The station is already buzzing with pre-morning show energy when I push through the doors.
“Morning, Syd.” Rocko says. “Big day, huh?”
“You could say that.” I force a smile. “Any predictions?” I play dumb.
“I’m not touching that one.” He chuckles, buzzing me through. “But for what it’s worth, I’m pulling for you.”
“Thanks, Rocko.”
The elevator seems slower than usual this morning, or maybe it’s just my anxiety making every second stretch into eternity. I close my eyes again, counting backward. The familiar tightness begins to crawl up my chest, squeezing my lungs.Not now. Please—not now.
I dig in my purse for the little orange pill bottle, the one I keep hidden at the bottom under tissues and loose change. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning on dry land, and the medication helps, but I hate taking it. Hate the fuzzy edges it gives the world, the slight delay between thought and speech.
But today of all days, I can’t afford to fall apart.
The doors open with a cheerful ding, and I step out onto the third floor, where the newsroom sprawls in chaotic glory. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see downtown Dickens’s streetlights still glowing against the pre-dawn sky. It’s so peaceful and pretty.
I love this town, and I don’t want it to be the place my dreams come to die.
And there, leaning against Zoe’s desk with a smirk, is Donny with his coiffed blond hair and polo shirt straining against gym-sculpted muscles. When he catches sight of me, his smirk widens.
“Morning, Syd!” he calls, loud enough for half the newsroom to hear. “Big day, right?”
Couldn’t he have the decency tonotbe quite so peppy?
“Morning, Donny,” I manage. “It is.”
He laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “May the bestmanwin.”
“That’s cute. Not sexist at all.” I head to my office without another glance in his direction. My hands shake, but I clench them into fists.
My tiny office feels like a sanctuary as I close the door behind me. I’ve barely had time to set down my bag when there’s a knock—three sharp raps that make me jump.
“Come in,” I call, steeling myself.
Marcus opens the door, his expression unreadable. In his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and reading glasses perpetually perched on the end of his nose, our station manager has seen it all in local television.
“Sydney.” He closes the door behind him. “Got a minute?”
“Of course.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “Coffee?”
“No, thanks.” He settles into the chair, adjusting his glasses. “I wanted to talk to you about the sports anchor position.”
Here it comes. The “we went another direction” speech. The “Donny brings something special to the table” speech. The “but we value you as our weather reporter” speech.
I paste on my most professional smile, the one I use when reporting too close to a wildfire. “I figured as much.”
“It was a tough decision,” Marcus begins, and the tiny flicker of hope that Brooks was wrong about Donny dies. “And I’m sorry about this, but I had to go with my gut.”
Before he can deliver the final blow, the door swings open without warning.
And there, looking like he just stepped off a GQ cover despite the early hour, is Brooks Kingston. His hair is slightly damp, like he’s just showered, and he’s wearing a button-up shirt that strains across his shoulders in a way that shouldn’t be allowed before nine a.m.
“Oh, hey, sorry to interrupt,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. His eyes meet mine briefly, something unreadable flickering in them. “But I know you missed breakfast, Syd, so I brought it for you.”
He holds up a paper bag from Dickens Diner, and the scent of fresh cinnamon rolls wafts through my tiny office. My brain short-circuits, unable to process why Brooks Kingston is standing in my doorway with breakfast when less than twenty-four hours ago, he told me he’d rather walk through fire than pretend to love me.
Then he squeezes past Marcus to approach me, giving me a soft kiss on the forehead before setting the bag on my desk.
