Night Owl(40)

"H—" I coughed. Crap, morning voice. "Excuse me. Hello?"

"Hi Hannah, Pam Wing. Impressive resume. Matt neglected to mention your US-UK Fulbright. Very nice. I need you in here today."

I threw off my sheets. Pamela freaking Wing needed me today. I was not about to go starry eyed and speechless for the second time.

"That sounds great," I said. "I'm excited to get started. I'll be there within the hour."

"Perfect."

Click.

Within the hour. Within forty-five minutes. Maybe I should have given myself a little latitude, but I had to make up ground with Pamela Wing.

I showered and shaved in fifteen minutes and took more time with my outfit. I wanted to look professional, and I wanted to be comfortable. I wore nude nylons, a gray pencil skirt, a white blouse, and black pumps.

I forced my mind to stay on track. That meant no thinking about Matt, because thinking about Matt meant drooly daydreaming.

I flew through the doors of the Granite Wing Agency at 7:55. Score.

The building was empty. After some cautious wandering, I found my way to Pamela Wing's office. Her door was open and she was seated at her desk, flipping through a sheaf of papers and frowning. She didn't look up when I knocked.

"Not quite within the hour, Hannah, but close enough."

Not quite within the hour? I glanced at my watch, my cheeks burning. Okay, so ten minutes of searching the building put me in Pam's doorway at 8:05, but seriously?

I remembered Matt's words. There is no margin of error. He wasn't kidding. And f*ck, now was not the time to start thinking of Matt with his sly smile and hard torso and huge—

"You're in there." Pam pointed with her pen to a door off her office, still not looking up from her paperwork. "I've laid out some documents for you to go over. You won't find any errors; these are finalized documents pertaining to electronic rights for one of our authors. I need you to get familiar with them today. I also need to get a feel for your ability as a reader. You'll find five partial manuscripts on your desk; read them and write up your impressions. Email those to me by the end of the day. I've already been over the samples. If we're on the same page, you'll be helping me cull the slush pile. Finally, I need you to..."

Pam went on for about five minutes, piling on tasks.

I refused to feel intimidated. (Or rather, I refused to let how intimidated I felt show on my face.) She was probably trying to see if I scared easily, and I don't. I listened to her instructions, made mental notes, thanked her, and got started.

Well, first I texted Matt.

Working for the shark. Lunch break at 1. Meet me?

Then I got started.

CHAPTER 17

Matt

I CALLED PAM on Friday morning.

I had to cover my bases about Hannah.

To be honest, I was starting to crack.

I met Hannah's family. I cried after we f*cked. Oh, and Bethany texted once and called twice while I was at Hannah's house. Fuck.

Lists. Look at the lists. Get control. Make an appointment with Mike. Call Pam. Fuck, I f*cked up. I f*cked up with my overblown reaction to M. Pierce. Hannah noticed. It's like you have an ax to grind with that poor author.

That poor author. Me. I was overdoing it. My anger looked suspicious, the way I mocked Hannah for liking my books, the way I put down Pierce. Should have played it differently. Should have feigned indifference.

Now I had Hannah shadowing my f*cking agent. Fuck. Brilliant move, Matt. You just couldn't resist the opportunity to throw your weight around.

No, that wasn't it. I couldn't resist the opportunity to help Hannah get a job.

But I wasn't a businessman. I didn't have dozens of connections in Denver. I had one connection and I used it for Hannah, and now I was losing sleep over it.

Losing sleep? That implied I had sleep to lose, and I didn't sleep a wink last night. I tossed and turned in my net of lies.

"Pick up, pick up," I muttered as I paced through my apartment.

"Morning." Pam sounded harassed. "How's the writing going?"

"It's not. We have to talk."

"You have a therapist. I'll give you five minutes."

"I'm f*cking serious Pam. It's about Hannah. You know, that—"

"Yes, I know. She faxed her resume—on the Fourth, no less. I hope she works out."

"What? Are you taking her on?"

"Trying. She's on her way here now. I'll think about thanking you if she doesn't have a breakdown by the end of next week."

"Go easy on her," I snarled. Fuck! I pulled at my hair. Why did I say that?

"Is there a point to this call? I appreciate the secretary. I don't appreciate being told how to run my business. I assume when you recommended Hannah you felt she was capable of—"

"Pam, sorry. Listen. Forget that. She's a friend. That's why I'm calling. This goes almost without saying, but it's imperative that..."

I stopped pacing. I rubbed my neck as I searched for words.

For once in her life, Pam didn't seize my silence as an opportunity to interject. Even that unnerved me. Was she curious about my relation to Hannah? Pam did a good job of disguising any interest in me and my life, but she was also one of the most cunning people I knew. She had probably figured out a lot about me over the years.