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“You made a very good impression.”

“I answered a few questions.”

“And you answered them very well.” She squeezes my arm. “Don't underestimate yourself, honey. You've done excellent work these last few months.”

The compliment settles somewhere deep in my chest.

“Thank you.”

“I mean it. Samantha and I were just talking about how much you've grown.”

I glance toward the crowd. “Do you think there's any chance Wilder House might have something permanent when my internship ends?”

Angela's smile softens. “I know Samantha would love to keep you. But you know how budgets are.”

I nod. Of course I do.

I've heard enough conversations about acquisitions, staffing, and quarterly projections to know that being good at your job doesn't necessarily mean there's money to keep you.

“But,” Angela adds, “people are noticing your work. That's important.”

I look toward the Montgomerys. Beau is speaking with one of the senior editors while Lucy laughs at something another guest has said.

For the first time since arriving in Chicago, I let myself imagine that maybe I really could build a career in publishing.

Not just an internship.

Not just a temporary position.

Something that belongs to me.

By the time I find a quiet corner near the fiction shelves, my feet are beginning to ache.

I've talked to more people tonight than I normally do in an entire week.

And surprisingly, I've enjoyed it.

I pull out my phone.

Three messages from Bishop.

Bishop: How's the party?

Bishop: You behaving yourself?

Bishop: Starting to think I should've warned somebody about letting you loose in a bookstore with alcohol.

I smile.

Me: Too late. I've already caused a scandal.

His reply appears almost immediately.

Bishop: Do I need to call my lawyer?

Me: Avery invented a cocktail and named it after you.

Bishop: Should I be flattered or concerned?