Chasing Harry Winston (17 page)

To his credit or his obliviousness—Leigh wasn’t quite sure which—Jesse kept his eyes locked firmly on her face as he said, “Where did my mousy editor go? I hope you didn’t go to all this trouble on my behalf.”

Leigh watched as he settled into the chair opposite hers and immediately regretted her outfit choice. She was prepared for Jesse’s sexist comments—Henry had warned her of those—and judging from his literary-rock-star status, she assumed he’d be a pompous jerk, but despite all that, she wasn’t ready for such a blatant insult. If she didn’t set the precedent right now, their entire working relationship would be doomed. He might be a famous writer, but he was
her
famous writer now, and she had to make damn sure he understood that.

“For you?” Leigh made a show of looking herself over and laughed gaily. “Jesse, how sweet of you to notice, but it’s actually for a party later.” She paused, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “Am I to infer now that you went to all that trouble for me?”

His hands immediately went to his hair and brushed it back off his face. “Yeah, I do look like shit, don’t I?” he said a bit sheepishly. “I missed the earlier train and then the schedule was all fucked up. It was a bit of a nightmare.”

“The train? I thought you lived in the city?”

“I do, but I can’t concentrate here, so I’ve been writing in the Hamptons.”

“Oh, that’s—”

He interrupted with a rueful laugh. “Really fucking original, I know. Bought the place last November, just as it was starting to get cold. I was always appropriately anti-Hamptons, you won’t be shocked to hear, but this was different: It was gray, isolated, the perfect place to lock down with a computer and not much else. Didn’t see another soul for days at a stretch and then—
poof!
—the sun comes out for a split second in May, and the whole of the Upper East Side arrives en masse.”

“So why’d you stay? It’s hell on earth there in July,” Leigh said.

“Sheer laziness.”

“Oh, please. I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Believe it. I’m all set up. I just can’t bring myself to leave. Besides, they’re doing construction on the apartment above mine in the city and the noise is intolerable.”

“Mmm,” Leigh said, accepting a menu from the waiter.

Jesse shook his head and sat back in his seat with an exhale. “How do you endure so many hours with self-obsessed shits like myself?”

Leigh laughed despite herself. “Just a part of the job description,” she said.

“Speaking of which, I’m sure you’re curious what—”

“Jesse,” she said sweetly, stopping him midsentence. “We’re going to have plenty of time for work, so I thought it might be nice if we just got acquainted and saved the editorial discussion for next time.”

He stared at her. “Are you serious?”

“Quite. If that’s all right with you.”

He cocked his head. “You are a strange one, aren’t you? An editor who doesn’t want to talk about my book. Well, well, well. What do you want to talk about, Ms. Eisner?”

Leigh was pleased. Her trip to Curaçao with the girls hadn’t felt like much of an engagement celebration, but it had given her plenty of time to think through her strategy with Jesse. She knew she needed to set the tone with him early and firmly. Dictating both the pacing and the content of their conversations was the only way to do this. He had come to this lunch expecting that his new editor at his new publishing house would be salivating to hear about his new book and so she had feigned indifference.

By the time they’d finished their entrées (the hanger steak salad for him and the herb-roasted striped bass for her), they’d talked about everything
but
writing. Leigh learned that Jesse grew up in Seattle but thought it was depressing and he spent his twenties working odd jobs around Southeast Asia but thought that was depressing, too. He told her how shocked he’d been when
Disenchantment
first hit the bestseller list and how surreal it was to make millions from what he thought of as little more than a travel diary and how crazy the party scene in New York City is when you’re young, accomplished, and suddenly very, very rich. It had been a little over an hour, but Leigh felt like they were beginning to forge a connection that was unusual for them both—not romantic, of course, but somehow intimate. In passing and without the least bit of emphasis or interest, Jesse mentioned his wife.

“You have a
wife
?” Leigh asked.

He nodded.

“As in, you’re
married
?”

“That is generally how people define it, yes. Are you surprised?”

“No. Well, yes. Not surprised that you would be married, just…uh…surprised that…well, that I didn’t read it in the papers.”

