All That Glitters (RomCom University #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

The Pitch

Marigold Belmore

I wish I could say the urge to punch someone was rare for me, but it’s not. It is, however, much rarer when Jameson Sinclair isn’t in my vicinity.

“Fantastic article, Sinclair,” our editor in chief, Charlie, says. He grabs one of Jameson’s hulking shoulders with a friendly smile. “It’ll be on the cover next week.”

“Thanks,” Jameson replies in his usual gruff tone. He doesn’t even look up from his laptop.

I roll my eyes. Charlie pats Jameson’s shoulder once more before heading to his office on the other side of the room.

“The least you could do is look him in the eye when he compliments you,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back in my swivel chair.

The Thrasher is one of the best school papers in the Southeast. As such, it’s got a state-of-the-art newsroom.

There are desks everywhere, each one boasting an expensive computer monitor and tons of organization.

Everyone has a place to call their own, to decorate how they see fit.

There are a few tables for collaboration purposes too, and a smart board to write ideas on.

When I first got here last semester, I remember being enamored by the room and the idea that my desk would be next to great reporters and editors.

That feeling wore off as soon as Charlie sat me across from Jameson.

The Traitor looks up slowly from his laptop. Brooding scowl firmly in place, he replies, “Charlie doesn’t like me because I simper over throwaway compliments. He likes me because I do good work. Work that I’m doing right now. Or rather, was, before you interrupted me.”

“There’s a line between diligence and insolence.”

“I’ll let you know when I find it.”

A frustrated growl rises in my throat. One that I squash as soon as a gaggle of other writers enter the room.

Jameson likes to arrive early for pitch meetings.

So I do my best to arrive before him. When I beat him, the satisfaction outweighs the knowledge that I’ll have to share an empty newsroom with him for longer than necessary.

When I don’t … I get a touch grouchy. As to be expected, considering I’ve vowed to see him as little as possible.

“You look like you need coffee,” Paisley, my friend and desk neighbor to the right, says as she approaches. She places a paper cup down on my desk.

“You are a queen.” I grab the warm cup. “People should erect statues in your honor. Designate a building on campus to you. In fact, they should change the name of the university—”

She cuts me off, tapping the lid of the travel cup. “Drink. You sound delirious.”

Likely because I’m running off of caffeine and the breakfast sandwich my roommate Jasmine threw at me before I left for classes this morning. Sleep has been elusive as of late. Not sure that more coffee will help, but it’s not as though I can curl up under my desk and take a nap.

I pick up the latte and take a long drink. It’s a touch stronger than usual.

“Triple shot?” I ask Paisley.

She hops up on the corner of her desk, making her long checkered skirt swish.

Her signature cowgirl boots peek out of the bottom.

Paisley was born and raised in New Jersey, but you wouldn’t know it if she didn’t tell you.

The woman wears boots on the daily, uses y’all in every conversation, and loves horses more than people.

She makes me look like a Northerner, even though I’ve lived here in Georgia my whole life.

“In honor of the time you texted me at.” She takes a sip of her iced matcha. “Why were you up at the ridiculous hour of three in the morning?”

I feel Jameson’s gaze on me. I wish I was able to turn off that ability.

When we were friends, it was a comfort. A connection between us that I cherished.

I could feel his stare, look up from whatever I was working on, and share a look that only we’d know the meaning of.

Now, post-betrayal, it feels like a cruel gift.

I cut my gaze to him; he looks back down at his laptop.

“I thought my text explained why,” I say before reaching for the journal I keep on my person at all times.

Our meeting should start soon, and I wrote my best pitches in the tiny leather notebook yesterday during my Algebra class. Whoever decided English majors needed to take math and science better hope they never meet me. I’ve got some words for them. And maybe one of those punches I daydream about.

“All you sent was a Shakespeare quote.” Paisley’s tone is wry. She pulls her phone out of the pocket of her oversized denim jacket. “I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.”

I’m smiling behind my coffee cup when I feel it again.

