That’s my cue to spin on my heel and escape. Five hours in Vegas, and the National Association of Broadcasters Show is already chaos. I tuck a strand of my blonde hair behind my ear and fire off a quick email approving the podcast episode with Sophia Ford and Edie Lang. Their action filmSurvivoris releasing over Memorial Day weekend, and the buzz is already deafening. I snagged an exclusive with both of them that will kick off their media blitz and serve as a major win for my podcast,On The Red Carpet.
I love those women and can’t wait to see them dominate atraditionally male-skewed holiday weekend. The trades are already predicting record numbers, and my interview dropping first means serious traffic for my platform.
I glance up to get my bearings in the sprawling convention center, and I spot Lucas Carmichael lounging outside the room I’m headed for. I stop short before he notices me, my thumb frozen mid-swipe on my phone.
What the hell is he doing here?
There isn’t a person on the planet who gets under my skin quite like Lucas Carmichael. I quickly flip to my conference app to make sure he’s not moderating my panel session. I should know this already, but the past week has been a blur of prep calls and research.
The text notification interrupts my scrolling:
MARCUS
Where’d you run off to? I was hoping we could get drinks later and maybe watch some clips in my room?
Marcus Delgado, the bane of my existence. One martini-fueled moment of weakness a few months ago led to a regrettable kiss in the backseat of his car, but not because I was too drunk. I was just bored and maybe a little curious, or maybe trying to prove something to myself, like that I’m not destined to die alone. After mistaking a polite smile for an invitation and a vague raincheck for a binding agreement, he’s been relentlessly trying to charm me ever since. He’s not dangerous, not exactly, but he’s definitely entitled, the type of man who assumes that the world is lucky to orbit him, and that includes me.
I wish I could blow him off completely, but Marcus has serious pull in this town. As head of TV production at Wonderland Studios, he’s known for holding grudges and making careers—or quietly breaking them. He’s never crossed a line with me, but I’ve heard enough from other women to know that he likes to test the edge. Nothing you can prove. Nothing that sticks. Not yet, anyway. And if the day ever comes when his name hits my inbox attached to a story? I’ll be ready.
Until then, I craft a carefully worded response:
JESS
I’d love to see you! Can you grab a quick drink at the Adobe mixer? Already booked tonight with interviews.
You don’t have to be rude to people you don’t like. You don’t have to be rude to people you don’t like,I silently repeat with my eyes closed, my personal mantra, centering myself before heading into the South Hall.
“Don’t tell me the interview queen is nervous.”
Just my luck. I suck in a deep breath through my nose, hold for a count of four, and turn to face the smug voice that’s become my professional nemesis.
“What do you want, Lucas?” I ask, keeping my tone carefully neutral despite the immediate surge of irritation. Then I repeat internally once again:You don’t have to be rude to people you don’t like.
Lucas Carmichael, head of PR and comms at Wonderland Studios, is leaning against the wall, looking irritatingly put together in dark jeans, a crisp white button down under anavy blazer, and spotless sneakers. He’s just the right mix of effortless and intentional. His dark hair is perfectly styled, and his smile is calculated to disarm.
His job is literally to make messy stories disappear, while mine is to drag them into the spotlight and force the industry to deal with them. We’ve been circling each other for years, me digging for truth, him layering on spin. Somehow, we always end up in the same places—red carpets, studio junkets, high-profile press disasters—me with a mic, him with a smug smile and a hand on the eject button.
I've never liked him—not since our run-in when he was still in college and dismissed entertainment reporters like me as "vultures," and certainly not since he started turning every professional encounter into an opportunity to needle me. He’s too smooth, too confident, too infuriatingly good-looking for a man with that much power and that little shame.
And yet, when I need access to talent, he’s often the gatekeeper. When he needs a story to break just the right way, he comes to me. Our whole working relationship is built on begrudging respect, mutual annoyance, and the unspoken agreement that neither of us will blink first.
“I’ve never seen you nervous before. What’s that like?” he asks, pushing off the wall to stand at his full height, which, annoyingly, means I have to tilt my head up slightly to maintain eye contact.
“It feels like the rejection you experience every time you try to pitch a fluff piece to a reporter: normal and expected.” I offer him my sweetest smile.
“You’re hilarious,” he deadpans, but I catch the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Great catching up. I gotta run. See ya never, I hope.” I turn and stride through the double doors into the grand exhibition hall, searching for my fellow panelists.
“Hey, wait up,” Lucas calls, quickening his pace to catch me.
“Isn’t there some corporate award form you should be filling out right now? Or maybe reminding your executives that it’s time to submit their Emmy nominations?” I don’t slow down.
“You’re on a roll today, but hang on.” He reaches for me and gently touches my elbow to stop my forward momentum. I hate that it works, but I appreciate that he didn’t just grab me like most men would—like most men do—when they want my attention.
I turn around with an exaggerated sigh. “You’ve got two minutes.”
“That’s all I need.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender.
