“Sorry.” Her tone is bored and she caps it off with a shrug. I swear I can hear her mentally add ‘not sorry.’ It’s no big deal to her that my reservation was stolen from me on a technicality. The action makes me want to reach across the stand and strangle her with the ribbons of the twenty balloons I’m clutching. Instead, I try a new tactic.

“Listen, I’m JoAnna St. Clair’s assistant, is there anything you can do?”

“Who?” She looks at me confused.

“JoAnna St. Clair,” I say slower, as if that will trigger her understanding. “She’s the publisher at St. Clair Press.”

Her blank stare makes me shift on my feet.

I realize that while JoAnna is a household name in the book and publishing world, this twenty-something hostess has no idea who she is. Even if JoAnna’s name were to have influence here, I feel bad that I’m using it. She’s at the airport right now. She’ll be on a plane to LA in less than thirty minutes. That’s a reservation I did confirm this week. I shake my head.

“Oh, wait!” She snaps her fingers and I feel a glimmer of hope. “I know that name. She’s got a son. He’s gorgeous and rich. One of the youngest billionaires in the world. Barrett, right?”

I cluck my tongue. “Right.”

“Is he going to be here?” she asks.

“At my friend’s bachelorette party?” I ask.

She nods excitedly.

It’s Friday night, yet I imagine Barrett is holed up in his barren office, performing his nightly ritual of counting his gold coins by lamp light. A modern-day Ebenezer Scrooge.

Except he’s not exactly stingy with his money. He did donate a million dollars to the Books 4 Kids campaign. And I’m aware of all the other philanthropy he and SCM participates in, but that doesn’t mean he’s pleasant to be around. All that money and generosity can’t make up for his abysmal personality. His ever-present scowl and contemptuous attitude.

But, who knows? Maybe he and Tessa Green hit it off yesterday and are having a romantic second date tonight. Either way, he’s not making an appearance.

“No,” I say.

Her smile drops. “We’re completely booked. You could try the bar; it’s standing room only.”

I glance over at the bar area. It’s got a fun atmosphere, but there’s no way the party would fit in the space even if there were no other patrons. My stomach drops. I’m normally organized, details are my jam. This can’t be happening.

I take a breath. I’ve never missed a confirmation, whether it be for a travel itinerary, an important meeting or a dinner reservation. I’m here now, shouldn’t that count for something? I’m about to argue this point when the hostess speaks again.