Gramercy Nights (The Argo Press Trilogy Book 1) (15 page)

I nod and Sebastian kneels down and I close my eyes, shivering when he runs the cloth over my sensitive slit, cleaning me tenderly. He stands, bringing the handkerchief to his nose, deeply inhaling the mixed scent of our arousal before shoving it into his pocket.

“I vaguely remember you saying something along the lines of, ‘I’m not an exhibitionist.’”

I shove him playfully and Sebastian wraps his arm around me, pulling me close and placing a kiss on my temple.

“Perhaps, just a little,” I concede as he leads me back to the reception downstairs.

Sebastian loosens his tie as the limo glides into traffic and pours himself a drink. He’s unusually quiet, but he wraps one arm around me, hugging me close. He smells delicious, like sex and whiskey and cologne, and I bury my nose in his chest as he runs his fingers up and down my spine, his touch light and soothing.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?”

“What did you mean when you said those paintings reminded you of Florida?”

I flush, surprised at my unguarded words but even more surprised that Sebastian remembered them.

“My father lives in Florida,” I say finally.

“I take it you’re not close.”

“I haven’t seen him in years,” I admit, not wanting to explain further and Sebastian doesn’t ask another word, just presses his lips to the top of my head, holding me to his chest.

“
Petitona
, wake up. We’re here.”

I blink and find Sebastian peering down at me, his handsome face mere inches from mine. I unfold my legs and sit up stiffly.

Sebastian is out of the car in a flash, his hand reaching in for mine, and I’m surprised to see we’re parked outside my building. I’d assumed we were going back to his apartment.

“Are you coming up?” I ask, unlocking the door.

He shakes his head sadly. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, kissing me cheek. “I’ll call you.”

Something in his voice makes me look up and all I see is this overwhelming regret in his eyes before the door slams shut and I’m left with the sinking feeling that after tonight, I’m never seeing Sebastian again.

Chapter Seventeen

Sebastian doesn’t call. The week drags on. I do yoga and try to focus on my upcoming meeting with Megan Thomas, the editor from Argo Press, but I can’t. All I can think about is Sebastian and the fact that he said he’d call. As tempted as I am to reach out, I don’t. I can’t face his overt rejection. I keep saying it’s just sex, but I’m having a hard time convincing myself. The way he looks at me, like he can see down to my core, past all the protective walls I’ve erected over the years…I don’t want it to be over.

But I’m pretty certain it’s not up to me.

By Friday morning, I’m a nervous wreck. The combined stress of my meeting and Sebastian’s disappearance destroying my nerves. I manage to drink an entire pot of coffee before nine without even realizing. Connor texts me while I’m getting dressed, wishing me luck for my meeting. It makes me smile. Connor never forgets a birthday or a job interview and he’s always there with a smile and a hug when I need it. He’s my rock. My family. And right now, I wish I could tell him about Sebastian, but I can’t. He wouldn’t understand and I can’t afford the ten million it would cost me if Sebastian ever found out.

I sigh in frustration. I need to get my shit together. I’ve never been the type of woman to let a man totally derail her. And this meeting today, it’s more than just a meeting. It’s everything I’ve worked for all these years. It’s my chance. To prove that I wasn’t wasting my time at the Gramercy. Maybe it won’t work out, maybe they won’t want to publish Marc Serrat, but that won’t be because I bombed the meeting over a man.

And right now, that means figuring out what the fuck to wear. I want to look casual yet professional. Judging by the way Connor dresses for the office, I don’t need to wear a suit, which is good, because I definitely don’t own one. I end up settling on tight black jeans, knee-high leather boots, and an oxford under a navy v-neck sweater. I even go through the hassle of wearing makeup. One of the problems with being petite is that people have a hard time taking you seriously. Makeup helps. At least this way, I won’t look like a high school student.

I take one final look at myself in the mirror before heading out the door, praying today won’t be one of those days when the L train just decides it doesn’t want to run.

Argo Press is located on the 14
th
floor of a converted factory building on 25
th
Street and Seventh Avenue. The neighborhood is decidedly fringe, not quite Chelsea, but still not the Garment District, either. In the lobby, a uniformed security guard stands behind a tall desk. I sign my name in the guest book and he points me in the direction of the bay of elevators. My hand shakes as I push the button and I’m seriously cursing myself for drinking so much coffee. Not only am I shaking like a junkie looking for her next fix, I have to pee something fierce. Awesome, Danielle. Just fucking awesome. Exactly the impression I want to make for what is undoubtedly the most important meeting of my life.

When the doors finally ding open, I find myself facing a scruffy guy about my age in an ironic fair isle sweater sitting behind a shiny new iMac.

“I have a meeting with Megan Thomas,” I say, glad that in a moment of panic I don’t blank on her name.
That
would be embarrassing.

“Great. Follow me.”

We walk down a long corridor lined in framed book covers. Open doors look in on cluttered offices filled with books, people busy working at their desks and for a second, I relax. This is where I belong. Maybe it won’t work out, but I belong in a place like this. Surrounded by books and the people who love them most.

He knocks on a door at the end of the hall and steps aside with an encouraging nod. I take a deep breath. This is it. The meeting I’ve been waiting for. The meeting I’ve been imaging in my head ever since I started translating. Whatever happens, at least I’ve made it this far.

But the truth is, I want this. Bad. I just don’t want to admit how bad. Because when it doesn’t go my way, when she tells me she isn’t interested in publishing
L’hivern fosc
, I’ll be heartbroken. That’s how life is. The second you admit you want something, the pain is all the more acute when you don’t get it.

With that, I open the door and step inside.

Sitting behind the most chaotic desk I’ve ever seen is a petite woman with a mess of dark hair curls framing her face. She’s wearing enormous tortoise shell glasses that should overwhelm her delicate features but they don’t. Instead, they suit her perfectly.

