“Harper?”
Mimi’s voice makes me jump. He startles as well, both of us jolted from our thoughts.
“Sorry, coming,” I croak, quickly crouching down.
He remains silent as I reach for my bag and pull it toward me. Mimi gives him a friendly smile and apologizes for the disturbance. Frowning, he doesn’t say anything.
Without prolonging the awkwardness any further, I turn on my heel and march out, Mimi hurrying to keep up.
“What wasthat?” she asks, falling into step with me as we make our way down the side of the busy newspaper desks toward the kitchen.
I play innocent. “What do you mean?”
“Um, theeye contact?The tension in that room!”
“There wasn’t any tension,” I claim.
“Isn’t that guy on the features team for the paper? He always looks cross about something, but even I can appreciate that he isverypretty. He’s like a model masquerading as a reporter,” she muses, before snapping her fingers as she remembers. “Jansson. But I can’t remember his first name? It will come to me in a minute.”
“Ryan.”
“That’s the one. Ryan Jansson. I think he’s Scandinavian.”
“His dad is Swedish,” I say, without thinking.
As we reach the kitchen area, she stops. “Wait. Do youknowhim?”
“No, course not,” I say, flustered. “He must have mentioned it in one of his articles.”
“Well, he wants you,” she surmises.
“You think that about everyone. A minute ago, you thought that singer was professing his love to me via donut delivery.”
“I’m telling you, Harper Jenkins, that guy was undressing you with those crazy-beautiful eyes of his,” she says, moving to the coffee machine. “It’s a shame he works for the dark side. Did I tell you that one of the newspaper guys tried to take my meeting room last week? He tried to argue that his matter was more pressing because he has tighter deadlines. Whatever,pal. If you want a meeting room, then you need to book one, not try to swoop in there at the last minute and…”
I try to focus on Mimi, relieved she has forgotten all about Ryan Jansson.
If only it was so easy for me to get those crazy-beautiful eyes out of my head.
ELEVEN YEARS AGO
JULY 2012
I arrive at exactly 8:57A.M., which considering the delays I was up against on the Northern Line this morning, I consider a great success. I was asked to be here by nine.
I’m flustered and sweaty, having run from the tube. I throw myself into a revolving glass door, emerging into the cool, modern lobby of The Daily Bulletin Inc. offices, and hurry over to the reception desk.
I glance down my front to check my outfit and realize my skirt has already gone skew-whiff from my hectic journey, the buttons that are meant to run down the middle now aligned with my left hip. I hurry to shift it and check that my fairly crumpled white shirt doesn’t have any sweat patches on it.
“Can I help you?” the woman behind the desk asks, setting down the phone.
I snap my head up and plaster a smile across my face. “I’m Harper Jenkins, the intern. It’s my first day today.”
“Which department?” she asks tiredly, typing into her computer.
“Editorial on the main paper,The Daily Bulletin.”
She continues tapping away and then presses return on herkeyboard, the printer next to her coming to life and producing a tiny square of paper that she lifts with her manicured fingers and slides into a lanyard.
