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 smile against him, then steal a glance at the clock. The store opens in ten minutes. Maybe a trip back to the sex zone will do the trick. I’ll recalibrate too, on the sex list, and only the list.
“How sturdy is your desk?” I ask.
We find out it’s very sturdy, indeed.
24
Oops!
Veronica
* * *
The next afternoon at three o’clock, I grab my purse, take a breath, and turn to Iris. “I appreciate you coming in so much,” I say.
Despite her tired eyes, she waves it off, then gestures to the flowers. “It’s good to be back with my buds,” she says, then manages a smile.
I head over to see Milo and Zara, letting them know I’m off for my interview.
“You’ll wow them,” Zara says, with a note of admiration in her tone.
“She will,” Milo says proudly.
I draw a breath of their confidence, then go. On the subway uptown, my phone pings with a text.
* * *
Milo: You’ll be amazing. I’ll meet you outside Central Park at six-thirty and I fully expect to celebrate.
* * *
Veronica: Cross all your fingers and toes.
* * *
Milo: Trudy is crossing her paws too.
* * *
I’m about to keep this volley going, but I shouldn’t rely on him too much. He’s not my boyfriend. I can’t depend on him, so I click over to another text thread instead—one with my mom and sister.
* * *
Veronica: Wish me luck, Valentine ladies.
* * *
Mom: You’ve so got this! Also, I noticed you didn’t even ask for outfit approval, which I take as a good sign that you’re feeling better about your own radar.
* * *
Hazel: She didn’t ask me either. Because she knows she’s going to kick butt like the Valentine she is!
* * *
Veronica: Valentine power!
* * *
When the subway rattles into the stop, I turn off my phone, bound to the street, and head inside the Midtown building. After I check in at the lobby, the elevator whisks me upstairs, and quickly, I’m escorted to Alfonso’s office.
I’ve studied the books Alfonso has edited, from celebrity memoirs to a thriller written by a pop star to a children’s book penned by an Instagram influencer. He boasts an eclectic list, and I’m eager to hear what he’s up to in the kid-lit world.
The dapper man in the checked shirt and smart vest, waiting at the door, smiles. “So pleased to meet you, Miss Valentine. I love your résumé, and your books, and your work,” he says, shaking hands, and he’s so friendly, I’m halfway in love already.
“So great to meet you too,” I say.
He gestures to a chair across from the desk, so I take it and sit while he returns to the desk.
“I enjoyed March to Your Own Drum,” I add, since I read the instagrammer’s book last night.
It wasn’t bad.
“Glad to hear that,” he says, then goes on to tell me how much he liked Frog and Prince. “Your work on that series was tremendous. Agnes was lucky to have you guiding her stories.”
I hesitate before I speak. McGee Whitney Books was notoriously cautious about revealing who edited Agnes. She worked with several editors, and usually only spoke broadly about her team. “She’s quite a talent,” I say, giving a broad answer too.
“She is,” Alfonso says, cheerily. Then he clears his throat. “Thank you again for coming in. We are in the early stages of putting together an anthology, and we think you’d be great for it.”
I sit up straighter. Fight off a smile. I would be great.
“Wonderful. I can’t wait to hear about it,” I say, eagerly, as shoes click on the hardwood floor outside the office, growing closer. There’s a rap on the door. I turn, and it’s . . . Darius.
Smiling cloyingly.
“Veronica! My last call ran late, but I’m so glad you could come in. I told Alfonso you’d be perfect for the project.”
Darius recommended me? The guy who left McGee Whitney Books because he didn’t get the gig? He doesn’t seem like the type to refer people.
A warning light flashes on the dashboard, but I steer carefully in case I’m wrong. “Thanks. I appreciate it,” I say cautiously.
Darius rubs his palms together. “So are you in?”
Alfonso clears his throat. “I haven’t told her the details yet, Mister Daniels.”
Darius’s smile brightens. “Oh, good. I was worried I missed it,” he says, sounding genuinely eager as he strides in and parks himself on the edge of the couch.
Alfonso squares his shoulders. “We’re putting together a fun little coffee table book. Stories from various corners of the Web. We’re calling it Oops! Tales from the Internet.”
My head spins as I begin recalculating this meeting. “I take it this isn’t a children’s book?”
Darius chortles. “It’s so much better, and you’ll be perfect,” he says.
“No. It’s non-fiction,” Alfonso continues, exhaling deeply. “Think of it as an anthology. We want to fill it with stories of Internet booboos. Little mistakes and silly do-overs.”