bulk.
After settling into her chair, she removed the clips and rubber bands, then skimmed the first cover letter. A local taxi driver had written a collection of short stories about his experiences and customers' conversations. Actually, the writing wasn't half-bad, but she had to pull the "sorry, we don't publish fiction" form letter from a file and fasten it on top. She did take a few seconds, however, to scrawl "Try Anne Frankel at Thornton House" on the bottom of the otherwise-impersonal letter.
Next, a Vietnam veteran from Ohio had turned his war experience and his passion for outdoor sports into a survival guide. The man's credits were impressive (if frightening), and the manuscript was meaty, though poorly organized. Still, with the popularity of reality television shows, they might be able to parlay the material into a series of guides for outdoorsmen. She turned to her computer and typed a quick memo of her ideas to the editor on their staff who specialized in sports-related books, then dropped the entire kit-and-kaboodle into an intercompany mailer.
The last manuscript looked less promising—the cover letter was printed on bright pink paper, and when she removed the clasp a handful of star and heart cutout confetti showered her desk. She swore under her breath and spent the next few minutes tossing the colorful bits into the trash, and very nearly chucked the manuscript, too. But she prided herself on reading at least a few pages of every submission, so she sighed and scanned the pink cover letter:
My name is Libby Janes. I live just north of Atlanta, Georgia, and I carpool every day to my downtown technical writing job with three other women—Belinda, Carole, and Rosemary. Two of us are single, and between the four of us we've been married nine times (yes, nine times). As you can imagine, our car-pooling conversation usually turns to men—why we thought we were in love, what we've learned, the advice we want to pass on to our daughters. Out of boredom, I began to write down bits of our group advice on falling in and out of love, and I believe other women would like to hear what we have to say. I'm enclosing the finished product for your publishing consideration.
Regina pursed her mouth and turned to the cover sheet.
I THINK I LOVE YOU
(Relationship DOs and DON'Ts for Grown Women)
Crossing her legs, Regina dangled a leather pump from her toe and turned the page.
Chapter 2
DO assess the risk level of a relationship before you proceed.
Justine Metcalf found it hard to concentrate on the words she was imparting to her staff of twelve women with the feel of Randall Crane's hands still on her breasts.
"As most of you know, I directed the addition of noncosmetic items to the Cocoon product line last year that moved us from number six in the cosmetic industry to number four." She coughed to mask her growling stomach. If she kept meeting him so often for lunch rendezvous, she was going to have to start brown-bagging an afternoon snack.
"By adding silk scarves and evening bags to the fall lineup, we can expect to see a sales increase of three to three and a half million dollars for the first two quarters of next year." When she stood to pass out folders imprinted with the company's signature caterpillar, the rush of cool air past her thighs reminded her that Randall had kept her panties, the naughty boy.
Justine reclaimed her seat and crossed her legs to stem the draft, wincing inwardly at the twinge of her thigh muscles. Randall's lovemaking had been particularly intense today. Bruising... almost like Dean's.
She registered the sharp pain of a bad memory, then mentally shook herself. "Now then—"
"May I say something?"
She looked down the table, fighting a frown of disapproval for the intrusion, especially when her gaze landed on Barbie Donetti, a perky little regional director who, Justine had heard through the grapevine, had her sights set on Justine's executive VP
After settling into her chair, she removed the clips and rubber bands, then skimmed the first cover letter. A local taxi driver had written a collection of short stories about his experiences and customers' conversations. Actually, the writing wasn't half-bad, but she had to pull the "sorry, we don't publish fiction" form letter from a file and fasten it on top. She did take a few seconds, however, to scrawl "Try Anne Frankel at Thornton House" on the bottom of the otherwise-impersonal letter.
Next, a Vietnam veteran from Ohio had turned his war experience and his passion for outdoor sports into a survival guide. The man's credits were impressive (if frightening), and the manuscript was meaty, though poorly organized. Still, with the popularity of reality television shows, they might be able to parlay the material into a series of guides for outdoorsmen. She turned to her computer and typed a quick memo of her ideas to the editor on their staff who specialized in sports-related books, then dropped the entire kit-and-kaboodle into an intercompany mailer.
The last manuscript looked less promising—the cover letter was printed on bright pink paper, and when she removed the clasp a handful of star and heart cutout confetti showered her desk. She swore under her breath and spent the next few minutes tossing the colorful bits into the trash, and very nearly chucked the manuscript, too. But she prided herself on reading at least a few pages of every submission, so she sighed and scanned the pink cover letter:
My name is Libby Janes. I live just north of Atlanta, Georgia, and I carpool every day to my downtown technical writing job with three other women—Belinda, Carole, and Rosemary. Two of us are single, and between the four of us we've been married nine times (yes, nine times). As you can imagine, our car-pooling conversation usually turns to men—why we thought we were in love, what we've learned, the advice we want to pass on to our daughters. Out of boredom, I began to write down bits of our group advice on falling in and out of love, and I believe other women would like to hear what we have to say. I'm enclosing the finished product for your publishing consideration.
Regina pursed her mouth and turned to the cover sheet.
I THINK I LOVE YOU
(Relationship DOs and DON'Ts for Grown Women)
Crossing her legs, Regina dangled a leather pump from her toe and turned the page.
Chapter 2
DO assess the risk level of a relationship before you proceed.
Justine Metcalf found it hard to concentrate on the words she was imparting to her staff of twelve women with the feel of Randall Crane's hands still on her breasts.
"As most of you know, I directed the addition of noncosmetic items to the Cocoon product line last year that moved us from number six in the cosmetic industry to number four." She coughed to mask her growling stomach. If she kept meeting him so often for lunch rendezvous, she was going to have to start brown-bagging an afternoon snack.
"By adding silk scarves and evening bags to the fall lineup, we can expect to see a sales increase of three to three and a half million dollars for the first two quarters of next year." When she stood to pass out folders imprinted with the company's signature caterpillar, the rush of cool air past her thighs reminded her that Randall had kept her panties, the naughty boy.
Justine reclaimed her seat and crossed her legs to stem the draft, wincing inwardly at the twinge of her thigh muscles. Randall's lovemaking had been particularly intense today. Bruising... almost like Dean's.
She registered the sharp pain of a bad memory, then mentally shook herself. "Now then—"
"May I say something?"
She looked down the table, fighting a frown of disapproval for the intrusion, especially when her gaze landed on Barbie Donetti, a perky little regional director who, Justine had heard through the grapevine, had her sights set on Justine's executive VP
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