When books are your life—or, in my case, your job—you get pretty good at predicting where a story is headed. The tropes, archetypes, and typical plot twists all start to categorize themselves in your mind, neatly organized by genre.
The husband is the killer. The nerd gets a makeover, and suddenly, minus her glasses, she’s stunning. The guy gets the girl—or sometimes, the other girl does. Someone dives into a complex scientific concept, only for another character to respond with, “Um, in English, please?”
Details may vary from book to book, but truly, there’s nothing new under the sun.
Take, for example, the small-town love story. You know the kind: a jaded hotshot from New York or LA is sent to Smalltown, USA, likely to close a family-owned business to make way for some soulless corporation. But things don’t go as planned, because, of course, the Christmas tree farm (or bakery, or bookstore) they’re supposed to shut down is owned by someone improbably attractive and just as improbably single.
Back in the city, our lead has a partner: a ruthless romantic interest who pushes them to finish the job, take the promotion, and move on. Said partner barks out cold advice from the seat of their Peloton, often while multitasking. You can tell they’re the “villain” because of their meticulously slicked-back hair, maybe even platinum blonde, à la Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, and an aversion to Christmas decorations.
Meanwhile, the lead spends more time with the charming baker/seamstress/tree-farm owner and undergoes a change of heart, discovering the true meaning of life. Returning to the city, they propose a “break” to their cold-hearted partner, who reacts with something like, “In these Manolos?” as they head for a walk. The lead will ask them to look up at the stars, only for them to reply, “I just got Botox!” The realization dawns: they can’t go back to their old life and promptly propose to their newfound small-town love. (Because who needs dating?)
By this point, you’re yelling at the book: “You don’t even know her! What’s her middle name?” And your sister, Libby, glances up just long enough to hush you and throw a handful of popcorn in your direction.
And that’s why I’m running late to this lunch meeting.
Because that’s my life: the trope that defines my days, the archetype onto which my own details are projected. I’m the city person—not the one who finds true love with a small-town farmer. No, I’m the other one, the uptight literary agent, perched atop her Peloton, reading manuscripts as her serene beach screen saver floats across her laptop screen.
I’m the one who gets dumped.
I’ve read this story—and lived it—enough times to know it’s happening again right now, as I dodge the late-afternoon Midtown foot traffic, clutching my phone.
He hasn’t said it yet, but I can feel it in my bones. Grant was supposed to be in Texas for two weeks, just long enough to wrap up a deal with a boutique hotel near San Antonio. Given my experience with post–work-trip breakups, I reacted to the news like he’d announced he was joining the navy. Libby told me I was overreacting, but I wasn’t surprised when he began missing our calls and cutting conversations short. I knew where this was headed.
Three days ago, right before his return flight, fate intervened. Grant’s appendix burst. Theoretically, I could’ve flown down to meet him at the hospital, but I was in the middle of a huge sale, glued to my phone. Grant assured me it was “no big deal.” And deep down, I knew I was surrendering him to the small-town-romance gods.
Now, three days later, as I practically sprint to lunch in my Good Luck heels, my knuckles white against my phone, I hear Grant’s voice delivering the final blow.
“Say that again,” I order, even though I mean it as a question.
Grant sighs. “I’m not coming back, Nora. Things have changed for me this week.” He even laughs. “I’ve changed.”
A dull thud lands in my cold, city-person heart. “Is she a baker?” I ask.
He hesitates. “What?”
“The woman you’re leaving me for. Is she a baker?”
After a brief silence, he relents. “She’s the daughter of the hotel owners. They’ve decided not to sell, so I’m going to stay on and help run the place.”
I can’t help it; I laugh. Bad news has always made me laugh. It’s probably why I’m cast as the “villainess” in my own life, but what else am I supposed to do? Melt into tears on a crowded sidewalk?
Outside the restaurant, I rub at my eyes and clarify, “So, just to be clear: you’re giving up your incredible job, your incredible apartment, and me, to move to Texas and be with someone whose résumé reads daughter of the hotel owners?”
“There’s more to life than money and a fancy career, Nora,” he snaps.
I laugh again. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Grant, who grew up with more than a silver spoon, probably had a golden crib. He’s the billionaire’s son whose career was handed to him, but now, he’s talking like money means nothing.
