Upon my arrival, Cass’s assistant Krystal tells me to go right in.

“She’s been expecting you,” she says, almost apologetically, because we both know that I’m late and we both know that Cass doesn’t tolerate tardiness.

I whisper a thanks to Krystal before heading to Cass’s office with my tail between my legs.

I take another deep breath, trying an exercise that I learned from a meditation podcast that I only listened to one episode of because I had to subscribe to pay for the rest. Breath in for seven seconds, out for eleven.

Seven in.

Eleven out.

Cass doesn’t acknowledge me when I enter, and I take it that this momentary let’s-pretend-Rhea-doesn’t-exist act is part of my punishment.

Cass stares into her computer screen, her silvery blonde hair softly framing her face. She wears an elegant pair of glasses that she doesn’t even need (she admitted this to me once while a little tipsy at a book launch event). Cass has been in publishing for a long time. Lyric Literary is her baby. She’s got to be in her fifties at least. Like me, she’s committed to the business of books. No man, no kids. Writing comes first, everything else comes second. That’s our shared mantra.

I think Cass is a badass. Cass the Badass is my nickname for her, which she claims to hate. Even though ours is a professional relationship, she’s known me for a few years now and has seen all of my ugly. The freak-outs, the impostor syndrome, the writer’s block. Her no-nonsense brand of affection has pulled me back from the edge quite a few times. If she ever gets tired of being a literary agent, she’d probably make a great therapist. Or a WWE wrestling referee. The woman’s got range.

It’s been a while since I’ve been in her office. Then again, it’s been a while since I’ve been anywhere. When I’m working on a book, I basically go AWOL.

I plop down in the chair across from Cass’s desk. While she gives me the silent treatment, I take a glance at the bookshelf behind her. It contains all of her favorite clients’ work. An American Love Story has its own designated spot. As does Ladder to the Moon, a sci-fi romance series that takes place in, you guessed it…space. It’s only three books long so far, but the movie rights sold after the first book published, and now it’s being made into a film by some hotshot director, starring the latest Timothée Chalamet carbon copy. I only read a few chapters before confirming that yes, there are aliens, and yes, you can still have sex in zero gravity.

I’m not jealous or anything. An American Love Story was considered for a television adaptation at some point, but apparently there are too many other series out there like it.

Because there’s not an abundance of space opera movies either?

Again, not jealous. Just competitive.

Cass clears her throat and finally looks at me. I almost wish she hadn’t, because as soon as she does, she takes her glasses off and rubs the tip of her nose, which means I’ve done something that’s confounded her.

“Cass,” she says in a way that I’m not sure whether or not it’s a statement or a question, so I bulldoze over whatever she’s about to say next.

“I promise I was actually on time, but then this asshole who is hotter than anyone has any right to be came out of nowhere and practically chest bumped me into the next dimension. I dropped my phone and spilled coffee all over myself. He didn’t even ask if I was okay, he just jumped into a car. I stopped in the bathroom to try and clean myself up. Don’t be mad. If I hadn’t bumped into this guy, I would’ve been early. Like, Cass definition of early.”

I decide not to mention the train masturbator or the fact that I’m still not convinced that he wasn’t stalking me.

Cass puts her glasses back on.

“Would you like another coffee? It looks like you’re wearing whatever you were drinking.”

“I’ll take something stronger, if you have it.”

I’m not really joking, which is good, because Cass doesn’t laugh.

She purses her lips, studying me like she’s concerned.

“I’m okay, Cass. I swear. I’m just having a bad morning. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Ah. There’s the apology I was waiting for. Krystal! Can you please get a coffee for Rhea?”

Krystal comes in right on cue, like she was waiting with the coffee at the door. She probably was.

“Don’t spill on my chairs,” Cass warns. “They’re expensive. Now, let’s have a little chat.”

I sigh. I take a sip of my coffee, purposefully scalding my tongue. It’s my penance for disappointing Cass.

Whatever she’s about to tell me, I’m guessing I’m not going to like it.