Brakkor
The door clicks shut behind the others, leaving us alone in the sudden quiet. I don't move from my position near the doorway, watching as Calla shuffles papers with the mechanical precision of someone trying to ignore an unwelcome presence.
"Autumn décor?" I let the words hang in the air like a challenge. "You're actually going to make me write about pumpkin arrangements and leaf patterns?"
Her hands still for just a moment before resuming their precise movements. "You heard me correctly."
"This is ridiculous." I push off from the doorframe, taking a step closer to her desk. "I've covered corruption scandals, political conspiracies, organized crime networks. You want me to interview someone about the symbolic meaning of corn husks?"
"You'd better get used to it." She doesn't look up from her papers, but her voice carries that same crisp authority she wielded during the meeting.
"This is what people in Harvest Hollow like to read about.
Community celebrations, local traditions, the craftsmanship behind festival preparations.
If you find that beneath your considerable talents, perhaps you're in the wrong town. "
"What if I refuse to write it?"
Now she does look up, and those sharp features arrange themselves into an expression of cool disdain.
"Then I'll write back to the Portfield Press and explain that their disgraced investigative journalist isn't interested in putting in the work.
I'm sure they'll be fascinated to learn that Brakkor Vane considers himself too important for actual assignments. "
The words hit like a physical blow, and something hot and dangerous flares in my chest. "Disgraced?"
"Isn't that why you're here?" She sets down her papers and stands, moving around the desk with deliberate slowness. "Sent to the provinces because you couldn't handle real journalism without getting people hurt?"
I take another step forward, closing the distance between us. "You don't know anything about what happened."
"I know enough." But she doesn't back down, doesn't retreat.
Instead, she moves closer, close enough that I see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, close enough to catch the faint scent of ink and parchment that clings to her clothes.
"I know you're here because you made mistakes, and now you think you can waltz into my paper and criticize how we do things. "
"Your paper?" The laugh that escapes me holds no humor. "This place is barely a paper. You're so busy protecting your precious town from uncomfortable truths that you've forgotten what journalism actually means."
Her cheeks flush with anger, two spots of color high on her olive-toned skin.
Several strands of dark hair have escaped from her usually perfect bun, framing her face in such a way that it makes her look less controlled, more human.
The structured lines of her deep green jacket emphasize the sharp lines of her collarbone, and when she lifts her chin in defiance, the gesture draws attention to the elegant curve of her neck.
"Uncomfortable truths?" Her voice drops to something barely above a whisper, but it carries more menace than any shout. "Like the disaster you left behind in Portfield?"
We're standing close enough now that I notice the rapid rise and fall of her chest, can feel the heat radiating from her skin.
This close, her composure cracks just enough to reveal the fire burning underneath—the passionate intensity she keeps locked behind professional courtesy and editorial control.
Something shifts in the air between us, electric and dangerous. The anger is still there, crackling like lightning, but underneath it lurks something else entirely. Something that makes my pulse race and my thoughts scatter in directions they have no business going.
"You think you know me." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"I know enough."
But the words lack their earlier conviction, and when her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip, I have to fight the sudden urge to close the remaining distance between us entirely.
"Let's be clear about something." Her voice cuts through the charged air between us like a blade.
"Portfield is paying your wages here because they essentially put you in timeout.
Whatever you did to get yourself exiled to our little provincial paper, it was bad enough that they'd rather ship you off than deal with you directly. "
The words land with surgical precision, each one designed to remind me exactly where I stand in this arrangement. I force my expression to remain neutral, but something bitter churns in my stomach.
"I don't know what exactly you did to get sent out to Harvest Hollow," she continues, her dark eyes never leaving mine. "But you're not going to come here and try to ruin my paper because of your wounded ego."
"Wounded ego?" I let out a harsh laugh. "You think this is about ego?"
"Isn't it?" She crosses her arms, the gesture pulling her blazer taut across her chest. "You waltz in here acting like we're all beneath you, like our work doesn't matter because it's not investigating corruption in the capital.
Well, here's a reality check—this is my paper, these are my people, and I won't let you destroy what we've built because you can't handle being demoted to festival coverage. "
The heat in her voice, the fierce protectiveness she radiates when talking about her staff and her town—it transforms her from the controlled editor into something far more dangerous. Far more appealing.
I drag a hand through my hair, buying myself a moment to think. "Fine. You want me to write about autumn décor? I'll write about autumn décor."
"Good." But she doesn't look satisfied by my capitulation. If anything, she looks more suspicious.
"Anything else, boss?" The word drips with just enough sarcasm to make her jaw tighten.
"Just remember why you're here."
I turn toward the door, my hand already reaching for the handle. "Trust me, I'm not likely to forget."
The main office feels almost peaceful after the tension of her private space. Jamie looks up from his desk with a questioning expression, but I ignore him, focusing instead on the stack of papers someone's left on what I assume is my workspace.
She's just a pretty face with an annoying mouth, I tell myself. Another small-minded village editor who thinks she knows better than everyone else.
But as I settle into the unfamiliar chair and try to focus on the festival vendor applications scattered across the desk, I can't stop myself from glancing back toward her office door. Can't stop thinking about the way her composure cracked just enough to show the fire burning underneath.