CHAPTER 1
CHRIS
My favorite editor watches my eyes scan the pages before me. Normally, I don’t read things myself. I’m the CEO of a publishing company, so the amount of manuscripts I look at personally is limited. Instead, I have an editorial staff to do all the work. Still, the buck stops with me, which is why I’ll look at manuscripts when my employees tell me they’re beyond good.
My eyes take in the scene before me, a shadow of what my town used to be. So much has happened since I came back to this place. The life I used to know has burned to ashes, what’s left of my family miles away from this haunted town. Still, I’m drawn to it. My first love, my last love. It all happened here. No matter how hard I try, I always end up coming back.
I place the last page of the novel down on my desk. The editor, Jenny, looks at me with wide, curious eyes.
“I’ve never read anything like it,” I say frankly. “I felt the joy and the loss in the character. Every event felt like it was happening to me.”
“Exactly!” Jenny says excitedly, practically jumping out of her seat. “I’ve never read such a powerful writer.”
“We’ve never published such a powerful writer,” I say wryly in return. “This book is exactly what I’ve been looking for. Sign the author, stat.”
Jenny nods eagerly. “On it, boss. This is gonna be amazing!” she sings.
Because shit, Ali Hartman is exactly what my company needs. The company’s doing well, yeah, but we’re always looking for that next hit that’ll take us to the stratosphere. We live and die on the bombshells. Trust me, every publishing house is trying to find the next Harry Potter, but it’s like fucking panning for gold. Most manuscripts are duds, but you’ve just got to keep looking.
It doesn’t bother me because I’m used to hard work. When I first started this publishing firm, it was just me and a couple of guys from my graduating class. It was a fucking sty, what with the couple of us crammed into a tiny space breathing down each other’s necks. Seriously, the air could get rancid in the office sometimes, we were squashed so close together.
Plus, we got off to a rocky start. Our first couple of acquisitions didn’t do too well, but it was enough to stay afloat, thank God. But hard work really does pay off because after a couple rough years, we finally caught our big break when a three-book series under our imprint took off. It was a young adult fantasy series that ended up getting onto a few best seller lists. They even made a movie out of it starring Gunn Hunter, the latest baby-faced boyband hero. It was kind of unreal, to be honest. We went from eating sandwiches in our tiny offices to attending glitzy premieres with cheering crowds. That series opened doors and got our name onto the marquee. Suddenly, we were someone. Authors called us instead of the other way around.
My partners stayed for that time, but their hearts weren’t in it anymore. They’d tasted success and no longer wanted to get their hands dirty in the trenches. So, I bought them out and am now the sole owner of Carmichael Publishing.
It hasn’t been easy, let me assure you. Jenny was the first editor I hired after the three original guys left. She’d been out of college a year and was fresh off an internship with a literary agent. Internship, schmintership. Most of those things aren’t worth the time you put in. You’ve gotta dive into the trenches and do the crap work before you know what life is really like. But Jenny turned out to be tough, and we get along pretty well. It’s been almost five years since she joined the team, and we haven’t killed each other yet.
Besides, life is different now. Carmichael Publishing occupies an entire floor of our New York City office building. We have acquiring editors and copy editors. Interns and assistants. A legal team, a publicity team, a production team, and a design team. Everything we outsourced when I first started the company is done in-house now, except for the actual printing of the books. So take that, motherfuckers. We have the power at our fingertips, and don’t need to rely on unrelated assets.
But there’s always the problem of finding talent. This machine isn’t worth anything if you don’t have good material to publish. Day in and day out, we scrutinize work from new authors, old authors, and anyone else we deem a possibility. You have to wade through muck before you find gold, and in our case, that raw material is words.
“So,” I say, startling Jenny. I guess our silence had gone on for a bit too long. “How long until we can get a contract over to the author? I’m assuming she has an agent?”
Jenny nods quickly. “The author’s name is Ali Hartman and yes, she does have an agent. I’ll give her a call as soon as we’re done here and get a contract out to her.”
“Great. Give her our best terms. We need to get this book. I have no doubt some other company is going to try to snap it up, so move fast. Do whatever it takes.”
