“Being talentedisa full-time job,” he jokes.
Maybe that’s why I don’t have room for Chad 2.0’s leisurely attitude this morning.Does he not notice how busy this place is?Or is it that he doesn’t value anyone else’s time?
Do they even have Chads in over there in England?
Taking a deep breath helps.Okay, I might be letting stress get to me.It’s not this guy’s fault I’m late after all.
I still need him to hurry it up though.Maybe it’s time to push this along …
* * *
Make Your Choice:
wait(go to 4)
interrupt(go to 6)
go back(go to 1)
I decide not to risk it.
The Observerbuilding is a relic of glass and steel, the upper floors groaning anytime the wind picks up.One of the original icons of this city’s long history.The paper has proudly filled the top three floors since its inception.Production moved off-site some years ago, but the heart of the paper remains.
I rush into the elevator when it opens, following a man inside.Thanks to booking it here, I won’t be late.I’m sweaty and cranky without my coffee, but at least I made it on time.
Even better, the button for my floor is already lit up.
I wonder who I … oh no.
The doors close.
In a hundred years of publication, there have been many good journalists signed toThe Observer, but no one stands out like Sterling Ross.He’s imposing in prose and in person, towering over everyone in strong black suits and an even sterner disposition.Only eight years separate us, but the lines by his eyes speak of stories that took parts of him to tell, truths that have been carved into or out of him.
Sterling is more than a byline; he’s a movement.
He’s also the reason I’m here.
Ever since I read his exposé on doctors who were misdiagnosing patients on purpose to generate more appointments, I’ve known I wanted to follow in his footsteps.
I’m surprised.This is late for him.Usually, he starts hours before anyone.First in, last out, holed up behind his desk with his brow furrowed over his glasses like he’s solving world peace.
He probably is.
Meanwhile, I’m working late, responding to social media comments on an absolutely crucial post about “Where to Eat after 10 p.m.: Chance’s Best Late-Night Eats.”
My sigh echoes in the silence as the elevator rises.
Sterling Ross is a tour de force.Formidable, with a sharp mind and unerring dedication to ethical journalism.
He’s also more attractive than any person should be.Six foot three, with the upper body of a god.Big enough to overpower anyone he wants, but he outsmarts people instead.For a body like that—and it’s a damn fine body—he must spend half his life in a gym.I don’t know when he sleeps.Maybe never.
He can make me blush by walking by.
I’m not alone in feeling that way either.Rooms hush when he enters, falling silent in awe of his looks, his Pulitzer, or both.
“I loved your piece last week.”The words slip from me eagerly in the confined space.“The way you referenced the allegations without outright stating she was lying while still countering every point with evidence was amazing.”
For the barest second, his gaze shifts from the elevator doors to meet my own, and his response is a gruff, “Thank you.”
