Chapter 3
I decide not to risk it.
The Observer building is a relic of glass and steel, the upper floors groaning anytime the wind picks up.
One of the original icons of this city’s long history.
The paper has proudly filled the top three floors since its inception.
Production moved off-site some years ago, but the heart of the paper remains.
I rush into the elevator when it opens, following a man inside. Thanks to booking it here, I won’t be late. I’m sweaty and cranky without my coffee, but at least I made it on time.
Even better, the button for my floor is already lit up.
I wonder who I … oh no.
The doors close.
In a hundred years of publication, there have been many good journalists signed to The Observer, but no one stands out like Sterling Ross.
He’s imposing in prose and in person, towering over everyone in strong black suits and an even sterner disposition.
Only eight years separate us, but the lines by his eyes speak of stories that took parts of him to tell, truths that have been carved into or out of him.
Sterling is more than a byline; he’s a movement.
He’s also the reason I’m here.
Ever since I read his exposé on doctors who were misdiagnosing patients on purpose to generate more appointments, I’ve known I wanted to follow in his footsteps.
I’m surprised. This is late for him. Usually, he starts hours before anyone. First in, last out, holed up behind his desk with his brow furrowed over his glasses like he’s solving world peace.
He probably is.
Meanwhile, I’m working late, responding to social media comments on an absolutely crucial post about “Where to Eat after 10 p.m.: Chance’s Best Late-Night Eats.”
My sigh echoes in the silence as the elevator rises.
Sterling Ross is a tour de force. Formidable, with a sharp mind and unerring dedication to ethical journalism.
He’s also more attractive than any person should be. Six foot three, with the upper body of a god. Big enough to overpower anyone he wants, but he outsmarts people instead. For a body like that—and it’s a damn fine body—he must spend half his life in a gym. I don’t know when he sleeps. Maybe never.
He can make me blush by walking by.
I’m not alone in feeling that way either. Rooms hush when he enters, falling silent in awe of his looks, his Pulitzer, or both.
“I loved your piece last week.” The words slip from me eagerly in the confined space. “The way you referenced the allegations without outright stating she was lying while still countering every point with evidence was amazing.”
For the barest second, his gaze shifts from the elevator doors to meet my own, and his response is a gruff, “Thank you.”
I shouldn’t take it personally. He’s always polite, but there’s no one in the office he’s friendly with. Then again, there’s no one in the office who warrants friendliness. Sterling’s silence is kinder to me than their competitiveness and insults, hidden as jokes.
My bag shifts on my shoulder, and I grip the handle like a lifeline. “Monica’s making me include one particular brand in my skin care recommendations that’s been proven to cause breakouts. I’m under strict instructions that it can’t look like an ad—which, of course, it is.”
His long lashes brush his cheeks as he blinks, but there’s no change in his expression.
“But now I’m going to use your trick to hint at the allergy complaints.”
“Be careful with that,” he says, surprising me. “It’s a fine line to walk, and the brand will have final approval over copy.”
“Oh, right,” I stumble. “Maybe you could take a look over it later today? Make sure I’m not about to risk my career for a subpar moisturizer.” I chuckle—a nervous habit I’ve had for as long as I can remember.
His nostrils flare, and I’m drawn to the way his taut chest rises under his black button-up with each breath.
Seconds pass in silence, the floor counter ticking up slowly. Five, six, seven. I’m starting to think he’ll never answer, letting the question linger in the air between us, awkward and limp, while I watch the muscles under his jaw tic.
Finally, the quiet gets to me. “I’m sure you’re busy though, so—”
“I’ll look over it.”
The blue in his eyes is unnaturally bright under the fluorescents and piercing in its unyielding stare.
I’m too stunned to speak, but that doesn’t stop a flush from rising to my cheeks.
“Wow, um, yes—I mean, thanks.”
Shit. No wonder he offered to help. He probably thinks I can’t string two sentences together. He’ll take one look at my draft and storm into Monica’s office, demanding she fire me.
Is it too late to take it back?
“Obviously, it won’t be up to your level,” I add. “But any advice you can give me is appreciated.” The pad of my thumb hurts from where I’m rubbing it nervously against the strap of my bag.
It means so much to be here, at The Observer, with him. How many people get the chance to meet their idol? And I get to work next to mine. Or on the same floor at least.
