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I just can't look at anyone in this room. Every time my eyes lock with someone else's here, it's a punch to my confidence.

I'll just have to... keep my gaze to the floor, then find where I'm supposed to go by clues.

My eyes skirt around tables, focusing on shoes and laptop bags lying on the floor, and I glance up only for the briefest squint at nameplates before ducking back down.

It's not until I'm at the very end of the room, isolated from all the other tables deep in conversation, and wondering if maybe I need to turn around, that I finally spot the name.

JACK STERLING.

His nameplate is askew.

He's wearing a T-shirt. A charcoal-gray T-shirt—the kind of T-shirt that exudes quiet luxury in its simplicity. The mere fact that you can't tell if it's part of a six-pack from aisle six of the grocery store or handspun in the Himalayas somehow makes it all the more boastful. A blazer is tossed on the chair beside him.

His shoes are athletic. The brand name something foreign. His feet are crossed one over the other on the table as he leans back in his chair and thumbs through his phone, not a care in the world.

He may as well be at home right now, watching soccer on the television.

One glance up to his face and there's no question that this is the man I'm supposed to meet.

They are the same striking gulf watergreen eyes as those on a dozen tabs on my laptop—every ounce of research I could find about the senior agent of the titanic agency, The Foundry Literary. His squeaky-clean, freshly shaven face and perfectly trimmed and oh-so-slightly swooped brown hair is plastered on everything from decade-old interviews about the state of the publishing industry to the recent breakup announced on his former girlfriend's Instagram page. (Yes, I, and every other crazy conference attendee here, am a stalker.) Every single thing about his life and interests I could possibly find to help me create the mask I would need to wear to impress him.

The same coffee order in his hand I'd learned through a podcast Q&A two months ago. Black but for one pack of sugar.

The same thin, unconcerned lips as he looks through his phone.

Honestly, it's startling. Other agents and editors and their hopefuls are engaging in earnest conversation, and here Jack is, appearing like he's absolutely forgotten about me. As if he couldn't care less if I'm here or not. I'm not sure what's better: the unsettling intensity of other agents... or this.

I slide into my seat.

He holds up a finger. Without looking at me.

And it's a full, agonizing three minutes before he peers up from his phone. Three minutes out of a possible fifteen total where every tick of the clock rings in my bones. The chatter in the room has grown to a roar. The conversations and missions around me rush forward while I'm sitting here, stuck in the mud as I watch this man spin through his phone. And there is nothing I can do about it. I am completely at his mercy.

Stagnant. It's a good thing I wore my bland brown dress today because I have sweated through it.

And just when I think I am going to burst, he casually sets the phone on the table face down.

"Sorry about that..." he says, without any sense of sincerity, and gives a startling clap of his hands. He drops his feet to the ground. His eyes skim over my lanyard. "Bryony. Whatcha got."

It's less of a question than a statement, because before I know it, he takes the folder from my hands and swivels it around to face him.

Just. Takes it.

Agents, in my vast experience of the past three days, do not do this.

They open the conversation slowly, like cats eyeing their mice carefully because they think it'd be fun to play a little before swallowing them. They say things like, "What's your name?" despite the fact it's written across your lanyard and printed on the sheet of paper before them. They ask questions like, "Where are you from?" and "Ah. So you're a Knicks fan, then?" even though it has absolutely nothing to do with anything. All just filler conversation to break the ice and warm you up before they inevitably eat you for supper.

And they certainly don't just snatch your folder from your hands.