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suggested I talk to you directly.” Did I sound like an idiot? I was never sure if I made any sense when I talked to certain people, like Remke and Jeremy or anyone who intimidated me.
    Given my inability to look at Jeremy and speak to him at the same time, you can imagine how my conversation with him had gone. He’d barely let me finish my sentence. Maybe because I’d been staring at his shoes.
    â€œMorgan!” Remke shouted toward the door. “Where’s the press release on the Natasha Nutley deal? Morgan!”
    Doubly annoying was the inability to determine if Remke was calling Morgan by her first or last name. I liked to think he was using her last name.
    A short knock was followed by the door opening. Morgan Morgan entered with a mug of coffee, which she handed to Remke. “It’s right on your desk, Williaaam,” she whinnied through her horsey mouth. She ever so efficiently trotted over to retrieve it for him.
    Remke scanned the press release of Natasha Nutley’s memoir, scowling. “Who wrote this?”
    My cheeks burned. I felt Morgan’s eyes on me, and I glanced at her. I could swear she smiled. She hid it, but I saw it. The bitch smiled!
    I cleared my throat. “Um, I did?”
    â€œAre you asking me or telling me?” Remke snapped, his ice-blue eyes narrowed at me over the rims of his glasses.
    I’d spent four days (well, four sleepless nights at home, actually) writing and perfecting the 350 words on that piece of paper. Usually Gwen wrote publicity materials for the big projects, especially the initial press releases that announced a major sale. But thanks to her absence, I got to write up the impending publication of the Gnat’s still-untitled memoir.
    What could I have screwed up? Jeremy had approved the press release, which had been copyedited and proofread. All the pertinent information was there, and I quite cleverly, if I do say so myself, told the story. That was another Posh phrase, which meant emphasizing the key elements. Had I gotten the print run wrong? Called it a trade paperback instead of mass-market? Not focused enough on the scandalous nature of Natasha’s doomed love affair with a famous actor? That was the heart—or lack thereof—of the Gnat’s memoir.
    Oh, God. Had I referred to Natasha as the Gnat in the press release?
    â€œI mean, I did, ” I corrected. I could kiss the promotion goodbye. I was going to be an assistant editor for the rest of my life. Aunt Ina’s fears had been realized. From now on, I’d have to spend Sundays with Grammy, eating pastrami and butter cookies and keeping my sarcastic mouth shut so she wouldn’t disinherit me. I’d have to ask Ethan Miles to Dana’s wedding. I’d be forced to watch Morgan Morgan’s meteoric rise from editorial assistant to associate editor, skipping assistant editor because—
    â€œThis is damn good,” Remke said, tapping the press release with his Posh Publishing pen.
    Morgan frowned. I smiled.
    â€œYou help Nutley shape her memoir as well as you wrote this release and we’ll see about that promotion to assistant editor, Gregg.”
    Morgan smiled.
    My stomach twisted. “Um, William? I, um…I’m already an assistant editor. I’m, um, hoping to be promoted to associate— ”
    â€œMorgan, get Black in here,” Remke interrupted. “Tell him we’ve got to talk about signing that Backstreet kid. Bring in our press kit, too. And more coffee.” He leaned against the sofa and thumbed through more papers. “Gregg, like I said.” He glanced up at me, then back down. “We’ll see how you do with Nutley’s manuscript. She brings a sophisticated level of celebrity cachet. And celebrities breed celebrities. We’ve got the budget to promote the hell out of the Nutley book, so there’s no reason not to hit the Times extended list, Gregg. And if Jeremy can sign that