The pouty lips were back, joined by the frown. At least the eyebrows had lowered. They had annoyed him, and while he was being annoyed, he didn’t like the way the glistening eyes had suddenly stopped looking teary, transforming to fierce.

“No,” she said.

“No, as in you’ll think about it?”

“No, as in this story is mine. I don’t know this editor or your agent. You shock me, seriously shock me after everything. I’m not selling pieces of my soul to achieve this… this publishing success thing.”

Well, that wasn’t even a nod toward compromise. She sounded as if she imagined herself an artist and he a hack. He tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice and had widened his smile, to convey a fatherly concern. As he spoke, he felt the ire rise in him that he even had to explain this.

“What you’re trying to achieve is not a success thing. You’re chasing every author’s dream. Publication. Handed to you on a silver platter, I might add. My mentoring. Feedback from a Big Five publisher. I referred you to my agent, who wasn’t interested, but I insisted, so he tried. Where would you be without my help? Wishing and hoping.”

The Dusty Springfield song flipped into his head. Wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’, plannin’ and dreamin’.

He recalled making a mental note to download that song when he got home. It was one of those songs requiring repeated plays to repel the annoyance from your subconscious otherwise you’d suffer for days with a catchy melody invading every thought.

Somewhere during his speech, his smile had disappeared, and he found it difficult to recover while focused on her. He had tried, but when he spoke next, he may have sounded harsher than he intended. He’d meant to make a joke of the tension, for he still had the upbeat Springfield song floating through his mind. The problem was he couldn’t bring that wishin’ and hopin’ zing to his words.

“Listen, Orelia, you’re new to this, and if you care for advice from someone with a smidgeon—” He pincered his thumb and forefinger together and shook it near his face. “more experience. Just suck this up and move on.”

The color her face turned at his words was as vibrant now as then. An unripe peach, mottled-pink. William realized he’d gone a little too far. Even looking back now, he saw himself as if he competed on a reality TV show. This interaction would have cast him as the evil character everyone loved to hate.

That wouldn’t be the truth though. He wasn’t mean. He was helpful. He thought of himself as the endearing, I’ll-help-you-in-any-way-I-can competitor. That’s the way they should cut his segments. If he was on a show, they should realize this was just a bad, frustrating day and this other person, Orelia the wannabe, wasn’t helping his cause.

Only a week before this, his patience with her might have been better controlled, but the real issue that he couldn’t get past was the few dreadful, bristling-nasty early reviews appearing for Hidden in the Shadows. He’d been doing a little thinkin’ and prayin’ himself these last few days, hoping they’d disappear by some miracle. Or stop appearing. Morris had assured him they would, but they kept coming, an avalanche of disrespectful abuse. His temper grew shorter with each new one.