Chapter 7 Jack
Jack
California Times was a good investment—positioned
to capitalize on the shift from print to digital.
But I wasn’t in my office studying spreadsheets. I was here—on her floor.
Watching her.
My board thought I was being strategic. My CFO thought I was being opportunistic.
But I knew I was just being desperate.
I watched her gesture at her computer screen, talking to the guy at the desk next to hers—Ethan, I’d learned, a senior reporter who looked at her a little too long.
He was leaning in while she explained something, nodding along with the kind of attentive focus that had nothing to do with whatever was on her screen and everything to do with the woman showing it to him.
I knew that look. I’d invented that look.
He was good-looking in that approachable, non-threatening way that women apparently found appealing. Friendly smile.
The sort of man who probably remembered birthdays and actually listened when people talked about their problems. The sort of man mothers loved and fathers trusted.
I hated him immediately.
Which was irrational. I was aware it was irrational.
The man had done nothing wrong except exist in Pauline’s vicinity and have the audacity to make her laugh at something he said.
That wasn’t a crime. That wasn’t even suspicious.
And yet I found myself cataloging his flaws like I was preparing a legal case against him.
His tie was crooked. His coffee mug had a chip in it. His desk was slightly disorganized.
Weak evidence. Circumstantial at best.
Pauline tilted her screen toward him, pointing at something, and he leaned even closer. Their shoulders were almost touching now. She was animated about something, her hands moving the way they always did when she got passionate, and even from here I could see the fire in her.
Ethan nodded and said something that made her smile.
I was moving before I made the conscious decision to do so.
I stopped at the coffee station on the way, grabbed one of the decent cups and walked directly to her desk with the calm, unhurried stride of a man who absolutely was not interrupting anything.
I set the coffee down in front of her.
She looked up, startled, and I watched her expression cycle through surprise, confusion, and the beginnings of outrage.
“My office,” I said before she could speak. “We need to discuss the Hartwell piece.”
I held her gaze for a moment, letting the command settle. Then I shifted my attention to Ethan.
He was watching me with an expression that was carefully neutral but not quite neutral enough. I could see the question in his eyes, the slight tension in his jaw. He knew exactly what I was doing. He just couldn’t prove it.
I let the silence stretch for one second. Two. Three.
“Ethan,” I said finally, nodding at him like I’d only just noticed he was there.
Then I turned and walked away.
She showed up at my office fourteen minutes later.
I knew because I’d been checking my wrist watch.
Not consciously—I was reviewing contracts, answering emails, being a functioning CEO—but my eyes had been tracking the time since I’d left her desk, calculating how long it would take for her pride to war with her professionalism and professionalism to win.
Fourteen minutes. Longer than I’d expected. She was getting better at resisting me.
She didn’t knock. Just pushed the door open and strode in with that particular walk she had when she was about to tell me exactly what she thought of me, and set the coffee cup down on my desk with a sharp click.
“I don’t want your coffee,” she said.
I looked at the cup. Then at her. The corners of my mouth curve upward.
“It’s getting cold,” I observed.
“Then you drink it.”
“I don’t like that blend.”
“Then why did you buy it?”
“I bought it for you.”
She stared at me, and I watched the frustration flicker across her face—that particular expression she got when she wanted to strangle me but couldn’t figure out how to do it without witnesses.
“There is no Hartwell piece,” she said.
“Isn’t there?”
“You made it up.”
“I had questions about your workflow. That’s not making something up.”
“You interrupted my conversation to ask about my workflow?”
“Was that a conversation?” I leaned back in my chair, enjoying myself far more than I should have. “It looked more like a tutorial. Is Ethan having trouble with his computer? I can have IT take a look.”
Her eyes narrowed. She knew exactly what I was doing. She just couldn’t call me on it without acknowledging that there was something to call me on, and her pride wouldn’t let her do that.
“Stay away from my desk,” she said.
“I was bringing you coffee. Boosting morale. It’s called leadership.”
“It’s called harassment.”
“It’s called caffeine, Pauline. Most people say thank you.”
She turned and walked out without another word, and I sat there grinning like an idiot at the cold coffee she’d left behind.
I made it a habit to walk through the newsroom after that.
Not every day—that would be obvious, and I was trying to be subtle, though subtlety had never been my strong suit. But often enough to learn the rhythms of the place. Who arrived early, who stayed late, who was actually working and who was just performing productivity for an audience.
Pauline was always working. Always.
I passed her desk Thursday afternoon, timing it to look coincidental, and caught the tail end of a conversation she was having with Ethan. Again. The man was like a rash—persistent, irritating, impossible to get rid of.
“—Simon Tucker,” she was saying, and her voice had that particular quality it got when she was talking about something that mattered to her.
Hungry. Intense. “If I could just get an interview with him, even fifteen minutes, I could crack this whole thing open. He’s the key to my big break, I know he is. ”
“Tucker doesn’t do interviews,” Ethan said. “His PR team has turned down every request since the whole incident with his daughter.”
“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.
“You’re not fooling anyone,” she said.
“I’m not trying to fool anyone. I’m trying to feed people. The fact that you’re determined to see sinister motives in free sandwiches says more about you than me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t have a problem with anything.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then why are you in my office?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. The flush on her cheeks deepened, spreading down her neck, and I wondered how far it went. Wondered if I would ever get to find out.