The arrangement

I stepped through the revolving doors of Marlowe House Publishing at precisely seven-fifteen, adjusting my cuffs as I entered the lobby.

The building was quiet at this hour—only a handful of staff heading toward the elevators and a low murmur of conversation drifting from reception.

Morning sunlight filtered through the tall street-facing windows, slanting across pale stone floors and the warm oak paneling of the reception area. Behind the desk, the name Marlowe House Publishing was set into the wall in discreet brass lettering.

My grandmother had always preferred it that way.

Eleanor Marlowe had insisted from the beginning that the focus remain on the books, not the brand. Forty years later, her principle felt more essential than ever. In an industry defined by relentless consolidation, there was something to be said for holding fast to one’s identity. I appreciated the reminder.

Unfortunately, my reverence for the firm’s history did little to soften the shrill whine of drilling that interrupted my thoughts halfway across the floor.

The sound came from the alcove beside reception, where The Little Pause had been undergoing renovations for the better part of two weeks.

I slowed near the temporary partition separating the café from the lobby. Plastic sheeting taped across the stone floor, missing ceiling panels, and an unreasonable assortment of power tools cluttered the space behind the barrier.

Through a gap in the plywood, I could make out the unfinished counter and several lengths of exposed wiring dangling overhead. Two contractors stood near the back—one atop a ladder, the other rummaging leisurely through a toolbox.

Neither looked particularly concerned with their progress, which was mildly impressive given they were supposed to have finished days ago.

I had been assured on Friday that the renovation would be completed in time for Monday morning—a promise delivered with enough conviction that I had briefly entertained the possibility of it being kept.

I continued toward the elevators, making a mental note to have Poppy contact the café’s owner.

Again.

The elevator arrived, and I stepped inside. I caught my reflection in the polished metal doors, straightened my collar, and checked the time once more.

Several matters required my attention this morning: an acquisition proposal I had been waiting to review since Thursday, and a succession of meetings with agents pitching for our upcoming lists.

When the doors parted on the fourth floor, Poppy was already waiting, a manila folder tucked beneath one arm and her phone held loosely in the other.

She looked entirely too cheerful.

Her short blonde hair was styled in its usual tousled bob, and the bright blouse beneath her tailored blazer provided a sharp contrast to the muted tones of the office.

Behind her, the floor was gradually coming to life. Editors moved between shared workspaces with laptops and manuscripts, while others were already at their desks, sorting through the weekend’s accumulated correspondence.

Poppy straightened as I stepped out, slipping her phone into her pocket and offering a smile just apologetic enough to confirm my suspicions.

“I’ve already contacted the owner of the café,” she announced, falling into step beside me. “She assured me they’ll be finished this week.”

I glanced at her. “Last week, she assured you they’d be finished by Monday.”

“I know, Mr. Marlowe.” She offered me the folder, perfectly composed despite the dry edge in my voice. “But I spoke with her personally this morning, and she said they’re putting on the finishing touches and cleaning up today.”

“Finishing touches.”

“Her words, not mine.”

I took the folder as we continued down the corridor.

Finishing touches was an imaginative description for a room with live cables dangling from the ceiling.

The café was independently operated, and under ordinary circumstances, I had no desire to involve myself in another business’s affairs. Unfortunately, those circumstances rarely included masonry drilling in our reception area before eight in the morning.

“Did she happen to explain why those finishing touches require half the ceiling to be removed?” I asked.

Poppy pressed her lips together, and I caught the brief flicker of amusement in her green eyes.

“Not specifically, no.”

“How reassuring.”

“I could call her again.”

“Would it accomplish anything?”

She considered that for a moment. “Probably not anything different from the last three times.”

“Then let’s spare ourselves the exercise.” I glanced at her. “Give her until the end of the day. If the café still looks like a construction site tomorrow morning, I want a revised schedule in writing. One based on the actual amount of work remaining, preferably.”

“Understood.” She made a quick note on her phone before glancing up with a faint smile. “For what it’s worth, she sounded very confident.”

“She did on Friday, too.”

“Yes, well.” Her smile widened slightly. “Perhaps confidence is her specialty.”

I turned my head and gave her a look.

She blinked back with exaggerated innocence.

“Clearly, construction isn’t,” I replied.

A quiet laugh escaped her before she could suppress it, and I continued toward my office without further comment.

Poppy had worked with me long enough to know I didn’t object to humor, provided it never interfered with her responsibilities.

And since attempting to discourage her only made the situation more entertaining for her, I had learned to pick my battles.

I pushed open the door to my office and crossed to the desk, setting my leather bag near the edge before opening the folder.

The proposal was the one I’d been expecting since Thursday: a potential acquisition, a promising manuscript, and an advance that had already generated far more discussion than it warranted.

I wasn’t opposed to taking risks on promising authors. Marlowe House had built much of its reputation by recognizing potential that larger publishers had overlooked.

But there was a distinct difference between a calculated risk and ignoring the numbers because the alternative was inconvenient.

I turned to the second page, scanning the projected costs against the sales estimates.

Something wasn’t right.

I checked the figures again.

