Read an excerpt from Book Lovers.
Also, he’s scowling.
His mouth is pouting.
Emily Henry.Devyn Glista/St. Blanc Studios
His forehead is scowling.
He glances at his watch.
Not a good sign.
‘Book Lovers,’ by Emily Henry.
I’m always punctual.
Except when I’m getting dumped over the phone.
Then, I’m six-and-a-half minutes late apparently.
I stick out my hand to shake his as I approach.
“I’m Nora.
So nice to meet you in person, finally.”
He stands, his chair scraping over the floor.
I catch myself calculating how many American dollars he’s wearing.
I’d put Charlie’s outfit at somewhere between eight-hundred and a thousand.
He examines my outstretched hand for two long seconds before shaking it.
“You’re late.”
He sits without bothering to meet my gaze.
Grant has burned through my daily tolerance for self-important asshats.
Still, I have to play this game, for my authors' sake.
“I know,” I say, beaming apologetically but not actually apologizing.
“Thank you for waiting for me.
My train got stopped on the tracks.
You know how it is.”
His eyes lift to mine.
They look darker now, so dark I’m not sure there are irises around those pupils.
Probably, he doesn’t take the subway.
I shuck off my blazer (herringbone, Isabel Marant) and take the seat across from him.
“Have you ordered?”
“No,” he says.
My hopes sink lower.
We’d scheduled this get-to-know-you lunch weeks ago.
Now I’m second-guessing whether I could subject one of my authors to this man.
I pick up my menu.
“They have a goat cheese salad that’s phenomenal.”
Charlie closes his menu and regards me.
I’m not sure what to say.
For one thing, I hadn’t planned on bringing the book up.
If Charlie wanted to reject it, he could’ve just done so in an email.
And without using the wordunreadable.
I close my own menu, and fold my hands on the table.
“I think it’s her best yet.”
Dusty’s already published three others, each of them fantastic, though none sold well.
And okay, maybe it’s notmyfavoriteof hers, but it has immense commercial appeal.
With the right editor, I know what this book can be.
Charlie sits back, the heavy, discerning quality of his gaze sending a shockwave through me.
It feels like he’s looking right through me, past the shiny politeness to the jagged edges underneath.
His look says,Wipe that frozen smile off your face.
He turns his water glass in place.
I say, “This book is every bit as good.
It’s just differentless subdued maybe, but that gives it a cinematic edge.”
“Less subdued?”
“That’s like saying Charles Manson was a lifestyle guru.
It might be true, but it’s hardly the point.
An irritable laugh lurches out of me.
It’s not your cup of tea.
Then I know what to send you in the future.”
Liar, my brain says.
Liar, Charlie’s unsettling, owl eyes say.
This lunchthis potential working relationshipis dead in the water.
“It’s overly sentimental for my taste,” he says eventually.
“And the cast is caricatured”
“Quirky,” I disagree.
“We could scale them back, but it’s a large casttheir quirks help distinguish them.”
“And the setting”
“What’s wrong with the setting?”
The setting inOnce In A Lifetimesells the whole book.
“Sunshine Falls is charming.”
Charlie scoffs, literally rolls his eyes.
“It’s completely unrealistic.”
“It’s a real place,” I counter.
Dusty had made the little mountain town sound so idyllic I’d actually Googled it.
Sunshine Falls, North Carolina sits just a ways outside Asheville.
Charlie shakes his head.
Well, that makes two of us.
I do not like him.
If I’m the archetypical City Person, he is the Dour, Unappeasable Stick-in-the-Mud.
He’s Ebenezer Scrooge, second-act Heathcliff, the worst parts of Mr. Knightley.
Which is a shame, because he’s also got a reputation for having a magic touch.
Several of my agent friends call him Midas.
As in,everything he touches turns to gold.
(Though admittedly, some others refer to him as The Storm Cloud.
As in,he makes it rain money but at what cost?)
The point is, Charlie Lastra picks winners.
And he isn’t pickingOnce in A Lifetime.
Determined to bolster my confidence, if not his, I cross my arms over my chest.
“It might exist,” Charlie says, “butI’mtellingyouDusty Fielding has never been there.”
“Why does that matter?”
I ask, no longer feigning politeness.
Charlie’s mouth twitches in reaction to my outburst.
“And I disliked the setting.”
The sting of anger races down my windpipe, rooting through my lungs.
“So how about you just tell me what kind of books youdowant, Mr.
He relaxes until he’s leaned back, languid and sprawling like some jungle cat toying with its prey.
He turns his water glass again.
I’d thought it was a nervous tick, but maybe it’s a low-grade torture tactic.
I want to knock it off the table.
“I want,” Charlie says, “earlyFielding.The Glory of Small Things.”
“That book didn’t sell.”
“Because her publisher didn’t know how to sell it,” Charlie says.
“Wharton House could.
My eyebrow arches and I do my best to school it back into place.
Just then, the server approaches our table.
“Can I get you anything while you’re looking over the menus?”
“Goat cheese salad for me,” Charlie says, without looking at either of us.
Probably he’s looking forward to pronouncing my favorite salad in the cityinedible.
“And for you, ma’am?”
I stifle the shiver that runs down my spine whenever a twenty-something calls mema’am.
This must be how ghosts feel when people walk over their graves.
Charlie’s brow just barely lifts.
“Bad day,” I say under my breath as the server disappears with our order.
“Not as bad as mine,” Charlie replies.
“You really didn’t like the setting?”
“I can hardly imagine anywhere I’d less enjoy spending four-hundred pages.”
“I can’t control how I feel.”
“That’s like Charles Manson saying he’s not the one who committed the murders.
It might true on a technical level, but it’s hardly the point.”
The server drops off my martini and Charlie grumbles, “Could I get one of those too?”
Copyright 2022
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