none of this is because of my feelings for you. You truly have written a wonderful book, and despite how things have shaped up for us personally, on a professional level I have nothing but respect and admiration for your teachable spirit and creative ideas. I really do believe that under Maggie’s expertise you can succeed here, and—”

I lift a hand. “I’m sorry. I think we need to back up to a critical piece of this puzzle.”

And just then I see Brittney come up behind Will and tap his shoulder. Sam is standing by her side, looking anxious and uncomfortable.

Will turns.

“May I have that back, please?” she says, looking pointedly at the mug in Will’s hand. “It has sentimental value.”

“It’s fine, Brittney,” Sam says, chuckling uncertainly. “They just want to borrow them.”

“Sam. For the fifteenth time, it isn’t borrowing if someone takes it without asking and keeps it for weeks on end.” She turns her gaze back on us with a sweet smile.

I’ll admit, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Brittney talk out loud since she joined the company as Ms. Pennington’s personal assistant. All I’ve seen her do is run after Ms. Pennington, scribbling furiously with her pen and pad. It’s funny. Her voice doesn’t sound anything like I would’ve imagined. Much less . . . delicate.

Will and I drop our eyes to the mug in his hands.

“So . . . this isn’t yours?” he says, looking at me. “You didn’t add this to the room?”

“I didn’t,” I say immediately, putting my hand on my chest. “I thought it was you.” I laugh. “I mean, I did think it was pretty cheesy of you to add them, now that I think of it, but—”

“Hey, now,” Brittney says, frowning as she holds out her hand.

Will promptly hands her the mug.