Apparently, I must say this last part aloud, because he demands, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Through the restaurant window, I check the time. I’m late—I’m never late. “Grant, you’re a thirty-four-year-old heir. For most of us, jobs are directly tied to survival.”
He fires back, “See? This is what I can’t stand anymore. You’re so cold, Nora. Chastity and I want to—”
It’s unintentional when I laugh at her name. But really, after everything, he’s leaving me for someone named Chastity? It’s like the universe just won’t quit with the clichés.
He sighs on the other end of the line. “These people, Nora—they’re good people, salt of the earth. That’s the kind of person I want to be. And look, don’t act upset—”
“Who’s acting?” I responded.
“You’ve never needed me—”
“Of course I don’t!” I snap back. I’ve worked hard to build a life that’s completely my own, one no one else can pull the plug on to send me spiraling.
“You’ve never even stayed over at my place,” he says.
“My mattress is objectively better!” I retorted. I spent nine and a half months researching it before buying. It’s also pretty much how I approach dating—and yet, here I am.
“—so don’t pretend you’re heartbroken,” Grant continues. “I’m not sure you’re even capable of being heartbroken.”
I laugh again.
Because of this, he’s wrong. After you’ve had your heart truly shattered, a phone call like this is nothing. A minor twinge, maybe, or a murmur—certainly not a break.
Grant presses on: “I’ve never even seen you cry.”
You’re welcome, I think. How many times had Mom told us, through her own tears, that her latest boyfriend thought she was “too emotional”?
That’s the paradox of being a woman: wear your heart on your sleeve, and you’re hysterical; keep it tucked away, and you’re a cold, heartless bitch.
“I’ve got to go, Grant,” I say.
“Of course you do,” he replies.
Apparently, sticking to my commitments just further proves that I’m a frigid robot who sleeps on a bed of hundred-dollar bills and raw diamonds. (If only.)
I hang up without another word, ducking beneath the restaurant’s awning. I take a deep breath, waiting to see if the tears will come.
They don’t. They never do—and I’m okay with that.
I have a job to do, and unlike Grant, I’m going to do it—for myself and for everyone at Nguyen Literary Agency.
I smooth my hair, square my shoulders, and head inside, where the burst of air conditioning sends goosebumps along my arms.
It’s late for lunch, so the crowd is thin. Near the back, I spot Charlie Lastra, dressed in all black, like publishing’s version of a metropolitan vampire.
We’ve never met in person, but I’d double-checked the Publishers Weekly announcement about his promotion to executive editor at Wharton House Books and committed his photograph to memory: stern, dark brows; light brown eyes; a slight crease in his chin below full lips. He has the kind of dark mole on his cheek that, on a woman, would be considered a beauty mark.
He can’t be far past his mid-thirties, with a face you might describe as boyish if not for the tired look in his eyes and the gray streaks peppered through his black hair.
Also, he’s scowling. Or maybe pouting. His mouth has a pout while his forehead scowls. Powling.
He glances at his watch.
Not a great sign. Right before I left, my boss, Amy, had warned me that Charlie is famously testy, but I wasn’t worried—I’m always punctual. Except for today, when I was dumped over the phone and ended up six and a half minutes late, apparently.
“Hi!” I say, extending my hand. “Nora Stephens. So nice to finally meet in person.”
He stands, his chair scraping the floor. His dark clothes, features, and overall demeanor have the effect of a black hole, pulling the light from the room and absorbing it completely.
Most people wear black as a convenient professional choice, but he makes it look like a capital-C Choice, with his relaxed merino sweater, trousers, and brogues giving him the air of a celebrity snapped on the street by paparazzi. I can’t help calculating the cost of his outfit. Libby calls it my “middle-class party trick,” but I just enjoy beautiful things and often online-window shop to self-soothe after a rough day.
I’d estimate Charlie’s outfit costs between eight hundred and a thousand dollars—about the same as mine, though I bought everything secondhand, except for my shoes.
He examines my outstretched hand for a beat too long before giving it a quick shake. “You’re late,” he says, taking his seat without making eye contact.
