Meet Me in the Margins By Melissa Ferguson PDF Free Download

Meet Me in the Margins By Melissa Ferguson Summary

Meet Me in the Margins: Savannah Cade’s dreams are coming true. The Claire Donovan, editor-in-chief of the most successful romance imprint in the country, has requested to see the manuscript Savannah’s been secretly writing while working as editor herself—except at her publishing house, the philosophy is only highbrow works are worth printing and commercial fiction, particularly romance, should be reserved for the lowest level of Dante’s inferno. But when Savannah drops her manuscript during a staff meeting and nearly exposes herself to the whole company—including William Pennington, new publisher and son of the romance-despising CEO herself—she races to hide her manuscript in the secret turret room of the old Victorian office.

When she returns, she’s dismayed to discover that someone has not only been in her hidden nook but has written notes in the margins—quite critical ones. But when Claire’s own reaction turns out to be nearly identical to the scribbled remarks, and worse, Claire announces that Savannah has six weeks to resubmit before she retires, Savannah finds herself forced to seek the help of the shadowy editor after all.

As their notes back and forth start to fill up the pages, however, Savannah finds him not just becoming pivotal to her work but her life. There’s no doubt about it. She’s falling for her mystery editor. If she only knew who he was.

“Meet Me in the Margins is a delightfully charming jewel of a book that fans of romantic comedy won’t be able to put down—and will want to share with all their friends. Readers will lose themselves in Melissa Ferguson’s witty, warm tale of Savannah Cade and the perfectly drawn cast of characters that inhabits her world. This literary treat full of missed opportunities, second chances, and maybe even true love, should be at the top of your reading list!” —Kristy Woodson Harvey, New York Times bestselling author of Under the Southern Sky

About the Author

Melissa Ferguson lives in Bristol, Tennessee, where she enjoys chasing her children and writing romantic comedies full of humor and heart. Her favorite hobby is taking friends and acquaintances and turning them into characters in her books without their knowledge. She is confident you should read all her novels, starting with this one.

Meet Me in the Margins By Melissa Ferguson Introduction

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Pacing the back corner of the packed meeting room in outstandingly uncomfortable heels, I move as silently as possible along the three feet of available aisle space between my begrudgingly accommodating coworker, Clyve, and the horde of beady-eyed osprey staring down at me from the vintage wallpaper. I frown at the eerily stenciled birds, like I always do whenever I’m called to the Magnolia Room. There is a pause between Ms. Pennington’s words, and I sense the need to nod with the others as I check my watch. Only 3600 steps for the day, and it’s already nearing noon.

I pivot dangerously on one thin heel and take a smaller, quicker step on the thick red carpet, all while slashing three words at the end of a paragraph. This is one of the benefits of being an assistant acquisitions editor at a publishing company more vintage than the eighties-styled jumpsuits circling back into fashion among teens. Editors here are constantly lugging around thick stacks of paper with pens behind their ears, jotting last-minute notes on authors’ manuscripts, looking harried.

In fact, at Pennington Publishing, you’d look noticeably off if you weren’t dragging around at least one manuscript to one of the half dozen meetings making up your day. Hence why none of the eyes in the rows ahead or around me so much as flicker as I flip from one page to another during this meeting.

Plus there’s the fact that I’m not an inch over five feet tall. And one of the benefits of not being an inch over five feet tall in a publishing house whose “conference room” is a converted living room of an old Victorian mansion is that half the staff has to stand, and I can multitask my heart out behind them without being seen.

And I do try to multitask. At least on good days when I feel one of those rare bursts of genuine motivation—or at least when my sister prods me until I give in. Because I am a Cade. Specifically, Savannah Cade. And the Cades are a pure breed distinguished by indefatigable energy, marked enthusiasm, and a dash of insanity. Seamlessly exceeding expectations is what we do.

It’s just . . . a little more challenging for me.

“Pennington Publishing has been a cornerstone of the nonfiction and literary fiction markets for over fifty years,” Ms. Pennington, CEO of Pennington Publishing, says, gripping the podium. Her eyes glint like the six candle-like lights on the antique brass chandelier hanging in the center of the room.

“Why? Because Pennington doesn’t bow down to pressure. Because Pennington won’t conform by throwing away our high-standing principles for a mere dollar in our pockets. Here at Pennington, we actually believe in the content we produce as a means of evolving and fine-tuning the minds of our readers and the culture at large. Unlike other houses lining the grocery-store shelves with”—her nose wrinkles, as though she can barely handle spitting out the words—“commercial fiction as quickly as they can, Pennington works tirelessly to produce only the most curated, thoroughly vetted manuscripts worth printing on the page. Only the most curated, vetted manuscripts we believe the world needs to read.”

I raise a brow as I slash another word.

It’s a nice sentiment, but I don’t know if the whole world needed to have in their possession my latest edit: The Incredible World of Words: An Epistemophiliac’s Guide.

“And that’s why, despite the onslaught of crises thrown our way last year, Pennington Publishing will continue to be the foundational place readers and booksellers look to for the coming year. And it’s for that reason I want you all to give a warm welcome to the newest employee of our team.”

My pen slips on the underlining of a word. I lift my head. A new employee?

Through the sliver of space between two elbows I see Ms. Pennington holding on to the podium with two strong hands as she looks down at her employees, her sharp blue eyes narrowed as if reading all our minds: Someone speak up. I dare you.

