Sarah Vernon stepped into the foyer of a mansion that overlooked the sea. Weak winter sunshine came slanting through the skylight two stories overhead and through the floor-to-ceiling windows she could see down the hall, illuminating what she was certain had to be called a great room.

The house was very grand. Sarah herself was not. She was big, tall and broad-shouldered, with hands like shovels and feet so large that she had to order her shoes from a website she was pretty sure catered to drag queens. Her hair was mousy and had started turning gray right around the time Sarah turned thirty-five. She had thin lips, and her eyes, pale greenish-gray, protruded slightly, giving her a rabbity aspect. If she were describing herself in a novel, she’d use forgettable if she was feeling generous; unlovely if she wasn’t.

Sarah’s single piece of luggage rested by her feet, her laptop bag hung from her shoulder. A gorgeous fringed rug, in shades of crimson and tangerine and brilliant gold, spread out in front of her. Sarah found herself afraid to set foot on it, afraid to move, or even breathe too deeply. A writer’s retreat, her agent had said. Her new agent. Sarah could barely believe she had an agent at all. She found it even less plausible that the new agent was Will Presser. Will Presser, who represented the award-winning and the bestselling and was a celebrity in his own right. Everything Will Presser touched was a success, and now, Will Presser had touched her.

Unconsciously, Sarah’s lips pressed together, covering her protruding incisors. She shifted her laptop bag, hitching it higher up onto her shoulder, and made herself take her first steps into her temporary home.