Bright red words flash across the screen.
Wasteful.Reckless. Out of Control.
“Reelect Andrew Banks and he’ll make sure to clean up their act…”
It switches immediately to a cereal commercial, but I’m still replaying the ad in my mind.
“That was ominous,” I murmur.
“This ravioli tastes weird,” Leo is complaining in the kitchen.
I shake my head, temporarily dispelling my concern over Hargrove and Lila—including her golden hair and red dress—and the Hawk and the councilman, because I have much more important things to tend to right now. Like convincing a second-grader that fake tomato sauce is definitely supposed to taste like yams.
Chapter seven
Chapter Seven: Lila
If anyone glanced into my dorm right now, they’d probably think I’m plotting a coup.
Honestly, depending on how you look at it, I am. A coup against lazy politics, misinformation, and the defunding of critical public services.
I’m surrounded by chaos, but I’m not exactly calm enough to be considered the eye of the storm. My laptop is open, the screen glowing with a spreadsheet of content ideas. My phone is propped against my water bottle with Instagram analytics pulled up.
There are half a dozen legal pads spread out like a deck of cards, with sticky notes peeking out at random. I also have a cork board laying on the floor, halfway to being transformed into a vision board for the Save A Hero campaign.
It’s been three days since the gala, and the first episode has gone live. The reception has been generally positive, especially thanks to the charming way Jake edited the footage of my little champagne slip to make Hale coming to my rescue seem like being the hero is instinctive.
I’m choosing to think about it in that regard instead of acknowledging how embarrassed I am that they caught my clumsy moment on camera.
I’m also choosing to forget about what happenedafterthat mishap.
The heat, the desperation, the way we pawed at each other in the dark…
And then the way Hale stumbled away from me like something had struck him.
He didn’t say a word during the entire ride back to the station, and he hasn’t been on duty since.
So, basically, he regrets it. And that’s a good thing, because I regret it, too.
I mean, I’m trying to regret it. I know I’m supposed to regret it.
I just wish someone would tell that to my imagination. And my hammering heart. And the tingle in the pit of my stomachwhenever I replay the sound of his low growl, drawn out by the way I rolled my hips against his.
Pressing my palms to either side of my head, I squeeze my skull as if that will help push out all the Hale-related thoughts.
“Focus,” I tell myself. “Focus on the strategy.”
My laptop chimes with a new email. I ignore it.
“Hook, hold, convert,” I recite out loud. “The hook is that the firefighters are hot. The hold is that they’re also human. We convert that into saving Station 47. Easy-peasy.”
My phone buzzes with a new TikTok notification. I reach out and swipe it away.
“Engagement,” I mutter, grabbing for a pencil to scribble down notes. “We need to find a way to utilize trending audio. Can brat summer be revitalized? No, probably not… Potential celebrity collaborations… would that cheapen it?”
I’m so deep in my mad scientist rambling that I completely forget where I am.
At least, until a high-pitched voice chirps out a, “Hello?”
