Summer at Castle Stone. Lynn Hulsman Marie

      I checked the wall clock. If I left in one minute, there might be a chance I’d make the van. “If I can get him on board, do I get my name on the cover as co-writer?”

      She sighed. “Don’t get too excited. Even if you write the book, it has to be approved by Parson Turner. We don’t know how it’ll fly in the States; it’s mostly for the UK and Irish market.”

      I knew a delicate moment had arrived. I smelled that she was going to say yes, if I just didn’t blow it. “But if I can get this written, you’ll give me cover credit?” I took a breath and pressed on. “And a 50/50 deal on advances and royalties?”

      She looked resigned. “I can only try, but I think this one may be dead in the water.”

      Yes!

      “And if I deliver this book, and the editor loves it, which I know she will, will you consider giving me a crack at Ray Diablo’s next one?”

      “Shayla, Ray Diablo is big potatoes…”

      “I said ‘consider.’”

      “Sure,” she said, with an eye roll. “I’ll consider it.” Time was ticking. I really had to get back to the office.

      “So, about How to Be an Adult…”

      “Don’t push it,” she cut me off. “Your dad’s cute but not that cute.”

      I jumped to my feet, realizing it was better to quit while I was ahead. “Thank you so much for this chance, Brenda.”

      “Tom still has to agree.”

      “I’ll hunt him down and pin him to the ground if I have to.” I smiled, sharing the joke.

      She didn’t smile back. “Just get it done.” She swiveled her chair back to face her screen. I waited for a beat, but apparently the meeting was over. I gathered my purse and bag, and hurried out, not bothering to say goodbye.

      Rounding the last corner to the HPC building, I surveyed the street for the van as I ran. None. I didn’t dare slow down to pull out my phone and check the time, instead I hurtled my body through the revolving door and into the lobby. Flashing my ID badge at the desk, I pushed through the turnstile and yelled, “Hold it!” at the bank of elevators. Safely inside, I pressed my back to the wall, shut my eyes, and tried to breathe.

      I hustled to my desk, looking around to make sure Matty or any other gossipy assistants weren’t hovering around. God, I hated it here. I’d been spanked for working on outside projects before. If I made this call to Ireland quickly and discreetly, I could have this deal sealed before I left for BEA. I didn’t need international calls on my phone bill. Money was tight enough as it was.

      I pulled out my stolen folder. All I knew about Tom O’Grady’s was what I’d just overheard in Brenda’s office. I had my work cut out for me, I figured, to craft a best-selling cookbook featuring nothing but a bunch of beef stew and boiled potato recipes. And if he was the other side of the pond’s answer to Regis Philbin, the elfin, 80-year-old talk-show host, the food was going to have to be the focus.

      I looked at the time on the desk phone. 2:05pm. All that rush was for nothing. I should have figured they’d be late. I could just see my boss’s back end through the crack in her open door. She was rooting around in a box of books on the floor. As soon as I made this call, I’d check in and let her know I was back from lunch. I’d offer to call the van service to see if they were en route.

      Opening my folder, I saw a fact sheet on Tom O’Grady, clearly prepared by a publicist. Born in County Wexford, Ireland, attended hospitality school with an emphasis on culinary arts, then did a course at Ballymaloe Cookery School when he was only 17. A stint as a sous chef at La Gavroche in London, worked a year under Alice Waters in San Francisco. Impressive. Back to London, where he had his own place for a while in Soho, called Wild. Currently head chef at Grange Hall, the Michelin-rated restaurant on the grounds of Castle Stone, situated in the same village where he was born.

      I punched in the number of the restaurant. I’d leave my name and number, then the ball would be in his court. I flipped through the folder as I listened to the tinny connection and the unfamiliar abrupt buzzing rings.

      Date of birth…whoa, wait. He’s only 33? I shuffled the papers, looking for more facts.

      “The Grange Hall. Can I help?”

      “Oh, uh hi!” I said, focusing. “I’d like to speak to Tom O’Grady. This is Shayla Sheridan, calling from Brenda Sackler’s office.”

      “Would you mind holding for a minute, then? Thanks very much.” A pleasant traditional Irish tune featuring a fiddle and a flute played while I waited.

      Underneath the printed fact sheets lay some tear sheets from a magazine. There he was: Tom O’Grady. Twinkling aquamarine eyes squinting against the wind, thick and wavy dirty-blonde curls tousled and pushed back from his forehead. He had his arm draped around the neck of an enormous black and white cow, who posed solemnly for the photo. The green of the rolling field of grass and the blue of the sky blinded me. I examined the page more closely, trying to see if it was all a trick of retouching.

      “Tom O’Grady here.” What? I never expected to get him on the phone.

      “Hello, Mr. O’Grady,” I heard myself say. It sounded ridiculous and formal. The young man in the picture wearing a bone-colored Henley stretched tight across his shoulders and chest didn’t seem like a mister. He looked fresh and guileless. I’d just let him know how things were going to play out. Most “authors” who got books based on their brand appreciate that from their writers down in the trenches. This would all be wrapped up in a flash.

      “Tom,” I amended, “I’m Shayla Sheridan, calling on behalf of Brenda Sackler in New York. I’ll be your new co-writer on the cookbook.”

      “Will ya, now?”

      “Um, yes, I will.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement in Lizbeth’s office. I needed to put this to bed and get back to my day job. “I’m available to start immediately. I think we should pencil in a Skype session to discuss chapter headings and recipe ideas immediately.”

      “What did you say your name was?” I could hear the clinking of crockery and a drone of voices in the background.”

      “Shayla Sheridan.”

      “Well, Miss Sheridan, if you’d bothered yourself to look at my contract, you’d have seen that it says I have final say over who the writer is. Full stop. I didn’t choose you. I’m doing dinner service at the moment. Tell Brenda she’ll hear from me soon enough.”

      “Wait! Tom!”

      “Mr. O’Grady,” he said.

      “Mr. O’Grady, please,” I begged. “I’m perfect for the job.”

      “Oh? Why’s that, then?”

      Because I wanted it so badly? Because it was the only shot I had? My brain bounced off the walls of my skull, trying to think of an acceptable answer. “I can send you a bio right now. I can literally have it to you in one minute.”

      I fiddled nervously with the pile of papers from the folder. I found more photos: a beauty shot of a crown roast, complete with paper panties, a photo of world leaders from the G8 conference standing around a table laid with fine china and silver, a trio of lemon desserts plated so artistically you’d be ashamed to stick a fork in it.

      “Your details will convince me that you’re the one for me, so?”

      I knew the answer was no. Nervous, I flipped through more photos and came face to face with a tight headshot from the cover of Sustainable Gardens magazine. Tom O’Grady’s expression seemed wiser in this photo; there was a hint of old soul in the set of his jaw behind his closely trimmed beard. I noticed how his eyes were slightly lidded. Bedroom eyes, my mother would have called them. But with a steely resolve. For whatever reason, the word “revolutionary”