Jenny smiles. “You got it, boss. By the way, the author lives in New York City. Could you tell from her writing?”
My lips quirk in amusement. “I should have guessed by her writing style. It’s got that kind of … I dunno ….”
Smirking, Jenny finishes for me. “Neurotic attitude?”
I grin. “Yeah, neurotic,” is my dry retort. “I’d like to meet her. Can you set something up with her agent?”
My editor’s eyes widen at this unexpected request. “Really? You want to meet with an author? You’ve never met with any of our authors except at conferences,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“We’ve never had an author whose work made me cry,” I say dryly.
Jenny snorts rudely. “You cried? I didn’t see you cry!”
“I read the book a week ago. I needed time to mull it over. It’s a lot to process. These things don’t sink in right away. You know that.”
But my employee just wrinkles her nose in another unladylike smirk. “Trust me, I do. I really do. I cried, too.”
It’s my turn to laugh now. “Yeah, I thought your eyes looked a bit puffy when you brought me the manuscript last week. Thanks for printing it, by the way.”
“Sure, no prob. I’ll get that appointment lined up for you.”
Jenny scampers out of my large office and closes the door behind her. I pick up the manuscript and flip to the first page again.
I thought I knew what I was doing, coming back to my hometown. There was no way things could be worse now than they were when I left. If anything, I expected them to be better.
As I pulled into the quick stop for gas to make it the last few miles into town, I knew I was in for a rude awakening. The pumps were covered in dust. I walked inside. The cashier looked up when the bell on the door signaled my entrance. He was the same old man who worked this place when I was a teen but much older.
Reading the first pages the first time, I thought I was in for just another book about a girl trying to go back home. I didn’t expect the incredibly captivating story that unfolded over the course of sixty thousand words. A woman who starts with everything and ends with nothing, yet somehow still finds it within herself to be hopeful for the future. She’s the heroine every publisher has been dying to get their hands on.
My phone rings, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Hello?”
“Hey, Mr. Carmichael, it’s Trevor. Jenny wanted me to let you know she scheduled a meeting with Ms. Hartman for tomorrow at noon.”
“Wow. She works fast.”
My assistant giggles, which is a little weird for a guy, but okay. “Apparently, the agent and author wanted to work with us as much as you wanted to work with them. They think we’re the perfect publisher for them.”
“Good. I’m glad she’s excited,” is my rumble. “Let the board know I approved this project, and we’re moving forward with it.”
I can hear Trevor’s pen scratching furiously on his notepad. Like me, Trevor likes physical reminders and keeps tangible calendars. That’s part of why he’s been my personal assistant for a little over a year now—we see things the same way. But I have one more question.
“Did Jenny mention if the author’s agent is coming to the meeting, too?”
I can almost hear Trevor shaking his head. “No, she said the agent can’t make it. But she said it’d be no big deal because Ms. Hartman’s very independent. Is that okay?”
I grunt. “No prob. By the way, what else is on my schedule?”
Trevor starts going on and on about some meetings, which frankly, I block out. The words drone in my ears, but I’m not listening because my attention is fixated on this author. Who is Ali Hartman? What does she look like? For some reason, I’m obsessed even though I’ve never met this mysterious woman. And with that, Trevor finishes babbling.
“Thanks, dude,” I pick up like nothing’s wrong. “See ya.”
I hang up the phone and lean back lazily. I’m getting ahead of myself. Ali Hartman is probably a middle-aged mom writing while her kids are at school and her husband is at work. That’s how they usually are. They sound sophisticated and graceful, but they’ve got messy hair and wear sweatpants while slaving away at their desk. Oh, well. Can’t get my hopes up.
But why are you thinking this way? the voice in my head asks. You’re trying to sell books, not nail some woman. And with a grimace, I sit up. My subconscious is right. It doesn’t matter what this Ali person looks like or how old she is. She’s written a book that I want to sign. That’s it, full stop. So with a grunt, I get back to work. I need to get my libido under control. The written word can make me feel things, and that’s why I’ve lasted so long in this industry. But still, I need to go into that meeting thinking with my brain… and not my cock.