One day, it’ll be my desk beside his. My byline on the front page.
My articles inspiring others.
“You know,” I start—and if not now, when?—“you’re the reason I wanted to become a journalist. Ever since the series you did on selective biotech research, I knew I had to work here. Follow in your footsteps. Not that I’m …”
Oh God, he looks like this is physically hurting him to listen to.
“Anyway, Monica says no every time I submit in-depth pieces, so maybe it’s a good thing I’m only writing about antiaging creams.”
In truth, she threatens to fire me, but telling Sterling that feels like whining.
“Are you always in the habit of diminishing your skills?” he asks, shutting me the hell up.
“Um,” I say, then stop—because honestly? Yes.
Sterling, of course, doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ve read your work, Mia,” he says, stalling my brain in its tracks, then sending it into overdrive.
Wait. He has? Voluntarily? I have so many questions.
“Stop doubting yourself.”
The command settles on my skin, then slips under, electrifying every inch of my nervous system, as though he has it on speed dial.
Yes, my body says, jumping at the chance to follow his lead. Please, more.
Not trusting myself to keep remotely professional if I open my mouth, I nod, blissfully thankful when the elevator opens.
I peel off toward my desk, half hoping he’ll follow me even though he has no reason to, burying my disappointment when he stalks to his own desk instead.
Of course he wasn’t going to follow me. It was a single conversation.
Just because he knows my name and has read my work—which posts, and why? —doesn’t mean we’re friends.
I urge my pulse to calm down while I log in, and it’s almost back to normal when Sterling barges into Monica’s office and slams the door. It’s kind of a useless gesture—the glass hides nothing. As soon as she raises her voice, we’ll all hear it, and she likes that.
It keeps us in line.
The only person she’s never yelled at is Sterling. If he’s called in—and I can count the times I’ve seen it on one hand—you can’t hear a word. I’ve never met a man so attached to keeping his cards close.
Which is why the whole office jumps when the shouting starts.
“This is a business,” Monica says. “Not your personal playground. Whatever crush you’re harboring—”
“I wasn’t asking.” Sterling casts an impressive shadow from where he looms over her desk. An immovable object.
Monica rises to the challenge, her palms pressed to her desk. “I don’t care who you want. Pick someone else.”
“No,” he responds. Short. Sharp. “If you want this story, this is what I need. It’s nonnegotiable.”
“You don’t control me, Sterling. If you don’t like my decisions, you know where the door is.”
“How long do you think you’ll keep your job after I walk?”
Silence fills the office as Monica stares him down.
“One mistake, and she’s fired. Do you understand?”
Sterling opens the door and storms out without answering her. It hits the reset button, and the rest of us scramble to pretend like we weren’t glued to every word.
I risk a look into her office and freeze.
Monica’s gaze is ice cold, twin pools of disdain pinning me to my chair. I quickly turn back to my computer.
The ache behind my eyes is building. I really wish I hadn’t skipped coffee, but at least I don’t have to face Monica. My skin care piece is due to her by the end of the day, and I need to get a jump start on my weekend assignment at the opening of Zero, this new bar downtown.
My head throbs a little harder when my phone rings, and I stare down at the empty mug in my hands.
So close. I could ignore it, but what if it’s my folks?
Or Alice? Maybe I won a competition I don’t remember entering, and not answering could mean passing up a brand-new car or a trip to the Seychelles.
I fish my phone out of my pocket, and it’s even better than a free trip; it’s a whole new chapter of my life.
“Hi, Mia. It’s Bryan from New Realty. I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to let you know that everything is ready for you to sign.”
I bite back a squeal of delight.
In the corner of my eye, I can see Bianca is trying to eavesdrop, but she’s intercepted by Andy, who is probably trying to pawn off his proofing again. She shoves her bowl of mints at him and scowls when he doesn’t take one.
“When can I pick up the keys?”
I need to be out before Saturday, so the sooner, the better. I’ll have to move my stuff late at night, after I’m done here, but it’ll be worth it.
“Once we confirm payment of the deposit, you can collect the keys.”
“I’ll send it right now.”
Yes, this is perfect. I needed some good news.
I jot down the address and barely get a thank-you out before he hangs up. I guess manners aren’t as important as his next commission.
Alice picks up so fast that I have to hide my smile.