“I’ll be right with you,” she says, holding her hand over the phone. “Tomorrow at the latest. Messenger them to my house if you have to.” She nods, chewing the end of a pencil. “Great. But if I don’t get them, we’re pushing the release date. I’m serious this time. Don’t pull this shit again.” She hangs up and turns towards me. I’d guess she’s about thirty-five, but the sparkle in her eyes makes her seem younger. “One of our writers decided to run off to Belize without turning in his corrected proofs. Of course, there’s no bloody internet there.” She smiles, reaching her hand across the desk. “Megan Thomas, it’s good to meet you.”

Her handshake is surprisingly firm for such an elfin woman. She looks me up and down. I don’t know what she sees but I hope it’s not the wildly nervous girl I feel like at the moment.

“I’m glad you were able to come in on such short notice. There’s been some interest in Catalan literature after Frankfurt, and we’re putting together a new Catalan series.”

My heart beats wildly. I’m so nervous I want to vomit and all I can muster is to give a small nod of acknowledgement.

“Nothing has been decided, though we are thinking two books a year. Likely one poetry and one fiction, though there is a little flexibility depending on what we come across. All books would be contemporary. I know there are some publishers looking at Catalan classics, but that’s not what we’re thinking. We want fresh. New. We want voices that really grab the readers.”

“That sounds amazing.” Honestly, it sounds perfect.

Megan smiles at me and I find myself holding my breath. “From what I’ve seen,
L’hivern fosc
would be a perfect fit.”

“You want to publish
L’hivern fosc
?” Please say yes. Please, please, please.

Megan looks up from the legal pad on her desk. “Didn’t I say that in my email?” She chews on the end of her pencil for a moment and I hold my breath. “How far along are you?”

“I’m just polishing at this point.”

“Good. That’s great actually. I assume you already have the rights.”

I nod enthusiastically. “I’ve been working with Marc on the translations. He’s going to be thrilled.”

“Fantastic. That’s going to make everything easier. Some authors are a bloody nightmare to track down.” She pulls a stack of papers out of her desk and hands it to me. “We’re definitely interested. I want to see the rest of what you have, but if it’s at all like what I’ve seen, we’re going to get along great. This is a pretty standard contract. Read it over and if everything’s agreeable, sign it and get it back to me.”

This is all happening so fast, my head feels like it’s about to explode. “You really want to publish
L’hivern fosc
?”

Megan looks at me like I’m crazy. “You’re starting to make me think I mumble. I wouldn’t be giving you a contract if I wasn’t interested. Nothing will be finalized until I’ve seen the full manuscript, but yes, we want the book.”

“I want my name on the cover,” I blurt out. It’s the one thing I care about. Too many publishers try to bury the fact that a book is translated. They’re afraid readers won’t be interested if they know the book is a translation. It’s infuriating. Like translators are some dirty little secret that needs to be hidden from sight.

“That’s standard,” she assures me. “Look over the contract this weekend and we’ll talk on Monday. And if you can, send me the draft tonight. I’d like to go over it in the next few days.” She stands abruptly and I do the same, amazed by how fast everything just happened. When she reaches across her desk to shake my hand, she smiles widely. “Welcome to the Argo family, Danielle.”

I email Megan a copy of the manuscript the moment I get home, my heart beating wildly in my chest. This is it. There’s no going back and I just hope Megan likes it, because to get this far only to be told no would kill me. Then I email Marc, letting him know the good news. It’s the middle of the night in Barcelona so I don’t expect to hear back until tomorrow. But I know he’ll be thrilled. This is big for him as well. Breaking into the English language market is huge. I’ve already spoken to Connor and we’re meeting to celebrate. Sure, nothing is finalized, but this is happening. My translations may not be perfect, but they are good. And
L’hivern fosc
is one hell of a book.

Usually, Connor and I hit one of two dive bars within walking distance of my apartment but tonight isn’t just any night and I tell him to meet me at a cocktail bar in Williamsburg known for its $12 dollar cocktails and dollar oysters during happy hour. I’ve never been a cocktail sort of girl, but tonight I want to indulge. Also, I might still be in shock after how well the meeting went.

The Bedford is humming when I arrive and a gorgeous hostess seats me at the horseshoe shaped copper bar. There’s that terrible little voice in my head that says, maybe if I looked more like her, Sebastian would have called by now, but I dismiss it, focusing instead on my day’s good fortune and the handsome bearded bartender. He’s wearing a vest over a white button down and a bowtie, a modern twist on speakeasy style, classic with an edge and with his sleeves rolled up around his muscular forearms, I’m able to admire the colorful tattoos that trail down to his wrists.

I’ve always had a weakness for men with tattoos.

Connor is running late, as usual, so I decide on a Death in the Afternoon, and watch the bartender pour the absinthe into a vintage glass flute before topping it off with champagne. According to the menu, the drink was invented by Ernest Hemingway, and while I’m sure Hemingway would have drank just about anything so long as it was potently alcoholic, the idea that I’m drinking
the
20
th
Century American writer’s signature cocktail makes me a little giddy.

When Connor finally slides into the stool next to me, I’ve nearly finished my drink, the absinthe making my whole body warm and tingly.

“Hey, beautiful.” He leans in and kisses my cheek. When I first moved to the city, I thought all this touching and cheek kissing was the strangest thing on earth, pretentious and a direct violation of my personal space, but after so many years, I’ve not only come to love it, I now find handshakes to be the height of rudeness.

Connor looks great, as always. Cuffed jeans, loafers and a tucked in button down. I think sheepishly about the jeans I’m wearing, which I’ve owned since college, and remind myself that baristas and college students have relatively interchangeable dress codes. Which is probably because most baristas
are
college students.