Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
I’m halfway to Blanche’s corner office when I hear a chair roll across the carpet and a baby-faced man sticks his head out of a cubicle. Darius Daniels—of course he’s here. Spoiler alert: his chances of nabbing that promotion skyrocketed this morning.
“Hey, Veronica. You’re in early today,” he says, all chipper and pretend clueless, like he didn’t read my fantasies about Mister Sexy Pants.
“Early bird and all,” I say, not in the mood for small talk.
“Hope you get the worm,” he says with a too-big grin, then rolls back to his desk in his chair, his lips twitching in a grin.
I continue down the hall where Blanche waits at the door. “Thanks for coming in early,” she says, giving me a kind smile. I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.
“Of course. Anytime,” I say, nerves coiling inside me.
Blanche snicks the door shut, then gestures to a soft green chair in the seating area in front of her desk. I take it, and she sits across from me. Her red cat’s-eye glasses reflect me and my tilt-a-whirl of emotions.
Before she can start, I own my mistake. Maybe I can get ahead of trouble with my atonement. “Whatever you need me to do to make up for this, I will. I want to make this right. I’m so sorry about the mix-up, but I hope the editorial letter impresses you and Miss Millicent.”
Blanche is quiet for a long, weighty pause, fighting with an errant strand of blonde hair that’s fallen from her French twist. “Veronica,” she says heavily, and my shoulders fall. Her tone is all I need to know. “You’re a wonderfully talented editor and I’ve loved working with you . . .”
Don’t cry.
The entire company has read my dirty daydreams. They don’t get to witness my real tears.
“I’ve loved working with you, Blanche,” I say, taking time with each word so I don’t fall to pieces.
“But we just lost one of our biggest writers because of this mix-up,” Blanche says, and there’s pain in her voice. Regret too. “I wish I didn’t have to do this, but the decision came from the top.”
I grimace but keep my chin up and my big girl panties on. “I should have been more careful. I should have checked the email before—”
I swallow “my cat jumped on the keyboard.” No one wants to hear the dog-ate-my-homework excuse.
“Things happen with email,” she says. “Sometimes I wish we didn’t live in a digital age. In any case, I called you in so you can collect your things. And because it’s easier to say this than to write this. We won’t share your name as the perpetrator.”
While that’s a relief, secrecy is a small consolation. Now the entire company knows my hymen’s intact, I’m horny for my next-door neighbor, and I regularly chronicle my imaginary sex-ploits for The Dating Pool. Gossip is the tastiest treat in the publishing business, and by lunch, everyone will be dining on news of my secret identity. Will I ever get another job in the industry again?
“Thank you,” I say, keeping a stiff upper lip.
“We don’t want to fan these flames,” Blanche says, “so we’ve instructed the entire company that this incident falls under the purview of the non-disclosure agreements they signed upon hiring, and disciplinary action may follow if they disclose details anywhere or to anyone.”
Oh!
McGee Whitney Books really wants to bury this story, which might work in my favor if I ever want to work in children’s publishing again.
“I appreciate that so much,” I say, clinging to that spark of hope.
Blanche stands, indicating the meeting is over. Thanking her, I follow suit, then head for the door.
She clears her throat. “For what it’s worth, I hope everything works out with Mister Sexy Pants and that whoever you meant to send that saucy letter to gets it after all.”
Hold the presses.
That spark of hope ignites into fireworks. McGee Whitney Books doesn’t know I write a column on sex and virginity? They just think I mistakenly sent them a raunchy letter meant for . . . a friend?
Oh. My. God.
Of course they think that. I didn’t include in my email the name of my column, The Virgin Club, or my sign-off, Your Friendly Neighborhood Virgin, because those are automatically added in The Dating Pool system.
And if Agnes won’t name names, then maybe, just maybe, the small world of publishing won’t know Veronica Valentine is the sex and sandwich editor.
As long as the column doesn’t run.
I’ll have to call Bellamy as soon as I leave and ask her to kill the piece. I’ll send her a replacement column, stat. I have all day to write a new one and still meet her evening publishing deadline.
Turning around to face Blanche, I mime zipping my lips. “I promise I won’t say a word either,” I say, then I grab the knob so I can hightail it out of here and alert Bellamy.