The Romance Plan - Lila Monroe Page 0,8

confused about what fiction means, exactly. “But the sales numbers are passable on that series.” He glances down at the stack of papers in front of him. “We’ll keep them, and your breakup books. Everyone else can go.” He looks blandly around the room. “Who’s next?”

I’m too shocked to say anything in the moment, I just fall back down in my seat with a dazed thump.

Everyone else can go.

Just like that?

My chest gets tighter when I think about breaking the news to my authors that their contracts are cancelled. Suzanne just had her second kid, and Jasmine finally quit her awful office job to write full-time… Oh God, what am I going to tell them?

‘Sorry, when I offered you the book deal of your dreams, it was just temporary. My bad!’?

I made them a commitment! I gave them my word!

My heart is pounding with rage by the time the meeting finally ends. I march out of the conference room and directly into Liam’s office. “What was that?” I manage to sputter.

Liam barely looks up from his computer. “I’m sorry?” he murmurs distractedly. “What was what?”

“Those are my authors,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice level. “I’ve spent months and years building relationships with them—cultivating their talent and finding their audiences, not to mention correcting their comma splices—and now you’re just telling me to cut them loose?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you to do,” Liam informs me calmly. “It’s not personal, it’s business. Their books aren’t making a profit. They’re dragging the company down.”

He’s completely in control of his emotions—he’s not flustered at all—which of course makes me feel even closer to hysteria. “Good to know where I stand, at least.”

“Yes,” he says pleasantly, the sarcasm sailing right over his infuriatingly symmetrical head, “I’ve always thought so.”

I open my mouth, then shut it again. How dare he? Who does this guy he think he is? “This conversation isn’t over,” I inform him imperiously.

Liam shrugs. “I assure you, it is,” he says. Then, just as I’m about to turn and stomp out of his office to plan a street brawl or a general strike, a thought seems to occur to him. “Oh,” he says, “Eliza. Just one more question. Who’s Verity Lange?”

That stops me. Furious as I am, I can feel an involuntary smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. “Verity?” I ask, turning around. “She’s a romance legend. She wrote these incredibly soapy, twisty, scandalous romances and made millions for Holloway Publishers back in the 90s. She and Harry were old friends, and he wooed her away from them a decade ago, promising her the red carpet treatment. Her work is amazing—I grew up on it, actually—but she hasn’t written anything in ages.”

“Oh, I know it,” Liam says, looking down at his ledger. “She’s six years overdue submitting her new book.”

Now I really do smile. “Good luck with that. Her fans would go crazy for another release, but Harry could never get her to finish anything. He’d call her up every once in a while, go out to see her, and she’d charm him into forgetting why he’d gone out there in the first place.”

Liam isn’t laughing. “We paid her for it,” he points out. “A two-million-dollar advance. And she’s going to deliver.”

I manage not to laugh in his face, but barely. “I mean, good luck,” I tell him, “but you’re never going to get that book.”

“Oh, I know I’m not,” Liam says, with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “You are.” He looks at me pointedly. “Or else.”

Wait, what?

I spend the rest of the afternoon frantically trying to track down contact info for Verity Lange, who seems to have fallen off the face of the planet sometime before skinny jeans came back into style. The landline in the company database has long since been disconnected. Her agent died of old age sometime in 2012, and her old assistant is retired and living on a houseboat off the coast of Lake Champlain with an extremely spotty cell reception.

But I can’t quit looking. Liam has made it clear, failure is not an option—not unless I want to follow my poor authors out the door. Although, what I’ll do once I find the woman, I’m not quite sure. If all Harry’s charm—and six long years —couldn’t make Verity finish her book, then I’m not sure what use I’ll be. But I have to try something.

It’s after five when I finally hit the jackpot—a cell number scrawled in Harry’s spidery hand,