Page 10

I laughed reluctantly. “It might. I hope so. I’ll see you tonight.”

That was the beauty of youthful optimism.

At twenty-three I, too, had believed things would ultimately turn out the way I wanted.

And by then I’d had plenty of evidence to the contrary.

But at twenty-three, I’d also had the strength to weather the storms. Now I was older and wiser.

Now I knew that the right storm at the wrong moment could wreck me.

Hayes and his crowd had moved on. A crowd of well-groomed middle-aged women in pastel business attire had taken their place.

These were the established cozy chick contingent.

They’d been successfully writing about twenty-something amateur sleuth bakers and amateur sleuth wedding planners and amateur sleuth florists for the last thirty years.

As they debated, with much giggling, the naughtiness of ordering nibbles with their cocktails so close to lunchtime, I paid the bartender and headed for the elevators.

I needed to change before lunch. The Dove sisters offered a very different dining experience from the Kyle Baris and the Christopher Holmeses. I seemed to recall they’d worn gloves the last time I’d taken them out.

I also needed to remember to have Cherry change my flight home.

No point now in spending a couple of extra days in Monterey.

Finn and I would not be exploring the possibilities or anything else.

I refused to acknowledge the sinking feeling in my chest at yet another reminder of things that weren’t going to go as hoped.

Yep. It was sad. It was disappointing. Life would go on.

The cure for all of it was to immerse myself in work. The sooner I returned to my busy and comfortable routine, the better.

Rudolph Dunst, editorial director at Theodore Mansfield, stepped into the elevator right before me.

He was probably in his seventies by now, forever tall, silver, and vaguely translucent—like the ghost of whoever had edited Edith Wharton’s early drafts.

The years had been lenient with him, possibly out of professional courtesy.

We nodded cordially, and then I glanced casually back at the man who’d silently followed me into the elevator.

Finn.

I jumped. There was no hiding that alarmed start. Finn gazed at me steadily, silently. Still pissed off to discover he’d been right all along?

“Floors?” Rudolph reached for the control panel.

“Rooftop,” I said.

Finn said, “Third.”

It was weird to feel so self-conscious and uncomfortable with Finn. A few weeks ago, I’d felt comfortable enough, felt like I knew him well enough to…consider getting to know him better? Because, really, that’s all it had come down to in the end.

Still. Weird to feel so strained and awkward with someone you’d had sex with in the shower. Weird to know how someone’s hair smelled wet, to know the sounds they made during sex, how their mouth felt when it smiled against your own.

I hoped to God I wasn’t going to experience this every time we bumped into each other.

Not that we’d bump into each other so often after this weekend.

Rudolph beamed in belated recognition. “Keiran, my boy! How are you?”

“ Very well,” I replied firmly. The firmness was for Finn’s benefit.

He glanced Finn. “ Ah ! And Mr. Scott. I’m looking forward to this afternoon.”

Rudolph was conducting Thursday’s special guest author interview with Finn. A nice coup for Finn.

“Me, too, sir,” Finn answered courteously.

Rudolph chuckled. “ Sir . You’re making me feel old.” He turned back to me. “You look tired, Keiran. You need to learn to pace yourself. Not every battle’s worth fighting.”

“That’s for sure,” I said more tersely than I’d intended.

Rudolph’s silvery brows rose.

I’d known, and admired, him a long time. While he hadn’t been a mentor, exactly, he’d been extremely kind and always given me excellent advice. When I’d been a very young editor, I’d aspired to grow up to be Rudolph Dunst.

“How’s this merger with Wheaton & Woodhouse coming?” he inquired kindly.

“It’s more of a buyout.” I was acutely conscious of Finn’s listening silence.

“It always is.”

“But it’s preferable to bankruptcy.”

“Unfortunately, Millie doesn’t have her grandmother’s creative vision or her father’s business acumen.”

I wasn’t about to respond to that, not in front of Lila’s newest acquisition, but I agreed one hundred percent.

“The industry’s changing,” Rudolph remarked. “Just the fact that we now refer to it as an industry.”

Really, we’d been referring to it as an industry as long as I’d been in publishing, but I nodded.

“It’s all changed, of course,” Rudolph reflected. “The world itself.”

“Yes.”

“When I started, publishing was smaller—more insular, certainly, but also slower, more deliberate. You cultivated a list over years, sometimes decades. An editor’s name carried weight.

Authors knew you were in it with them for the long haul.

Now…” He offered a graceful shrug. “There’s so much noise.

So much urgency. Platforms, data, engagement.

The books are still there, of course—good ones, worthy ones—but the pace at which they’re expected to prove themselves would make even Hemingway sweat.

I don’t dislike the evolution, necessarily. But I do miss the quiet.”

“Algorithms and AI.” My smile was rueful. “Metadata, TikTok reviews and platforms.” It was an acknowledgement not a complaint. Things change.

“One must evolve or face extinction,” Rudolph said. “Which is why this is my last conference.”

“What?”

I felt Finn stare at me. Rudolph seemed amused at my reaction. “I’m retiring at the end of the year. I only promised to stay on that long if I didn’t have to attend any more damned conferences.”

“You’re retiring? ”

He chuckled. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“No. It’s just… It’s like hearing Patience and Fortitude handed in their notice.”

Patience and Fortitude were the famed marble lions who stand guard before the entrance of the New York Public Library. Rudolph laughed heartily.

“I’ll tell you frankly, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll miss the people, of course, but a lot of the people I started with are gone now.”

“I’m so sorry about Anna,” I said sincerely. “I can only imagine what a shock that must have been.”

Anna Hitchcock, the American Agatha Christie per Theodore Mansfield’s marketing department, had died suddenly the previous winter at the annual writing retreat she hosted at her New England estate.

She’d not only been TM’s bestselling author, rumor had it she and Rudolph had had a long-standing romantic relationship.

If so, they’d been more discreet than me and Finn.

Rudolph said vaguely, “Yes, it’s a very different world without Anna. She was…one of a kind.”

“Yes.”

I’d always wondered at the legendary creative partnership between Anna Hitchcock and Rudolph Dunst. Rudolph was kind and courteous, a throwback to another generation. Anna was extremely talented, very clever, but rather chilly. Even her books…so entertaining, but a little cruel.

The elevator jolted to a stop on the third floor.

The doors slid open and revealed a small crowd.

Finn nodded politely to the space between Rudolph and me, and stepped off the elevator.

The crowd parted for him, the Red Sea making way for Moses.

Followed by the usual startled, “Oh, are you going up ?” before the doors slid shut.

“He’s a taciturn fellow, isn’t he?” Rudolph remarked, as we continued our ascent. “But then he writes those bleak police procedurals. All that violence and betrayal and corruption.” He added with a twinkle, “They’re very well edited. I’ll give them that.”

I chuckled.

We talked about nothing in particular until the elevator reached the fifth floor.

“Would you like to stop by for a drink?” Rudolph asked, as we stepped into the hallway. “I always enjoy our chats.”

“I’d love to. I’m taking two authors to lunch. Another time?”

“Absolutely. Tonight’s the W&W banquet?”

“Yes.”

“That should be interesting. Well, enjoy yourself, my boy. No doubt I’ll see you at Saturday night’s grand event.”

“I look forward to it.”

We turned and went our separate ways.