Jesse grinned and she thought how much better-looking he was when he smiled. Younger, somehow, and not quite as damaged. He glanced at her left hand and raised his eyebrows. “I see you, too, plan to join our
married
ranks.”

She didn’t know why, but she was suddenly flustered. Flustered and quite uncomfortable.

“Dessert?” she asked, picking up the menu and pretending to peruse it.

Jesse ordered espressos for both of them. Without asking. Which, naturally, Leigh found equally irritating and appealing. She would have preferred herbal mint tea had she been permitted to choose, but it was oddly nice not to make the decision.

“So tell me, Ms. Eisner. What was the last great book you edited? Before mine, of course.”

“Well, I needn’t remind you, Mr. Chapman, that your book’s greatness remains to be seen. We’re all very curious.”

“As am I, about the woman who will be editing me.”

“What, exactly, would you like to know?”

“Who are your other authors? Your favorites? Which of their books have pleased you?”

A bit flustered, Leigh said, “I think you probably know the answer to your own questions.”

“Meaning?”

Leigh paused for a moment and considered the ramifications of complete honesty. She certainly didn’t feel any moral compulsion to tell the whole truth; it just felt silly at this point to keep up the charade, so she looked him in the eye and said, “Meaning that I have no doubt you’ve done your homework, and you know full well that you will be my most-selling author to date—and admittedly, by a great deal—and you also must know that my boss, my colleagues, and probably the entire publishing community think I’m much too inexperienced to handle your book.”

Jesse downed his espresso. “And what do
you
think, dear Leigh?” he asked, a half-smile playing at his mouth.

“I think that you’re sick of all the bullshit. I don’t know why you vanished the last six years, but I suspect it was something more than too much partying, or whatever else the gossip hounds claim. I think you’re looking for a fresh start and an editor who has nothing to lose. Someone young and hungry and willing to take a few risks.” She paused. “How am I doing?”

“Very well.”

“Thank you.” She felt almost high with adrenaline, anxious and on edge, but in a good way.

“And at the risk of sounding like a patronizing asshole,” he said, “I am quite certain I made the right decision.”

“You have,” she nodded.

Jesse motioned to the waiter for their check and handed it directly to Leigh when it arrived. “This is on Brook Harris, I assume?”

“Of course.” She placed her brand-new American Express Corporate Card in the little folder and sat back. “So, Jesse,” she said, pulling her red leather planner from her bag, “when are we going to see each other again? I’m free for lunch Tuesday and Friday of next week, although Tuesday’s probably better. Of course, you’re welcome to come into the office and meet—”

“Next week isn’t good for me.”

“Oh. Okay, then. The week after that. How about you—”

“No, that won’t work, either.”

Her company had just spent three million dollars to purchase what was little more than a name and a promise, and he didn’t think it enough of a priority to make himself available for a proper editorial conversation? “You didn’t even let me finish,” she said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a barely suppressed smile. “It’s just that I’ve no plans to come to the city again for the next few weeks. This morning’s train debacle guaranteed that. Now, we can either wait until I
do
return, or if you’re inclined, I’d be happy to host you in the Hamptons.”

“Well, I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you,” she said coolly.

“He’ll tell you to come,” Jesse said.

“Pardon me?”

“Henry. He’ll tell you to come. Don’t worry, Leigh, it’s not so very far away, and I promise to take good care of you. There’s even a Starbucks.”

The waiter returned her card and receipt. She carefully placed each in its own compartment in her wallet and gathered her things.

“I haven’t upset you, have I?” Jesse asked.

Leigh got the distinct feeling that he couldn’t care less.

“Of course not. I’m just late for another appointment. I’ll call you later today or tomorrow and set up our next meeting.”

He grinned and stepped aside so she could walk ahead of him. “Sounds good to me. And Leigh? Try not to panic, okay? We’re going to work just fine together.”

It was raining when they stepped outside, and as Leigh fumbled in her gigantic tote for an umbrella, Jesse began jogging toward Sixth Avenue. “Talk later,” he called without turning around.

