Nothing less.
Chapter
Three
The next morning,I stare up at the tree the same way a climber faces Mount Everest—equal parts dread and resolve.
I’m sonot looking forward to this.
It doesn’t help that I was up half the night taking care of my other work. Just because I’m here chasing a story doesn’t mean my other responsibilities stop. I’ve got a dozen articles to write, deadlines to hit, and contacts to keep warm. The music biz is my jam (pun intended), and I have to stay plugged in if I want to keep my edge.
It helps that I’ve built solid connections with people in Nashville, LA, and every other music hot spot in between.
When I first started working forThe See, I couldn’t figure out how we were supposed to write insider stories while remaining anonymous. According to the NDA I was required to sign when I was hired, anonymity is paramount.
To get insider information, you have to mingle with the big shots—the “who’s who” of the industry. Harmony came up with the idea of hiring people to be our eyes and ears. I argued that it would cost a fortune, but Harmony brushed my worry aside, saying that money wasn’t an issue.
All five writers were hired through email and only have contact with each other. None of the staff, including Harmony, knows who ownsThe See. It’s funded through the Charleston and Media Arts Endowment, which we know little about. It has a one-page website with a short mission statement about supporting the arts. The address points back to a law office that represents family trusts and individuals with a high net worth.
Our benefactor could be anyone. Monthly funds are transferred intoThe See’sbusiness account and are managed by a firm that oversees the day-to-day operations. Bonuses are paid with no explanation, but they often coincide when a member of the team breaks a big story. Whoever is in charge seems to be watching us closely.
It was Harmony’s idea for us to operate out of Charleston. “Everyone will assume we’ve got some high-rise office in New York. They’ll never suspect that our headquarters is a strip-mall office in Charleston, disguised as a distributor. It’s the perfect setup,”Harmony said, and she was right.
Anyway, the bottom line is that my job never stops. I have to talk to my contacts, get information, and write. By the time I finished last night, it was after two a.m. Now my eyes are blurry, my back aches from contorting around branches, and my hands are raw from stringing lights.
“Enough complaining,” I mutter. “Time to work.” It’s so dang early. I yawn, wishing I were still in bed. I don’t sleep great in hotels—another grievance to add to my list.
Bianca gave me the code to the door yesterday, so I let myself in. From what I can tell, I’m here alone. It’s bound to be another long, boring day.
I get an hour into my task before I hear a sound behind me. I jerk around as Axel strolls into the kitchen. He’s barefoot, wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt. His hair is damp and tousled like he just stepped out of the shower.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough from sleep.
“Morning,” I respond.
Light streams in through the tall windows, and his presence fills the quiet space.
Focus, London. You’re here for the story, not to repeat the same mistake of the past.
He opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of milk. “How’s the decorating coming?”
“Peachy,” I say in a peppy tone. “Working on the next tree.”
“Well, I admire your determination. Thanks for all that you’re doing.”
“It’s my job.” I shrug, aiming for casual.
He pours himself a bowl of cereal and takes a seat at the kitchen table.
I turn back to my work and go through the motions of wrapping branches, but I’m keenly aware of him—the clink of the spoon against the bowl, the faint scratch of his chair against the tile.
I steal a glance. He’s scrolling through his phone as he eats, his dark hair catching the light. Even doing mundane things and dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, he looks infuriatingly good.
His phone rings.
“Hey.” His voice goes sharp. “Yeah, I saw it. Jovie’s up to her normal. All hype with no basis in fact.”
My pulse quickens.
