7. Jules
CHAPTER 7
Jules
The newsroom is a pulsating heart of activity, a dizzying mix of rapid-fire conversations, sharp heels clicking on the polished floor, and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards. It’s sleek, modern, and exudes just the type of cold efficiency that says, “Produce or you’re fired.”
This is where globs of content are plucked, sculpted into something glossy, and shoved into the world for story junkies, hungry for their next fix.
I step inside, trying to blend into the polished chaos, but to no avail. Mr. Richards catches me in an instant. He is a shark over all he surveys, cutting across the sea of writers in headphones, sipping coffee.
His eyes flick to his watch, then back to me, a smirk playing on his lips—a silent warning that says, Test my patience, and I’ll grind your ambitions into dust.
“Sydney Sun,” he says, his tone sharp and efficient. It takes me a good ten seconds to realize he’s talking to me. “Right on time. Unlike some people. ”
From across the room, someone shouts, “We heard that!” Laughter ripples through the space, and a smirk plays on Wyld Richards’s lips as he hands over a ball cap and a badge, both emblazoned with Manhattan Herald.
I’m not even kidding, I will worship these like backstage passes to a Taylor Swift concert.
“Good job on most of your homework. And his coffee?”
I stand taller. “Dark roast with a shot of espresso, two pumps of vanilla, and a pinch of cinnamon.”
He nods, and I catch the faintest trace of approval in his eyes. But before I can let that sink in, he hits me with something that knocks the wind out of me. “So, what else have you learned about that high school crush of yours?”
I freeze, my mind scrambling for something—anything—that won’t make me sound like an idiot. “Uh...not much,” I stammer. Play it cool . “He was in the military. The Army, actually.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
I’m not even sure what that means, but I trudge through. “And he’s...different now. Though I can’t exactly put my finger on why.” Yeah, dying here.
Richards gives me a look—part amusement, part calculation—that makes my stomach twist. “Barely scratched the surface, huh?”
“Digging too deep could be seen as invasive,” I counter, trying to regain some composure.
He tsks, shaking his head slightly. “You sure you’re cut out for investigative journalism?” Hands on his hips, he assesses me. “Aren’t you even a little curious? ”
I hesitate, then pinch my fingers together, letting out a breath. “Maybe...a little.”
His smirk widens, a knowing glint in his eyes that makes me suddenly nervous. “Don’t worry, kid. We’re about to satisfy that curiosity in ways you haven’t even imagined.”
What the hell does that mean?
A young man grabs his attention. “Shit, I need to deal with this.” He points across the room to a corner that’s about as far away from sunlight as possible. “Your seat is over there. Get settled, introduce yourself, snoop around, and find the kitchen and bathroom, then check your email.”
He heads off as I weave through the maze of desks, my eyes darting from one cluttered workspace to the next. Some are neat and organized, others look like the aftermath of a tornado, but all of them scream one thing: This is where the magic happens.
Or the mayhem, depending on your perspective.
I spot the empty desk near the back, nestled in a quad with a decent view of the room. Just as I’m about to make it mine, a voice calls out from behind me, laced with playful warning. “Take that seat at your own risk.”
I turn to see a guy with thick glasses and a grin that looks permanently etched on his face. He’s lounging in his chair like he’s got all the time in the world, hands casually behind his head, an amused glint in his eyes.
Suddenly wary, I give the chair a once-over, scanning for anything that screams trouble—coffee stains, ink splatters, or something worse that would make me cringe just thinking about it.
“That was Roxie’s seat,” a woman with platinum blonde hair and fuchsia streaks chimes in, a teasing edge to her voice. “We’re pretty sure it’s cursed.”
“Roxie?” I echo, pausing as I take in the desk. It’s not as empty as I hoped—a half-drunk coffee mug with blood-red lipstick smeared on the rim, a few pens scattered like afterthoughts, and a notepad with the first few pages aggressively torn out. It still feels… lived in.
“As in Roxana Voss,” an older man with wire-rimmed glasses adds, his grin a mix of warmth and something a little more twisted. “The one and only—famous for Spilling Tea with Roxie V .”
“Roxana Voss,” I repeat, the name turning bitter on my tongue.
Her last story? A brutal hit piece on a teen pop star—unflattering photos and all. Word is, she staged the whole thing up, paid off some lowlifes to spike the girl’s drink, then had her photographer capture the meltdown.
