Jackpot. “Cookie butter,” I say triumphantly when I see the container that my little bit of tidying up revealed.

“You need protein,” Trina protests.

“I’ll go to the store after we talk. Promise. Now, please. I am begging you. Tell me you think you can sell this book.”

“I think I can sell this book.” I can picture her bright red painted lips breaking into a huge smile when she says it. “In fact, I know I can. JMP has acquired a new press and—”

“No,” I cut her off. “Absolutely not. I’m not going back to JMP or any of their subsidiaries. Find somewhere else.”

Now I can just about picture those red lips pressing into a thin, frustrated line. “Scarlett—”

“No,” I repeat, more firmly this time. My toast pops up out of the toaster as if punctuating the sentence. I’m seriously lacking clean plates, so I toss it onto a paper towel and use the spoon that was resting in the jar to spread a generous helping of cookie butter on top.

“It’s a totally separate imprint, despite the acquisition. New editors. Way better vibe. I’ve been working with one of the editors, Casey, on another project. He’s great.”

“Casey is not a new editor,” I say around a mouthful. “I remember him from JMP.”

“Well, yes,” Trina says slowly. “He came over from JMP to help get the ball rolling. But as far as I know, he’s the only one who made the move. And more importantly, his wish list has ‘highly emotional literary fiction’ right on there.”

She’s not going to let this go. Trina might be the only person in the industry who is more stubborn than me. It’s one of the reasons we work so well together, but it sure is infuriating when I try to put my foot down and get blocked by her logic and reasoning.

“There are hundreds of imprints. Can’t we go somewhere else? A small press, maybe?”

I don’t want to say it out loud, but I’m not looking for another million-dollar deal. They don’t just hand you a million dollars and say, Go write a book! No. They need to make their money back, and then some. Which means press tours and more books to generate more interest… It was too much pressure the last time, and it ended in me walking out of JMP’s offices with the tatters of my torn-up pending contract for three new books in my hands and a broken heart in my chest. Not only did my career die that day, but I left the state and walked away from my ex-boyfriend, another one of JMP’s editors. I spiraled into a deep depression, lost all my friends, my family—who had never been supportive of my career in the arts—more or less disowned me. And the rest is history.