Jameson. I glance in his direction. He quickly averts his gaze.

His lips are turned up just barely at the edges.

My heart aches like a bruise someone prodded.

He knows. He always understood my references.

I turn my attention back to Paisley, trying to ignore the pain.

“I was finishing my biology project,” I tell her.

Realization lights her blue eyes. “That was due today. So your text was about procrastinating!” She snaps her fingers. “One day I’ll get it right without having to ask.”

I give her a small smile. Paisley is a fantastic editor. She can take the worst article and spin it into gold. Her red pen is ruthless, but never wrong. However, she is not one for classical literature. Her love of words begins and ends with journalism.

A sharp clap yanks my attention toward the other side of the room. Charlie smiles at everyone.

“It’s 3 p.m. You know what that means.” Charlie rolls a nearby chair into the center of the room and plops onto it backward. “Hit me.”

All of the writers in the room shoot their hands up. I’m not sure who was first, because it seemed to me like we were in sync. Charlie’s gaze bounces around the room. He gestures to Hector to go first. Hector is a senior, so it makes sense that he would get a chance to pitch first.

“Professor Dowelen just returned from a sabbatical where he toured Malaysia. I was thinking a profile piece on his journey and how it will affect his courses going forward would be interesting,” Hector says from where he’s leaning against his desk a few rows down.

Charlie nods in approval.

“I like that. And it would connect with the piece we did when he left. A full-circle story.”

Hector gives a triumphant grin. Charlie can be picky, so it’s got to feel great to have your idea accepted as is with no adjustments.

I shoot my hand up as soon as the interaction seems complete. Charlie dips his head in my direction.

“Belmore. You’re up.”

I glance down at my journal. I wrote a few ideas, but it’s hard to decide on what the best one is. While I think they’re all great, I’m not editor in chief.

“How about an exploration of the offseason for the Thrashers football team? I’m friends with the quarterback—”

Charlie cuts me off with a shake of his head.

“Jameson did a piece on their championship win not long ago. While everyone loves football, the season is over, and the paper needs to reflect current events.”

I deflate like a slashed tire. Paisley shoots me a sympathetic look.

“Sinclair, do you have another cover-worthy piece for us?” Charlie asks before I can say that I have other ideas.

I grip my pen so hard I think the shell cracks a little.

“The hockey team has gone undefeated so far,” Jameson says, only increasing my anger.

He’s on the hockey team. Of course he’d be so arrogant as to suggest that a piece be done about him. It’s not enough that he steals all the best stories and gets his work on the cover, he has to be the star of the articles themselves, too.

“Since I’m on the team, I don’t know that writing it myself would be the best idea, but I thought it was worth covering. Maybe a long-term piece about the road to the playoffs.”

Charlie tips his head to the side, thinking. I glare at Jameson, who pretends not to notice. Though, maybe he can’t feel me looking at him anymore. That awful pain in my chest returns.

“I like that idea, but I want to give it a little twist. What if you write from the perspective of a player, while another reporter writes from the outside looking in?”

“I can get behind that,” Jameson says. He doesn’t smile the way Hector did. That would be too much positive emotion for the brooding hockey player. I glance at my pen, wondering if anyone would notice if I chucked it at his head.

“Belmore.”

I pop my head up, meeting Charlie’s gaze.

“I want you to work with Sinclair. The two of you are my best sports reporters. You’ve got two weeks before the first article needs to be on my desk. I’m thinking this will be an ongoing series.”

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“That would be great. Thank you,” I manage to get out.

“Perfect. Who’s next?”

More hands shoot up. I reluctantly meet Jameson’s eyes across the aisle. There’s a storm brewing in his expression. I’m sure it matches the one in my own. The last thing I want is to spend more time with the man—no, boy—that ripped my heart out and threw it in the trash.

I quell the panic rising in my chest and steel my spine.

I can do this.

It’s going to be awful, and I’m going to hate every second of it, but I’m going to make sure this is the best article Charlie has ever read. I narrow my eyes at Jameson.

Game on.