All He Asks 1 by Felicity Sparrow Page B

broken out the tears. The meeting approaches its climax. I only need to sit through another half an hour of this.
    “I do trust your judgment.” Grosvenor sounds utterly sincere.
    Luckily, the milk frother is loud enough to mask my laugh.
    Sylvia’s “judgment.” Now there’s a thought.
    When the kitchen falls silent again, the conversation has moved on. It’s impossible to tell if Grosvenor has actually satisfied Sylvia or if she’s biding her time for another strike.
    “Who is this new editor?” Sylvia asks. “I want to talk to him. I want to share my concepts with him. If he’s worth his salt, he’ll recognize my genius.”
    I don’t catch the name over the clinking of cups, but my heart falls anyway.  
    Another new editor. I’ve seen many editors trying to kiss Sylvia’s plump buns in my years as her assistant; they all end up kowtowing to her demands, and none of them last very long at Moonlight Sonata. Or Durand-Price, for that matter.
    A new editor, however short-lived he or she might be, means having to deal with new rules, new egos, new drama. It’s guaranteed that I’ll find myself between Sylvia and this editor at some point soon.
    “He’s supposed to attend this meeting,” Grosvenor says. “I’m not sure why he’s running late.”
    Sylvia scoffs. For once, I completely agree with her.
    I don’t make eye contact with anyone as I return to the foyer and serve the espresso. I’m also sure to angle myself away from Mario Stone before reaching across the table to serve Violetta, hoping that he won’t attempt to get an eyeful of my butt. His wife is in the room, after all; no matter their relationship’s fondness for infidelity, even he must be slightly more subtle than that.
    Nevertheless, I catch him leaning to the left, twisting so that he can see my slacks tighten.
    Oh dear .
    They are relentless, these Stones.
    “Thank you, dear,” Grosvenor says when he takes his drink. That brief praise is rare enough that it warms me.
    Sylvia is offended that someone acknowledged my presence.
    “Thank you, dear,” she repeats in a mocking tone. She rolls her eyes so hard that there’s a chance they might roll right out of her head. “First your ungratefulness in regards to my ideas, and now your obviously nepotistic—”
    Grosvenor interrupts. “Sylvia, I love your ideas. I want to incorporate them all. We only have to determine how to do so without compromising the integrity of the brand. You must understand.”
    I take my usual seat to the side, out of the way, and keep my head down. I watch the conversation through the fall of blond curls over my eyes.
    “No, you need to understand. You’ll let me write this book my way or I’ll walk!” Sylvia’s chin is raised imperiously; her wattle is shivering. She has drawn a line in the sand.
    This is the point in the meeting where Grosvenor will make some kind of concession. He will order Violetta to design new covers for Sylvia’s approval. He will delay the promotional tour to give Sylvia more time to develop her concepts. He will make a phone call to his lawyer.
    That’s how it always goes.
    I’m shocked when he says, “You’re already under contract for this book. Payments have been made, dates have been set. The deadline cannot be moved, nor can the tour. We’ve already had promotional material produced! It’s simply too late to make such significant changes.”
    Excuse me while I pick my jaw up off the floor.
    Even Violetta is shocked. Her cup of espresso tinkles against the tray as the tremor moves through her body. She doesn’t speak.
    Sylvia is about to explode, hands clutched to her ample bosom.
    Mario stands. “Now see here—”
    “Excuse me,” I interrupt.
    Everyone looks at me simultaneously as though choreographed.
    I’m just as surprised to have spoken up as they are to hear from me. My cheeks burn. I focus all my attention on the cups of espresso on the table, watching the spirals of steam, trying not to think about