“You shouldn’t have,” I said.
“I didn’t.” Samantha plopped them on the desk. “They’re from—”
But I already knew. A tiny golden label—Amica Georges—dangled from a sparkling thread wrapped around the lip of the vase. “Wells,” I muttered. Amica Georges was Wells’s mother’s favorite florist. My spine went heavy in my chair.
“Your fiancé,” Samantha confirmed. The word bobbed in my stomach like a fishing lure. “The network has a locked-up guest policy for the next few days, given yesterday’s publicity. I’m sorry we couldn’t let him in.”
I slid the vase toward my boss. “You take them.”
Samantha squinted at me. “Come again?”
“I’m allergic.”To my ex-fiancé, I didn’t say, because she didn’t know he was my ex-fiancé. Semantics.
Samantha eyed me with suspicion, then shook her head. “Regardless, I’m here as more than just a flower delivery person. You need an agent.”
I rocked in my work chair. “Me? But I haven’t written a book.” Doing so would be smart for my documentary goals, but I hadn’t gotten there yet. I’d pinned the name of the top agency for debut documentarians at the top of my Notes app, which only served to mock me as I had no reel to send her.
“Not a lit agent, doll.” Samantha thwacked a card on my desk. “A talent one.”
The card’s corners were sharp enough to cut dreams. Athree-letter agency most of the team belonged to, its recognizable brand colors, the embossed letters CHUCK WHEELER glinting in the overheard light. I had never considered the concept of attaining an agent, nor would I have any idea where to start. I wrinkled my nose. “Dream on.”
“Wake up, Olivia. Most people would bust through walls to have Chuck’s info.” Samantha paused, the gleam of assessment in her eyes. “Look. The network head’s coming in here in the next five minutes to beg you back on the air this afternoon.”
My insides lurched.“What?”
“Walk with me.”
I rose, following Samantha to the glass panel that overlooked the studio below, where Phoebe and Josef were live. A lick of watered-down curiosity filled my chest.
“Consider this a heads-up. Our ratings plummeted faster than the stock market during a war event and the heads arenotpleased. They expected a rebound with those two.” She gave me a look, widened her eyes. “The Habbit and de la Garza duo are supposed to be our trusted faces. Yada yada nope. Per Diem has been flailing, and yesterday’s numbers were like a drug to the network heads. Our audience wants you.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Me?”
“I know. I’m nearly as surprised as you. No offense.”
She really didn’t mean offense, no matter how rude the words were. Samantha was a fellow fact connoisseur. “But I’m not a news anchor. I have no training, other than that fever dream that other people refer to as ‘yesterday.’?”
“The world’s in an upheaval. You royally put your foot in it live.” Samantha’s mouth quirked. “And you apologized, shrugged off the embarrassment, and moved on. Plus, your human-interest angle landed well.” Her face softened. Her story was my human-interest angle. “The ratings forFrom Yes to I Dobumped up last night, and you aren’t even on it yet.”
The mention of the wedding show made my insides squirm. I’d sort of figured canceling my wedding special wouldn’t be that huge of a deal to a network that already operated on a net loss, but now the room was starting to feel hotter. “Whoa. Iwas just trying to rescue the situation after I messed up. Ididn’t plan it.”
“Well, you’re far from rehearsed.” Samantha waved off my frown. “It’s a compliment. You’re just a person presenting facts, and people like that relatability.”
I paused ata person presenting facts. My proverbial port in a storm. “But I like my job,” I said, hating how weak my voice sounded.
Samantha straightened. “Okay. Then turn down the offer.”
“What is this offer, exactly?”
“A role they’re calling the Current Events Reporter.” She leaned closer. “If you want it, then counter that you want to be the Current EventsCorrespondent. Same job, but the title carries more weight with audiences. Brief daily screen time segment on Per Diem, where at least for now, you’ll probably focus on Soulmail until the next cataclysmic event happens.”
A notification flashed on my screen. I flipped over my phone. “And if I don’t like it?”
Samantha’s look could wither giants. She stretched, then moved to leave. “Then you’re on to whatever comes next,” she said over her shoulder.
Those words in that order hit me with a thump on my shoulders. My father’s fishing partner, Petey, carried those idioms like a life vest:One foot forward. Whatever comes next. Sunup to sundown and back again.“We’re always on to whatever comes next,” I called to her retreating back.
I’d hated the experience of filming the segments forFrom Yes to I Do. My body had been so sweaty while trying on wedding dresses, like wrenching on a wet one-piece bathing suit in a beach bathroom, multiplied by thousands of dollars and raised by yards of tulle.