“She’s—”
“Legendary,” a cute guy with dark, wavy hair corrects, leaning in like he’s about to share a dirty secret. “And an absolute nightmare to work with.”
“I’d call her infamous,” the woman interjects. “And lethal. Cross her, and she will eat you alive in the press,” the woman with rose-tinted hair says, her smile sweet as she shakes my hand. “Anabelle. I handle fashion, style, and the occasional restaurant review if they’re really desperate.”
Glasses Man extends a hand. “Alfred Walsh, but everyone here calls me Scoop. I live for research and digging into all the hard-hitting investigative pieces.”
“Felix,” the wavy-haired guy says as he grabs a bright blue Post-it, scrawling something on it. “I’m the unlucky bastard stuck covering all things sports—which I hate, by the way.”
Confused, I ask, “So, why do you do it?”
He shrugs casually. “Because I get to interview all the hottest men in town,” he purrs, handing me the note with a smirk.
I look down: Fortuna audaces iuvat. I can’t help but smile. “Fortune favors the bold.”
“Exactly,” he says, his smirk deepening. “Words to live by.”
Anabelle giggles. “See? The two of us are flanked by looks and brains.”
“So, what happened to Roxie?” I ask.
Anabelle leans in, lowering her voice just enough to make it feel like we’re sharing a secret. “She was just linked to a high-profile divorce. Word is, she wasn’t just reporting on the affair—she was the affair.”
“Thank God she’s gone,” Felix chimes in, rolling his eyes. “If I had to hear that fake sultry voice one more time...‘Oh, Mr. Richards ,’” he huffs, mimicking her in a raspy tone.
My stomach drops as I catch a glimpse of Mr. Richards striding away, his presence looming even from across the room. “Her affair was with the boss?”
“Can anyone say home wrecker?” Anabelle rolls her eyes, her voice laced with disdain. “Rumor has it, if Wyld Child doesn’t pull off a big story soon, this paper’s going to disappear faster than Houdini.”
My pulse quickens, the space around me shifting from opportunity to quicksand. “That could really happen? Seriously, I just got this job.”
Scoop waves a hand over the desk, dark amusement dancing in his eyes. “Hence why we call the desk cursed. You’re the fourth one to sit there in as many years.”
Felix pats my hand with a sympathetic smile. “Be brave, girl. I’ll grab some sage at lunch.” He nods toward my laptop. “And for the love of God, make sure that thing works. Roxie blamed it for every missed deadline and crappy piece of work she churned out.”
Taking a deep breath, I finally sit down, powering up the laptop that’s staring me down like it knows I’m already in over my head. The screen flickers to life, and I dive into my email using the code they gave me at orientation.
The first email is the usual welcome schpiel, but the next subject line stops me in my tracks: Assignment. There it is, clear as day, in black and white. My first official writing gig addressed to [email protected] .
My heart flutters, a rush of nerves colliding with pure excitement and just enough fear to keep me grounded. This is it—it’s happening—I’m about to take Manhattan by storm. One irresistibly charming human interest story at a time.
All right, Sydney Sun ?—
Let’s see what you’ve got. Start with your man crush’s coffee recipe, and write me a human interest piece about him. Not the real him . An imaginary version of him so I can see your writing chops.
Make him the perfect man with an oh-so-obtainable guy-next-door vibe. Irresistible .
Give in to your dark side, kid. And have it on my desk by ten.
Wyld Child
Seriously? He really goes by that?
I glance at the clock and—shit. Forty-five minutes. My fingers drum on the desk, the image of Bishop’s piercing blue eyes and that infuriatingly sexy smile flash through my mind. And instead of fighting it like I usually do, I do the opposite.
This time, I give in.
I’ve devoured enough scorching romance novels to know exactly what makes a man irresistible. Rugged good looks, pecs that practically rip through his shirt, that perfect mix of sexy yet cuddles with kids and brings you breakfast in bed.
I’m not sure if I’m crafting every woman’s fantasy or just indulging in mine, but for this little exercise, Brian Bishop is about to become pure Alpha porn.
And not the total a-hole he is in real life.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, driven by my imagination on overdrive and a few vivid memories of him. There’s no time to waste, no hesitation—just pure, unfiltered creativity pouring into every word.
Reimagining Brian as the man he should be is both cathartic and, oddly enough, a turn-on.
A wicked little smile tugs at my lips as I hit send, feeling a thrill I didn’t expect.
Eat your heart out, Wyld. Hot and cocky, at your service.