Leigh seethed. He really
was
a conceited, pompous prick. He hadn’t even bothered to ask if she needed a cab or offered to walk her back to the office—he hadn’t even thanked her for lunch! She didn’t know how she was going to coddle a man with such a mammoth-sized ego. She could be diplomatic and lead with the carrot, but the gentle, wide-eyed, I’m-so-impressed-with-your-brilliance–Mr. Bestseller approach just wasn’t her. Not now, not ever, and certainly not for someone as obnoxious as Jesse Chapman. Hell,
Adriana
could probably do a better job with him, never having edited—or possibly even read—a single book in her entire life. This thought plagued her for the eight-block walk back to the office, a walk made even more miserable by her now-soaking-wet three-inch heels. By the time she stepped into her building, she was ready to call the entire thing off—a fact that she didn’t exactly hide from Henry.

“Eisner, get in here,” he called to her as she walked by his door. There was no way to get from the elevator to her office without passing Henry’s, a maddening design he’d no doubt orchestrated deliberately.

Leigh would have liked a few minutes to compose herself and, truth be told, maybe tone down her outfit by adding a cardigan or a pair of flip-flops, but she knew Henry had cleared his entire afternoon in anticipation of her return.

“Hello,” she said brightly and arranged herself as modestly as possible on his love seat.

“Well?” he asked. Henry looked her up and down but, blessedly, remained expressionless.

“Well, he certainly is a handful,” she said before realizing how positively asinine that sounded.

“A handful?”

“He’s arrogant—just like you warned—but I’m sure it’s nothing we won’t be able to work through. When I tried to set up our next meeting, he blatantly refused to come back to Manhattan.”

Henry looked up. “Doesn’t he live in the West Village?”

“Yes, but he claims he can’t concentrate here, so he bought a place in the Hamptons. He just assumed that
I’d
go
there
….” Leigh trailed off with a laugh.

“Of course you will,” Henry snapped, something he didn’t do often.

“I will?” Leigh asked, surprised more at Henry’s vehemence than anything else.

“Yes. I’ll reassign your other projects if necessary. From now until his pub date, you’ll make this your only priority. If that means meeting at the Bronx Zoo because he’s inspired by baby lion cubs, so be it. So long as that manuscript is in by deadline and it’s publishable, I don’t care if you spend the next six months in Tanzania. Just make it happen.”

“I understand, Henry. I really do. You can count on me. And reassigning my authors isn’t necessary,” Leigh said, thinking of the memoirist with chronic fatigue, the novelist whose book was out for endorsements, and the stand-up comedian turned writer who called with new jokes no fewer than three times a week.

Henry’s phone rang and a moment later his assistant announced over the intercom that it was his wife. “Think about what I said, Leigh,” he said, his hand over the mouthpiece.

She nodded and scurried out of his office, barely even noticing the searing pain she felt in both heels. Her own assistant, clutching a fistful of messages and memos, pounced on Leigh the moment she collapsed into her desk chair.

“This contract needs to be signed immediately so I can FedEx it before close of business, and Pablo from the art department said he needed any cover notes for the Mathison memoir as soon as humanly possible. Oh, and—”

“Annette, can we hold off on this stuff for a minute? I need to make a call. Will you close the door on your way out? I’ll only be a moment.” Leigh tried to keep her voice calm and even, but she felt like screaming.

Annette, bless her heart, merely nodded and quietly pulled the door closed behind her. Not sure she would ever again have the strength to make the call if she didn’t do it that second, Leigh picked up the receiver and dialed.

“Well, that was fast,” Jesse answered. It sounded like a taunt. “What can I do for you, Ms. Eisner?”

“I’ve checked my schedule, and I’ll see you in the Hamptons.”

He demonstrated enough restraint not to gloat, but Leigh could
feel
him grinning. “I appreciate that, Leigh. I’ll be out of town for the next couple weeks doing research. Would the second weekend in August work?”

Leigh didn’t bother looking at her planner or the calendar she kept open on her computer screen. What did it matter? Henry had made it clear enough: If it worked for Jesse, it worked for her.