But what if he thought the idea was stupid? I could picture him at his desk, the only person in the open-concept offices of Tea with a door, albeit a glass one. He’d have his legs kicked up in front of him, arms clasped behind his head, shoulders and torso shaking with mirth over a story inspired by the Hallmark Channel.

I gazed out the window, wishing I could switch places with the little blond girl walking past, holding hands with both her mom and dad. It was a memory I didn’t have. I swallowed down the lump in my throat. Then I glanced at my phone again. Five hours down, forty-three to go. Hurry up, Derek.

I stood with a sigh. I had eight minutes left of my break, but working was preferable to idle time when my mind was able to conjure up images of Derek laughing at my idea before returning a sugary-sweet yet condescending rejection. Why did I bother? I observed my coworkers scrubbing tables, restocking the prepackaged salads and sandwiches on the shelves, and taking orders for iced coffees and chai lattes. Was this my destiny? The month I had worked at Tea creating content and helping to put out a publication was the best time of my professional life. Would I ever have that again?

My phone vibrated, announcing an incoming call, and I froze, then grasped the edge of the table for support. I sat back down and answered before registering who it might be. “Hello?”

“Adina!”

Derek. My pulse jumped to my throat, and my belly fluttered with nerves. He’d always emailed his passes, never called. It had to mean something. “This is she.” He didn’t need to know that I knew who it was.

“It’s Derek from Tea, responding to your pitch. About Pleasant Hollow. It has potential. With a few conditions.”

Another thing about Derek: He almost never talked in sentences more than five words long. But he thought my story had potential!

“What conditions?” I squeezed my knee to keep it from wobbling.

“You go to Pleasant Hollow. Stay there. No phone interviews. I want legitimacy.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” If writing the story was an orgasm, a trip to a quaint small town to write it was a multiple.

“On your dime. No reimbursements. Claim it as a tax deduction. Not my business. Fee on delivery.”

“Of course.” I said it matter-of-factly as if I had stacks of hundred-dollar bills bursting out of a crammed safe-deposit box in a bank cellar somewhere. I had no such thing. I didn’t even have excess quarters in an old-fashioned piggy bank. But I’d worry about that later. First things first. “What’s your fee?”

“Twenty-five cents a word.”