MUST LOVE BOOKS Excerpt Reveal

And now came the dog and pony show to keep Santos and sign his next title. If Parsons secured his next book, Nora’s team would get more money, possibly hire more staff. It might even signal a new era for Parsons, one in which their books were actually interesting, relevant, and widely read.

After several shameless nudges from Rita asking Santos what he might like to write next, he’d submitted a proposal for a book on communication styles. For any other author, this would mean looking it over, drawing up sales projections, calling a meeting, and deciding whether to offer a contract. For Santos, it meant fawning over him and all but pressing a pen into his hand, in case he wanted to sign on the spot.

Nora kept her eyes straight ahead as she walked through the meeting room. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of curiosity.

No matter that she was the one who put together the slides on the screen about Parsons’s marketing reach and their promotion plan for his second book. All they wanted from her now was lunch.

She hefted the bags onto the table. It wouldn’t be the usual bloodbath this time around—-no one--size--fits--all sandwich platters, no reason to crowd around a tray. It was Nora’s first time as the provider of the food, the first big meeting since the last round of layoffs that took, among others, their administrative assistant, who usually ordered the food for these meetings. It seemed to Nora that the best option would be ordering individual lunch boxes.

If they were going to have an author over and act like they had money, she was going to act like it too. Not that she wanted anyone to think she was thriving under the two--jobs--one--salary thing, but she’d grown tired of the sandwich platter—-tired, specifically, of the good sandwiches being gone by the time she came back with extra napkins.

Plus, the lunch boxes had cookies.

She worked quickly to take the boxes out of the paper bags,

setting them on the table where everyone could read the writing.

She grabbed her Trky Crnbry box—-no one said she could order a sandwich for herself, but she dared them to take it from her— -and walked toward the door to the tune of distracted thank-yous.

“Which one’s yours?” she heard someone say.

“Whatever’s no avocado,” a deep voice said. “Though I don’t see it here.”

Even with her back turned, she knew it was Andrew Santos speaking. And, lucrative author or not, he’d gotten his own order wrong.

Nora turned and, sure enough, it was him standing over the boxes, looking for his order while the others tried to help. But he didn’t seem as concerned as everyone else. Rita’s eyes darted from box to box while he surveyed them casually—-lazily, even. The sleeves of his button--down were rolled up to his forearms, giving off an I’m here to work, but it’s whatever vibe.

She thought back to the last author who visited, one Keith White last year: pale, wrinkled, and squat. She eyed Santos, his tall figure and angular, clean--shaven face dipping into a square jaw.

The hint of amusement flickering in his dark-brown eyes, as though anything about a lunch order mix--up was funny.

Nora glanced from his amused expression to Rita’s panicked face and felt an urgent need to correct the situation. And him.

“Uh, it was no tomato,” Nora said.

He looked around, took a few moments to identify her as the source of the unfamiliar voice. Nora wasn’t deemed important enough to meet him before the meeting. Or during. Or now. It shouldn’t have been hard for him to spot her, considering she was the only nonwhite person in the room besides him. It didn’t mean anything, really, that he was Filipino and she was half Black, but publishing was so white that Nora couldn’t help but feel a sense of

camaraderie any time a nonwhite person was in the office. Although he was very much testing her attempts at camaraderie right now.

“Is there avocado on it?” he asked.

Not that it was her job to know about these sandwiches—-or even order them, for that matter—-but she remembered what she ordered.

“Yes,” she said. She paused when she saw him nod and look back at the boxes. She didn’t want to ask, but she felt compelled to. “Is that a problem?”

“No.” He said it too quickly to be believable. Nora waited for the other shoe to drop. “I just have this avocado allergy.”

A chorus of concerned murmurs went through the room. Nora’s face burned. Every pair of eyes in the room zeroed in on either Nora, the reason for this awkward moment, or Santos, the victim of her alleged mistake.

“Sorry, Andrew, mine has avocado or I’d switch,” their publisher, Candace, said. It was strange to hear him called by his first name. Around the office, everyone referred to authors’ projects by their last names. The fact that authors had first names always took Nora some getting used to.

Faces looked from Santos—-Andrew—-to Nora, standing in the doorway holding a box with a perfectly avocado--free sandwich.

Nora swallowed past her dry throat and tried to keep her voice upbeat as she said, “I thought you said no tomato.”

What he’d emailed exactly was As long as it doesn’t have tomato, I’m happy!! Nora remembered because it was impossible to forget those two exclamation points. Most of Parsons’s authors were older, grumpier, and wouldn’t use an exclamation point if it were the only punctuation mark on the keyboard. Then came Andrew Santos, throwing them around like confetti.

“I’m sure I mistyped,” he said, again so quickly that Nora was

now doubting herself. “Sorry about that.”

“No, I’m sorry,” she heard herself say. Even worse, she said, “Mine’s turkey cranberry and it doesn’t have avocado, if you want to switch.” She refrained from adding how difficult turkey cranberry sandwiches were to come by in May. He shook his head. “No, it’s fine.”

“Go on, I love avocado!!” She wasn’t quite sure if she’d added two exclamation points’ worth of enthusiasm, but she was trying.

Whatever it took to avoid the ultimate shame of Andrew graciously foregoing his lunch and making everyone feel like assholes for eating.

Andrew took several long seconds to eye the box in her outstretched hand, then Nora’s pleading (she hoped) expression, then the box again. He broke into an easy grin, dimples showing. “Sure, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” She handed him her lunch and took his boring box.

“Sorry again,” she added for good measure.

“No problem. Thanks, um…what was your name?”

It was only natural that he had to ask. When his last book was published, most of her communication had been with the lead author. And now, well. Her name wasn’t something he would find on the agenda for today’s meeting.

“Nora.”

“Thank you, Nora.” He actually sounded sincere, which annoyed her a little. Sincerity didn’t change that everyone now doubted her sandwich--ordering skills.

She nodded and closed the door behind her. Once out of sight from the glass walls, Nora rushed to her cubicle. She dropped the box onto her desk and shook the mouse to wake her computer. She typed Santos into her inbox’s search bar, and there it was, the only email they’d exchanged for at least a year. Nora opened the email.

As long as it doesn’t have avocado, I’m happy!!