Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
“Okay, boss. Whatever you think.”
Whatever I think? I’m not thinking anything right now besides impending doom.
I stare up at the blue sky and shut my eyes for a second. “How sure did Wilson sound that this thing was going to happen? Any chance at all of it falling through?” I open my eyes slowly, like the answer to her question is going to appear in human form and scare the shit out of me. “I know they nixed the planes because of Brooke’s condition, but what exactly is their backup plan?”
“That’s why they’re looking for a driver,” she explains. “Evidently, they’re going to do three weeks by motor home rather than two by plane. He seemed pretty confident it was going to go through. Maybe even chipper? Though, he did mention he had to make a call to Brooke with the details still.”
I jerk my head back in surprise. “He called us before her?”
“Yes. Something about being afraid of getting blackballed by Mr. Perish.”
“Shit! I mean, shoot.” The last person who needs to get involved in this is my boss.
Dawn laughs. “It’s okay, sir. You can curse. I live in New York. I’ve heard it before.”
“Of course…I just…”
“You were trying to be professional, but you’re having an existential crisis. I understand.”
I groan and run an erratic hand through my hair. “How much do you charge per hour as a therapist exactly?”
“What do you want me to do?” Dawn questions, humor that I’m in no way feeling right now tap-dancing in her voice.
What do I want her to do? Fuck if I know. I don’t even know what I should do.
“I can try to get Wilson Phillips back on the phone and inquire a little harder?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just hang tight while I think for a little bit and see if I can come up with something that’s helpful.”
“10-4,” Dawn replies, hanging up without expecting anything else.
I look up from my phone, tuck it into my pocket, and take stock of where I am. I’ve been power walking for the entire length of the call without environmental awareness. But as luck would have it, my feet have taken me right to the front door of my sister and brother-in-law’s building. I don’t know that they’re home, but I do know that the restaurant is closed on Sundays and Mondays, so I’ve got a halfway decent shot.
Without pause, I shove inside the door, wave to the doorman Dave, who is familiar with me, and make my way to the elevator at the back of the lobby. Normally, I’d call and warn my sister of my arrival, but under these circumstances, I’m hopeful that the element of surprise will help her think of solutions to my problem.
The elevator dings its arrival on the top floor pretty quickly, and I step off before the doors have even opened all the way. My long legs eat up the distance to their door quickly, and I lay my finger into the ceramic white of their fancy doorbell button with gusto.
When Mo doesn’t answer right away, I change tactics to an obnoxious knock.
She’s got curlers in her hair and a scowl on her face, but the sight of my sister on the other side of an open door is all I need to barge my way into their apartment.
“Well, hello,” she remarks, just barely swinging her shoulder out of the way before I bowl her over. “What is it I can do for you today, dear brother?”
“Sorry. My feet just came here,” I say nonsensically as I collapse on her couch and look to the ceiling in an effort to think all the thoughts.
The thing about publishing is that you never run out of problems or surprises. I’ve been in this career for a decade, editing for nearly that, and I can count on one hand the number of times things have gone exactly as planned or, for that matter, similarly to how they’d ever gone before.
“Oh-kay,” Mo responds, shutting the door with a shove and coming to take a seat on the coffee table beside my couch-lounger. “Are you sick? In the body or the head? Because you’re not making any sense.”
“I just found out that in all likelihood, Brooke Baker is going on a three-week Netflix motor home tour soon, right in the middle of our extremely tight deadline.”
My sister still doesn’t get it. “And…you feel deeply disturbed that…she’s doing this in a prime number of days?”
“I’m afraid we’re not going to finish the edits on her new book in time, Mo!”
“Oh, oh. Got it.” She widens her eyes comically. “Sorry, just thought it was weird we were being so mad about Brooke Baker getting something as accomplished as a Netflix tour.”
I roll my eyes, practically yelling, “I’m not mad about the tour! I’m mad about the timing. Three weeks! Three freaking weeks, right in the middle of our deadline for first edits. Her agent said they’re looking for a driver still, but in the age of Uber and Door Dash, I doubt it’ll take a modern miracle to find one.”