A/N: I know, I know, I'm dreadful. I never promised to update regularly, but I don't want y'all to hate me! I had some writer's block—which sounds like it doesn't bode well this early on, but it's been literal years since I've written. But I'm back at it here with chapter 2, and I still don't own Twilight.
Previously…
But then I read the subject line of one of those thirty, and it's as if I hadn't blasted through twenty-ish emails and instead had five hundred to wade through.
Subject: I know you told me you'd make books out of my skin if I ever spoke to you again but…
Preview text: I need your help.
"Alice!" I yell, even though it's against store policy, because I need her ass in here now. She cuts the corner a little too fast and has to grab onto the doorjamb for stability, but she makes it in record time. I don't give her room to speak. "Why the fuck is Edward Cullen emailing me?"
What few regular people understand about publishing is that there are so many people involved in the process, from the agent who pitches the manuscript all the way down to the bookseller who displays the finished book, that it can be difficult to keep up with who's who.
But I could never forget Edward Cullen, associate editor at Platt House and publishing nemesis number one. If I didn't know he'd carved out a name for himself on his own, I'd blame it on nepotism. Founded in 1929 by his great grandfather, Platt House has been a mainstay in the industry. Now his mother runs the show, and as much as it pains me to admit, it is a damn good show. Their books fly off our shelves almost before we even stock them.
I don't like to think of myself as a hateful person, but I take my morning coffee with a healthy dose of spite. I have a shit list. I check it twice. Without fail, Cullen is there just a few pegs down from objectively shitty people like a certain senator from Kentucky and John Wayne Gacy.
Okay, maybe he's several pegs down from them, but you get the point.
"Um, maybe he wants you to lead a preorder campaign for the next bestseller?" Alice pitches hopefully.
I look at her pointedly. "How did he even get my email address?"
Now it's Alice's turn to give me the look. "It's not exactly a secret. It's on our 'contact us' page, and besides, it's literally just bella btlbooks. Doesn't take a rocket scientist." I huff.
"Fine, but I really did tell him I'd skin him alive if he ever even thought about me again. I gotta give it to him: the man's got balls like the Trojan horse." The email sits unread, its subject line bolded and taunting, as I stare at it. My finger twitches on the mouse; I could just delete it and pretend I never saw it. People do that all the time, right?
Then I think of Rose. There's a lot of chatter in the bookselling space from publicists and marketers about how their book is "the next Harry Potter" or "perfect for fans of Gone Girl," but it's rare for those words to carry much weight. But Rosalie Hale is the real deal. She knows her shit, and she knows how to suck us (and our customers) in. She's my favorite lady in the business—and she married Edward's big brother, Emmett, last summer. I should know; I was there, holding her dress as she peed in the bathroom of a ritzy hotel on the Cape before the ceremony, but after 3 glasses of champagne. I can't imagine she'd hold something like ignoring her brother-in-law's desperate plea for help over me, but the anxiety I'm on medication for tells me otherwise. I don't want to fuck up our friendship, and I most definitely don't want to fuck up my smooth supply of golden advance reader copies.
"God, fine, I'll open the goddamn email. Maybe he's just asking if we have a copy of Infinite Jest in stock." Alice smirks as she flits out of the office, and I let the mouse hover over the email a second longer before double clicking.
Bella,
I won't bother with pleasantries, because no one is doing well and it's insulting to pretend otherwise.
I received a rather interesting…package recently and wanted to discuss its contents with you.
I pause here, briefly considering whether he's trying to trick me into opening a box full of anthrax.
I'm loath to send details in writing, partly because I know you'll think I'm insane, but also because I want our legal team to be able to claim plausible deniability if shit hits the fan.
Please write back if you're willing to meet to talk through the details. If you don't, I'll be forced to pick up the phone, and you know how much we both hate phone calls.
Thanks in advance for not skinning me,
E
I'll admit I was intrigued by his crafty use of my threat from years back in his subject line, but now I curse the book gods because I'm damn well invested. I don't stock the mystery section for nothing; I love a good sleuth story, and whenever anyone says they don't want something in writing…. Well, that's a sure sign of something fucking awesome. Or really, really bad, but I don't think Edward Cullen would come to me in true crisis.
I decide I won't make him—or myself—wait any longer than necessary.
Fancy hearing from you, Edward, and thanks for not beating around the bush. Game recognizes game, I guess.
I'm down to meet up as long as you're buying. Where were you thinking? It's been so long since I had that duck risotto at the Four Seasons…. :)
How does Wednesday at 8 work? A little dinner, some drinks, and no after party. Just book talk. Let me know.
Who says I'm not sharpening my knife?
Bella
I send it and close out of the window entirely so the regret doesn't settle in time for me to hit "undo." A little Gmail banner slides out from the bottom right corner of the screen a minute later.
Confirmed: Reservation at Aujourd'hui Restaurant & Lounge at 8:00 PM on Wednesday, February 16, 2022
Reservation notes: No after party? You're breaking my heart. Anything after the first bottle of wine is on you.
Never thought I'd say the words, but I'm having dinner with Edward Cullen. Like, of my own free will.
I shouldn't be, but hand to God, I'm always floored by how many people do last-minute gift shopping on Valentine's Day. By the time I closed up the shop Monday evening and started cycling out all the How To Light His Fire and illustrated Kama Sutra books for the next day's new releases, we'd sold 17 date night mini-kits and 5 copies of The Five Love Languages.