Is there anything worse than a man who thinks the social contract doesn’t apply to him just because he was born with a good face and a padded bank account? Grant already exhausted my tolerance for self-important jerks today. Still, for my clients’ sake, I have to play nice.
“I know,” I say, smiling as if apologetically but not actually apologizing. “Thank you for waiting. My train was stopped on the tracks. You know how it is.”
He lifts his eyes to mine. They’re so dark now I can barely make out his irises. His look suggests he doesn’t know how it is when trains stop for reasons both tragic and trivial. He probably never takes the subway.
Maybe he rides around in a shiny black limo—or a Gothic carriage pulled by a team of Clydesdales.
I shrug off my blazer (herringbone, Isabel Marant) and settle into the seat across from him. “Have you ordered yet?”
“No,” he replies flatly. And nothing more.
My hopes sink a little.
We set this get-to-know-you lunch weeks ago, but I’d also just sent him a new manuscript from one of my longest-standing clients, Dusty Fielding. Now, I’m not so sure I want any of my authors to work with this man.
I glance at the menu. “The goat cheese salad here is phenomenal.”
Charlie closes his own menu and looks at me intently. “Before we go any further,” he says, his thick, dark brows drawing together, his voice low and rough, “I should tell you, I found Fielding’s new book unreadable.”
My jaw drops, and I’m momentarily speechless. I hadn’t even planned to discuss the book yet. If Charlie wanted to reject it, he could’ve done so by email—without using the word unreadable.
Besides, any decent person would at least wait until we’ve got some bread on the table before launching into insults.
I close my menu and fold my hands on the table. “I think it’s her best work yet.”
Dusty has already published three other books, each one excellent, though none sold particularly well. Her previous publisher wasn’t willing to take another chance on her, so she’s back in the market, looking for a new home for this next novel. And maybe it’s not my personal favorite of hers, but it has huge commercial potential. With the right editor, I know this book could really shine.
Charlie sits back, his scrutinizing gaze sending a prickling down my spine. His expression reads like he’s looking straight through my polished exterior to all the sharper edges beneath. The look says, Wipe that polite smile off your face. You’re not that nice.
He turns his water glass slowly. “Her best is The Glory of Small Things,” he says, as if three seconds of eye contact was enough to read my mind, and he’s sure he’s speaking for both of us.
To be fair, Glory was one of my favorite books of the last decade, but that doesn’t make this one any less deserving.
“This book is just as good,” I say. “It’s just different—maybe a little less subdued, but that gives it a kind of cinematic quality.”
“Less subdued?” Charlie raises an eyebrow. At least the golden warmth has seeped back into his gaze, so I don’t feel like his eyes are going to burn holes through me. “That’s like saying Charles Manson was a lifestyle guru. Maybe true, but completely beside the point. This book reads like someone saw that Sarah McLachlan commercial on animal cruelty and thought, "But what if all the puppies died on camera?”
An exasperated laugh escapes me. “Fine. It’s clearly not your style. But maybe it would help,” I say, irritated, “if you told me what your style is. Then I’d know what kind of books to send you next time.”
Liar, my brain whispers. You’re not sending him any more books.
Liar, Charlie’s unsettling, owl-like eyes seem to say. You’re not sending me more books.
This lunch—and any chance of a working relationship—is sinking fast. Charlie doesn’t want to work with me, and I’m not particularly eager to work with him either. Still, he hasn’t completely abandoned the rules of basic courtesy, so he takes a moment to consider my question.
“It’s overly sentimental,” he finally says, “and the cast comes off as caricatures—”
“Quirky,” I corrected him. “They’re distinctive, and with such a large cast, their quirks help set them apart.”
“And the setting—”
“What about the setting?” I ask. The setting in Once in a Lifetime is central to the book’s charm. “Sunshine Falls is meant to be idyllic.”
Charlie scoffs and even rolls his eyes. “It’s completely unrealistic.”
“It’s a real place,” I counter. Dusty painted the mountain town so vividly that I’d looked it up myself. Sunshine Falls, North Carolina, is a real spot just outside Asheville.
Charlie shakes his head, visibly annoyed. Well, that makes two of us. If I’m the quintessential City Person, he’s the quintessential Dour Stick-in-the-Mud—the type who only sees clouds. He’s all the worst parts of a misanthrope.
