The bartender gives me a small reprieve by coming to take my drink order, which is just a soda.

“Are you all eating here, or are you waiting for a table?” the bartender asks, pausing with his fingers over some menus that are piled off to the side.

“I figured we could eat here, if that’s okay with you.” Charles raises his eyebrows at me in question.

I’m so surprised he asked my opinion that I nod in agreement. It is already abundantly clear that this whole dinner was a mistake anyway; waiting for a table would only draw it out. The bartender places menus in front of us, but I have a feeling I won’t be needing mine. Sure enough, Charles orders some grilled octopus, empanadas, and curried chicken for both of us before checking if I have any dietary restrictions.

“Nope.” I force a close-lipped smile. “All good here.”

“Great. Those will do nicely for us, I think.” He plucks my menu out of my hands and passes them both back to the bartender.

Charles takes a large swig of his beer, then plunks it down on the bar top with a satisfied ahh. “So, S.J. Your first book, huh?”

“Um…” I know what I’m supposed to say, especially since he hasn’t recognized me. Not to mention Anastasios’s warning from earlier is still ringing in my ears.

“You want to know how I got not one but two imprints trying to win me away from my current one?”

Not really, but I feign interest. “Two?”

He nods as if he is a wise sage and I am his lowly pupil. I’m surprised he doesn’t ask me to take notes. “Anastasios and…” He pauses for what I’m assuming is some kind of dramatic effect. “JMP. You know them?”

My eyebrows shoot up at that, because that’s not how publishing works. Imprints don’t compete against their own. Is that why he didn’t want me to tell anyone I saw him at Anastasios? Because he’s secretly trying to pit them against each other? But luckily, I’m saved from trying to come up with an answer because Charles leans toward me suddenly. He’s so close I can smell the beer on his breath. “Let me give you a little tip.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t trust anyone in this industry. They’re all out to make money off you. They might say they’re interested in your book or that they want what’s best for the manuscript, but they don’t. Not really. Everyone’s always watching the bottom line—how much and what percentage and how many sales to get what in royalties.”

He pauses to take another drink, so it seems like a good time to say something. “Sounds like you’ve been burned before.”