Slowly, a round of applause picks up around the room.

The thing is, the past few years have been hard on Pennington Publishing. Not just us, really. It’s been this way for most smaller publishers not yet swallowed up by one of the Big Five. Despite Pennington’s years of glory (of which Ms. Pennington is only too quick to remind everyone at every turn), it hasn’t been able to keep up with the solid chugging of the bigger, well-oiled machines. Pennington is a sailboat.

A beautiful Pen Duick regatta cutter whose owner slides his hand over the rosewood, mahogany, teak, and other exotic tropical woods of the hull with pride while watching the vast white sail overhead billow in the sea-salt breeze. Intricately detailed. Unlike any other.

But still just a bobbing speck compared to the ocean liner charging through.

Which is why everyone inside these popsicle-green, osprey-ridden walls claps now like obedient penguins on cue at a waterpark show. It is why Terry in Accounts smooths down his Moby Dick Thar She Blows! whale-spotting necktie every five seconds whenever Ms. Pennington is in the room.

It is why Lyla chucks her AirPods beneath her desk whenever we hear Ms. Pennington’s nails tap impatiently on the casing of a neighboring office door during one of her spontaneous “visits.” It is why I have to keep Band-Aids in my purse these days to handle the torment caused by these diabolical, aka “professional,” heels.

Because we are the ones left. The survivors of the great Pennington bloodshed.

“I’m aware that we have lost quite a few dedicated employees in the past calendar year. The 29 percent reduction in staff has been . . .” Ms. Pennington’s long, slim nostrils flare slightly as she breaks down the word into each clear syllable. “. . . chall-en-ging. Each one of us has been required to take on additional tasks.”

Her pitch heightens as she lifts a finger in the air. “But that is precisely why we will rise again beneath Mr. Pennington’s expertise.”

Wait.

Mr. Pennington? As in . . . 

“A man whose experience of ten years in one of the most successful publishing houses in the world,” she continues, “will provide fresh insight and new angles.” Her eyes grow steely. “Helping us to prune when and where necessary in order to blossom for years to come. Mr. Pennington, we are thrilled to have you join us as VP and publisher of our most revered line, Pennington Pen.”

For a second, there is nothing but stunned silence as those seated in the front turn their heads and those sardined in the back crane their necks to see the man, melted into the audience just a moment prior, stand. My pen, forgotten in my hand, slides across the page, leaving a long streak of black.

“Ssssssuper.”

Lyla, sitting casually on the deep windowsill of the expansive window in front of me, rolls her eyes, revealing the glimmer of last night’s metallic eyeshadow.

Lyla is one of the many in Nashville whose long blond hair accounts for half of her body weight, whose circle of friends who know her real name grows smaller by the year, and who, like the Nutcracker, only really comes to life when the clock ticks some insanely late hour. Only instead of waking up to battle rats and tour children around some bizarre dreamland, she can typically be found down at the strip, perched on a beer-stained barstool, singing her heart out.

Lyla is to Nashville what skinny waitresses in their twenties are to New York City. A dime a dozen, starry eyed to the bitter end, and positively certain their current day job to fund things like food and clothing is only a momentary pit stop on the road to freedom. And while you can see Ms. Pennington’s eyes twitching with desire to chuck Lyla and her laptop on the street just about every meeting, her cover designs and digital marketing are second to none. And I mean that. Second to none. She has literally rolled two full-time jobs into one.

“Well, at least someone can go tell Harry it wasn’t about his little run-in with Ms. Pennington over those galleys,” Lyla mutters—loud enough that several in the row beside her turn their heads. “Just some good old-fashioned nepotism.”

“Shh,” Jeanna Banks (Pennington Trophy division, six years) hisses before turning back around.

Harry—dear old Harry, who brought the same egg-salad sandwich to work every day for the past twenty-two years—got The Email four weeks prior. Nobody wants to get The Email. The last thing any employee of Pennington Publishing wants to receive is the email addressed to them with the subject line: MEETING REQUESTED.

I turn from the wall and pace back, and Lyla, with her apathetic, I-hate-these-meetings gaze, sweeps her eyes over my manuscript. As she does so, her face clears. She raises one perfectly arched brow. “Is that . . . ?”

“I promised I’d turn it in today,” I reply.

“Yeah, but . . . here?”

So this is what it feels like, being the one on the receiving end of a raised eyebrow.

All our lives it has been the other way around. Me, the rule keeper, the one staying tightly within the lines. Lyla, the free spirit. Smuggling in her diary—vibrantly pink and covered in hearts on the outside, secrets within—into middle school in seventh grade and holding it brazenly open during lunch period while I silently have a panic attack on her behalf. Lyla, gaily pitching in with the other seniors to fill up Principal Peterson’s office with orange cones during spirit week, all while I stand guard, listening to my knees quake.

“I have to send it in today,” I repeat swiftly. “I just need a few minutes to squeeze a last edit in.”

Out of the corner of my eye, a man steps up to the podium beside Ms. Pennington, and she shakes his hand.

Like they’ve never met before.

Like this isn’t the only human being standing before her with half her chromosomes.

I stifle a grin and keep on.

The thing is, everyone knows Ms. Pennington’s son got sacked from Sterling House three months ago.

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Product details:

Edition	International Edition
ISBN	0785231072, 978-0785231073
Posted on	February 15, 2022
Format	pdf
Page Count	320 pages
Author	Melissa Ferguson