Tuesday was smooth sailing, though someone came in for James Patterson's latest and I was forced to explain to them that he gets Mondays despite the entire rest of the industry's products releasing on Tuesdays. And before they could ask, I had to tell them, no, I didn't know why either, but there was a problem at the warehouse and our order was delayed anyway. By Wednesday, I was, dare I say it, chomping at the bit to close, and not for the usual reason of wanting to go home and hang out with my dog.
I was excited to see Edward. Well, not to see him, but to see the mysterious package and hear about what the hell was so top secret that he couldn't tell me over email. And I was fucking stoked for the risotto. So when the last customer finally left after I announced we were closing soon four times, I bolted the door, made quick with closing out the register, grabbed my coat, and booked it to the T. Park Street was only a few stops away, and it was just cold enough outside to remind me why I moved here. Nearly everyone here insisted I was certifiable when I told them I left the perennial ball-sweat heat of Arizona in favor of actual seasons.
Nothing beats Boston in the winter. Children and dogs running around in the fresh snow, their parents cradling piping cups of Dunkin coffee as they watch. The huge Christmas tree Nova Scotia ships out to us every year to thank us for the supplies and aid we sent after the Halifax Explosion. The fucking Santa outfits on the Make Way for Ducklings sculptures. Tiny sweaters on tiny ducks! It's all too precious, and it makes me feel warmer inside than any heating system in these old-ass buildings ever could.
It's 7:45 when I wipe the snow off my boots on the unnecessarily expensive rug in the Four Seasons lobby, but when I tell the hostess I'm here early for an 8 o'clock reservation, she says my husband has already arrived.
There's a pinch to my returning smile as she leads me to the table. I can't blame her for assuming, and I even have a small inward laugh at the twinge of jealousy that laced her words. Husband is a bit much, but maybe boyfriend. Business partner is more likely. Person who I fantasize about clubbing to near death with a first edition hardcover of The Count of Monte Cristo? Most definitely.
He looks up from the wine menu just in time to see us approach and stands, as I'm sure his parents trained him to do, in greeting. The girl, probably no older than twenty, places a dinner menu at the unoccupied seat and says, "Here you are, Mrs. Cullen. Heidi will be right over to get you started." Edward's brow quirks, but something in my expression must tell him to shut the fuck up because he doesn't say a word.
I sit, hold my hand out for the wine list, and say, "She thinks we're married, and full transparency, for that, I may need something significantly stronger than wine. But we'll start here."
When he laughs it's not boisterous, but it isn't fake. He's genuinely amused by my discomfort, and even though I confess he looks good as hell in this suit, I consider "accidentally" flinging my hand at full force into his full glass of red wine. The tie's red, so the shirt might as well be, right?
"It's never dull with you, Bella. Since you've undergone such hardship in the last ten minutes, I'll even cover a cocktail for you." I roll my eyes at his supposed generosity. "But in all seriousness, thank you for meeting me here. I was dodgy at best in my note, but I didn't want to say too much."
I shrug. "It was most definitely a mistake to tell you that I read the entire Nancy Drew series four times growing up, but it's whatever. Now spill: What's so special that even Gmail couldn't be trusted to protect?"
He looks around the restaurant shiftily. There are only a handful of other parties: a couple in their late fifties, celebrating what looks to be an anniversary of some sort; a group of twenty-somethings who have more money than they know what to do with; and a man sitting at the bar, nursing a honey-colored drink. Satisfied that no one in the room appears to be the type to sell publishing trade secrets, he leans down to pull a thick padded envelope from his bag. It catches on the tablecloth when he slides it across the table to me.
I look down at the mailer, then up to him, and back down again. It's nondescript, addressed to Platt House, c/o Edward Cullen, with a return address of a Motel 6 in Washington state. No other markings indicate the contents; it isn't fragile, and it's fairly uniform in size. It's a manuscript. I know this without even touching the package, having seen my share of mailings like this in college. I lift it from the table, and it's heavier than I expected. The person who sent it must have printed on thick stock—entirely too much effort for something that ended up where I know this was pulled from: the slush pile.
Edward speaks, drawing my attention away from the package's opening and straight to his sharp green eyes. "How much do you know about Shirley Jackson?"
A/N: Well, any theories yet?
Thanks to all who have reviewed so far and those who will. And really, thanks to anyone reading. I'm not ashamed to admit that this story isn't planned out; it just kind of lives in my head and I go with my gut. Till next time!
Some definitions:
-slush pile (n.) - where unsolicited manuscript submissions go to die. Most publishing houses don't accept submissions unless they've asked for them, and any that are received are tossed into the slush pile if not directly in the trash. (It's not as high-and-mighty as it seems. There are legal reasons why pub houses can't have unsolicited manuscripts!)
-James Patterson and Monday - There are few gods in the publishing world, but James Patterson, Stephen King, and Nora Roberts/JD Robb are among them. All books release on a Tuesday except for Patterson's; he gets Mondays, and like Bella, I don't know why.
-advanced reader copies (ARCs)/galleys (n.) - technically two similar but different things but will be used interchangeably here. These are uncorrected bound copies of books that are sent out to media, influencers, etc for pre-publication reviews