It’s a shame, though, because Charlie has a reputation for being brilliant at his job. Many of my agent friends call him “Midas,” as in, “Everything he touches turns to gold” (although, admittedly, some call him “the Storm Cloud” because, while he makes it rain money, there’s often a catch).
The point is, Charlie Lastra picks winners. And he’s not picking Once in a Lifetime.
Determined to at least leave this meeting on a confident note, I fold my arms across my chest. “For what it’s worth, Sunshine Falls is a real place, no matter how contrived you found it.”
“It might exist,” he replies, “but I’m telling you, Dusty Fielding’s never been there.”
“Why does that matter?” I ask, finally dropping any pretense of politeness.
Charlie’s mouth twitches at my outburst. “You asked me what I disliked about the book—”
“What you liked,” I correct.
“—and I disliked the setting.”
Frustration builds in my chest, tightening my breath. “Then why don’t you just tell me what kinds of books you do like, Mr. Lastra?”
Charlie settles back, stretching out comfortably like a jungle cat toying with its prey. He twists his water glass again; what I’d taken for a nervous tic now feels more like a form of subtle torture. I resist the urge to knock it off the table.
“What I want,” Charlie says, “is early Fielding. The Glory of Small Things.”
“That book didn’t sell,” I point out.
“Only because her publisher didn’t know how to sell it,” Charlie replies smoothly. “Wharton House could. I could.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to keep my expression neutral. Just then, the server arrives. “Can I get you anything while you’re deciding on the menu?” she asks with a smile.
“Goat cheese salad,” Charlie says without even glancing up, as if eager for the chance to critique my favorite dish in the city.
“And for you, ma’am?” she asks, jolting me with the casual “ma’am” that’s almost ghostly in its effect.
“I’ll have that too,” I say. Then, because it’s been a day, and since I have no reason to impress anyone here—and because I’m committed to sitting through at least forty more minutes with someone I have no intention of working with—I add, “And a gin martini. Dirty.”
Charlie raises a brow, barely. It’s three in the afternoon on a Thursday, not exactly happy hour, but with summer winding down and most people taking Fridays off, it might as well be the weekend.
As the server walks away with our order, I mutter, "Rough day."
“Not as rough as mine,” Charlie says, leaving the rest unsaid: I read eighty pages of Once in a Lifetime, then met up with you.
I scoff. “You really didn’t like the setting?”
“I can hardly imagine a worse place to spend four hundred pages.”
“Well,” I reply, “you’re exactly as charming as everyone said you’d be.”
“I can’t help how I feel,” he answers coolly.
I bristle. “That’s like Charles Manson saying he didn’t technically commit the murders. It might be true in some sense, but it’s really not the point.”
The server returns with my martini, and Charlie grumbles, “Could I get one of those, too?”
Later that night, my phone pings with an email.
From: Charlie
Hi Nora,
Feel free to keep me in mind for Dusty’s future projects.
—Charlie
I roll my eyes. No “Nice meeting you.” No “Hope you’re doing well.” Just straight to business. Gritting my teeth, I type back in his own blunt style.
From: Nora
If she writes anything about lifestyle guru Charlie Manson, you’ll be the first to know.
—Nora
I tuck my phone into the pocket of my sweatpants and nudge open the bathroom door, ready for my ten-step skincare routine—otherwise known as the best forty-five minutes of my day. Just as I’m about to start, my phone buzzes again.
From: Charlie
Joke’s on you: I’d very much like to read that.
—C
Determined to get the last word, I type back, Night. (I certainly don’t mean Good night.)
Seconds later, his response arrives: Best, as if he’s wrapping up a nonexistent email.
If there’s anything I hate more than flat shoes, it’s losing. So I reply, x.
Silence. Checkmate. After a long, brutal day, this small victory restores my world to balance. I finish my skincare routine, then indulge in five blissful chapters of a gritty mystery novel. As I sink into my perfect mattress, not a single thought of Grant or his new Texas life crosses my mind. I drift off, sleeping deeply and contentedly.
Like a baby.
Or maybe an ice queen.
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