“I know.” She leaned back in her chair, frustration written across her face. “But God, what I wouldn’t give. That’s the dream, you know? Landing the interview everyone says is impossible.”
I kept walking, and didn't let her see that I’d heard.
Simon Tucker. She wanted Simon Tucker.
I could work with that.
Friday, I noticed she skipped lunch.
It was nearly two o’clock and she hadn’t moved from her desk except to refill her coffee. She was deep in something, barely looking up, and I recognized that particular brand of tunnel vision. She’d forget to eat entirely if someone didn’t remind her.
I picked up my phone and called down to my assistant.
“Rebecca. Order lunch for Pauline Wells. The reporter on the third floor, desk by the window.” I paused, trying to remember what she used to like. “Something healthy but filling. A salad, maybe. With protein. And make sure there’s—” I stopped myself before I said extra avocado, no tomatoes, dressing on the side.
That would be too specific. That would reveal too much. “Just make it good.”
“Of course, Mr. Specter.”
I went back to my work, satisfied.
An hour later, I looked down at the newsroom from my monitor and saw the delivery container sitting untouched on the corner of her desk. She hadn’t even opened it. She was still typing, still focused, and the lunch I’d sent was being studiously ignored like it might bite her if she acknowledged its existence.
She knew it was from me. I picked up the phone again.
“Rebecca. Order lunch for the entire newsroom floor. Whatever they want. My treat.”
A pause. “The entire floor, sir?”
“Everyone. Make it generous.”
If Pauline Wells wouldn’t accept my help directly, I’d simply help everyone around her until she had no choice but to be included. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t even particularly clever. But watching her try to refuse free food when everyone else was happily accepting it would be entertaining, at the very least.
I was a petty man. I had made my peace with that.
She appeared in my doorway forty-five minutes later, and I had to work very hard not to smile.
She was wearing a fitted navy dress, the fabric skimmed her curves in a way that made my mouth go dry, and her heels added just enough height that when she walked—which she did now, striding toward my desk like she was going to war—her hips swayed with a rhythm that was entirely distracting.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
I leaned back in my chair, letting my eyes travel over her face. Flushed with irritation. Beautiful. Always so beautiful when she was angry.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” I said. “I do a lot of things.”
“The lunch. For the whole floor.”
“Ah.” I steepled my fingers, the picture of innocence. “I’m taking care of my employees. Being a good boss. Boosting morale.” I tilted my head. “Is there a problem with that?”
“You ordered me lunch first.”
“Did I?”
“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I ordered lunch for a hardworking reporter who I noticed hadn’t eaten all day. Then I realized the whole floor was probably hungry and extended the gesture. It’s called leadership, Pauline. Generosity. You might have heard of it.”
She stepped closer to my desk, and I caught a whiff of her perfume—something soft and warm, vanilla and something floral underneath, and it hit me like a punch to the chest. She’d worn the same scent in college. Some things, apparently, didn’t change.
