I clear my throat and run a hand through my hair. “I love h—” I stop myself before I can say her. “This book. You might think I was being swoony, but I don’t know if I can quite describe what it has done for me. Reading it…I feel alive again.” And knowing Scarlett wrote it has energized me. She’s there in those pages; her voice is crystal clear now that I know for sure the words are hers. It has pulled a curtain back on the inner workings of her mind. She’s alive and well, even if only in the book.

A stillness comes over the room. Trina tilts her head and regards me with a heaviness that is entirely unlike her. “Is your excitement about a book really more important than her entire well-being?”

Trina’s worried about her. It’s right there, in the way her throat works against a hard swallow and the slight flare of her nostrils. She doesn’t want to say it, but it’s written on her face, clear as day.

My stomach bottoms out with the realization. Here is her agent, trying to help Scarlett save face and push forward with a publishing house that is already admittedly cautious about working with her again.

This could have been prevented. Maybe. But there’s no telling how another editor would work with her. I know her, at least. And I can fix this.

As if she can see my thoughts playing out on my face, Trina’s eyes go wide. “No. Do not get involved, Ryan. I’m telling you this for both your sakes. Find another editor to finish out this project, and I’ll deal with the rest of it. Stay out of it.”

“I didn’t say anything.” I feign innocence.

She circles a finger in the direction of my face. “You didn’t have to. Those glasses hide nothing. And now I’m going to leave.”

“Why?”

“Plausible deniability,” she says as she backs slowly out the door. “I said what I came here to say, and if you fuck this up, you’re on your own. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The door shuts behind her, and I’m left alone with my thoughts. Trina was clearly concerned. I know Scarlett. I can help. If Scarlett truly does want to cut ties with me, I’ll honor her wishes, but even Trina suggested this was about the writing and not about our personal relationship. Maybe if we could separate the two…

My phone interrupts my thoughts when it buzzes where it sits on my desk.

Trina: Bring food, if you must.

Well, that is as close to permission as I’m going to get. It’s practically the end of the day anyway. I grab my keys and am out the door before I can think better of it.