The discrepancy was not dramatic, but it was unmistakable: someone had either miscalculated or quietly altered the assumptions without explanation.

Neither possibility was particularly encouraging, considering how long I’d spent waiting for the revision.

Poppy moved through her morning routine with practiced efficiency, booting up my laptop while I continued reading.

“I need to see Charlie today,” I said, turning another page.

“Already taken care of.” She set my bag in its usual position beside the desk. “I’ve cleared your schedule at twelve for lunch with your sister. I spoke to her earlier, and she said that works perfectly.”

“Good.”

I set the proposal down and shrugged off my jacket. Poppy took it without being asked and crossed toward the coat rack by the door.

There were moments when I wondered whether she had always been this organised, or whether working with me had simply enforced the habit.

Given the state of her own desk whenever she was planning a holiday, I suspected the latter.

“What does my schedule look like today?” I asked, settling into my chair and pulling the proposal closer.

“Busy, but manageable.” She consulted her calendar, scrolling briefly. “You have video calls with agents scattered throughout the day. The first is at eight-thirty, followed by another at ten. I’ve left time between appointments for you to review their submissions, and your afternoon is mostly taken up by follow-up discussions.”

I listened as she outlined the hours ahead, mentally noting which meetings required my full attention and which could be concluded in half their allotted time.

Agent meetings were rarely predictable. Some were productive discussions about authors whose work genuinely interested us; others were forty-five minutes of theatrical posturing that could have been resolved in a concise email.

Unfortunately, experience had taught me that pointing this out never made the meetings any shorter.

“And my father?” I asked once she had finished.

Poppy looked up from her screen.

“He’s on a flight to London.”

Of course he was.

I leaned back in my chair, letting my gaze drift to the skyline beyond the glass.

My father’s ability to make himself unavailable at inconvenient moments was remarkable in its consistency.

I did not object to his travelling—business required it, and I understood better than most that commercial obligations rarely accommodated personal convenience.

What I found considerably less admirable was his tendency to leave pressing matters unresolved, serene in the assumption that someone else would step in.

More often than not, that someone was me.

It had been that way for years.

I had long since stopped expecting anything different, though apparently I hadn’t quite managed to stop finding it irritating.

“Did he mention when he’d be reachable?” I asked.

“Not specifically. He forwarded a few emails last night, but there was no mention of a call.”

Naturally.

I lowered my gaze to the proposal, running through the points I had intended to put before him. Several upcoming decisions would have benefited from his input, particularly those involving long-term commitments and the direction of the next list.

None were impossible to resolve without him, but that was hardly the point.

Marlowe House was a family business, and although I never shirked responsibility, I occasionally found myself wondering whether my father remembered that responsibility was supposed to be his.

“All right,” I said, turning to my laptop. “Forward me whatever else he sends. I’ll deal with the rest.”

“Of course.”

Poppy lingered beside the desk for another moment, checking whether there was anything I had forgotten to ask.

When I offered no further instructions, she slipped her phone into her pocket and headed for the door.

I opened the proposal again, intending to return to the suspect figures, but glanced up just as her hand reached the handle.

“Thank you, Poppy.”

She turned slightly, offering a warm smile.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Marlowe.”

I watched her begin to leave before something occurred to me.

“And Poppy?”

She paused, turning fully toward me. Her eyebrows lifted with mild curiosity, a hint of a smile already playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Yes, Mr. Marlowe?”

“Good morning.”

For a second, she simply looked at me.

Then her expression softened, the familiar dimples appearing as her smile widened into something considerably more genuine than the polished courtesy she had greeted me with earlier.

“Good morning, Mr. Marlowe.”

There was a distinct note of amusement in her voice, though she had the tact not to comment on my belated greeting.

She gave me one last smile before slipping out and quietly pulling the door shut behind her.

I shook my head faintly and returned to the spread of papers on my desk.

Poppy had an extraordinary talent for making even the most mundane exchanges entertaining. The office would be considerably less pleasant without her, though I had no intention of telling her that; she was already quite pleased enough with herself.

I checked the time in the corner of my screen before opening the relevant spreadsheet.

An incomplete café renovation, a dubious acquisition proposal, a slate of agent meetings to prepare for, and a father somewhere over the Atlantic who had decided London required his presence more urgently than anything here.

A fairly ordinary Monday, all things considered.

I reached for my coffee, only to find the coaster beside my laptop empty.

I stared at the vacant spot for a moment.

Then, almost on cue, came a quiet knock at the door.

Poppy slipped inside, a takeaway cup in hand and an expression of exaggerated innocence on her face.

“Almost forgot,” she said, crossing the room to set it beside my laptop. “Your coffee.”

I looked from the cup up to her.

“Thank you.”

“Wouldn’t want you starting the week without it.”

“I was beginning to think the building had developed a personal objection to providing me with caffeine.”

“Only the ground floor, apparently.”

I gave her a look, and her quiet laughter trailed after her into the corridor.

I picked up the cup, took a measured sip, and turned back to the proposal.

At least one thing was functioning as expected.

As for the café downstairs, I intended to ensure the same could be said for it before the week was out.