Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Shelby
W hat a day.
The scent of old paper and dust fills my nostrils as I sit at my cluttered deskwiththe late afternoon sun slanting through the window, sending particles of dust dancing in the beams between the glass and the stacks of research papers surrounding me. Imay be on the younger end of my thirties, but I love my paper. Imay create on screen, but I prefer to flip through the final pages in my hands than scroll through screens. It’seasier on my eyestoo.
The cursor on my computer screen blinks incessantly, a steady, silent metronome waiting for the next set of words to flow from my fingertips.
Except my fingers are quiet today.
My latest piece, a deep dive into the comeback of a faded 90s pop star, feels… flat. Lifeless. I’dpoured weeks into it, chasing down leads, conducting interviews, crafting what I thought was a compelling narrative. Ieven managed to snag an exclusive interview with the star’s former manager, a real coup considering they’d had a bitter breakup. Themanager now lives in a retirement home in Florida chasing little old ladies around the dining hall. Atleast he still had all his faculties and remembered her. Afew of the big online entertainment sites picked up the article,giving me solid credentials to tuck away for the future.
But the response? Atepid ripple. Afew polite comments, a smattering of social media shares, then… nothing.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. It’snot the first time this has happened. Fiveyears in, the career I dreamt about still feels a long way off. Everyprofile feels like a battle, an all-out scramble for attention. Sometimes, doubt creeps in, whispering insidious questions in the quiet hours.
Am I good enough?
Will I ever break through?
I glance at the framed photo of Marika, Shaun, and my adorable nephew. Theyhave it all figured out. Perfectjobs, perfect family, perfect life. Ishove the unsettling thought aside, twisting a stray blonde curl around my finger. I’mnot them. I’m not destined to fall in love with my best friend’s brother and settle down. Mybrother may have made People Magazine’s hottest doctors list five times, all because he blew up on social media when he gave a young girl a new lease on life. But one of my stories will grace Time Magazine’s cover one day.
Just not today, apparently.
My gaze drifts across the room and out the window of my office in Kingston, the sounds of summer drifting in—children laughing, the distant hum of a lawnmower, the rhythmic slap of waves against the pier. Althoughthe cost is a little steep for my wallet, the opportunity to work out of a tourist information building by the waterfront couldn’t be passed up.
I shake my head, trying to dispel the creeping anxiety. Ilove what I do. Thethrill of the chase, the power of words, the possibility of uncovering a hidden truth. It’sintoxicating. Butthe reality of the industry is brutal. Withthe way media works today, so many people are vying for a byline in the same glossy magazine, whether physical or digital.
Returning the family photo to its place, Iturn backto my computer, the faint hum of the old air conditioner struggling valiantly against the oppressive summer heat. Iwiggle my toes, the soft, slightly worn fabric of my socks rubbing against the faded hardwood floor beneath my feet. It’sbeen a long day, and I’m looking forward to getting out of here, stripping them off, and spending the evening strolling through the sand and surf at Richardson BeachwhileI munch on a hotdog and sip a cold drink. Ijust need to wrap this up first. Atleast complete my draft.
My phone buzzes, vibrating against the scarred wood of the desk, pulling me from my thoughts. Ireach over to grab it, the metal case only slightly cooler against my fingers than the air circulating throughout the room. Glancingat the screen, I see an unknown number while noticing the time. Who’s calling me at this hour?
“Hello?”
“Is this Shelby Bailey?”A woman’s voice asks, smooth and professional like expensive silk is on the other end.
“Yes, it is,”I reply, my heart quickening slightly.
“Hi, Shelby. Myname is Linda Morgan. I’mSpencer Hollis’s assistant. Doyou know who Mr. Hollis is?”
The name rings a bell, loud and clear, like the clanging of a church bell on a bright Sunday morning. Technically, she must mean Spencer Hollis Jr. since Senior died several months ago. He’sa billionaire from New York who owns a handful of businesses. Whenthe patriarch suddenly passed away not even a year ago, his oldest son, Spencer, took over. Fromwhat I’ve seen splashed all over the internet, he’s quite the playboy, a man who makes headlines for being seen with a new glamorous model or actress every week. Thekind of man I’ve dissected and judged from afar but never actually met.
“Yes. Iknow whoheis.”I try to keep my voice neutral and professional like I interview the super-rich every day. “How can I help you, Ms. Morgan?”
“Mr. Hollis is looking for a journalist to do a feature piece on him,”she says, and my pulse skips a beat, my breath hitching. “He’s reviewed your portfolio and is very interested in collaborating with you on this project.”
A feature piece? Onhim? Byme? Thismust be a joke.I’vebeen working hard to become a recognized name, and this isexactlywhat I’ve been waiting for.Whenit finally happened,I thought I’d writea piece on a local celebrity.Maybea famous hockey player or Canadian actor. Nota Wall Street mogul. Thereare so many other people he could choose. Why me?
And then my inner voice reminds meto notlook a gift horse in the mouth.Thiscould be it. Thestory that gets me recognized. Ishould jump all over it.
But Spencer Hollis? Thebillionaire who makes headlines for all the wrong reasons? What’sthe angle? Whatdoes he want?
“I’m certainly interested,”I manage to stammer, my fingers tracing the smooth edge of my desk, grounding me as I try to sound as nonchalant as possible. “What exactly is Mr. Hollis hoping to accomplish with this piece? Doeshe have a specific direction in mind?”I don’t want to come across as inexperienced or unprofessional.Still, myinsides are screaming, doing a little jig of a happy dance, while I keep my tone even, nothinting athow excited I am.
I hope.
I can practically hear the smile in Linda’s voice when she answers, “He’s looking to redefine his public image, Shelby. He wants to show the world there’s more to him than the headlines presume to suggest.”
Right. Theman is handsome, rich, single, andhappens to haveaccess to dozens of the most beautiful women in the world. He’sthe very definition of the assumptions those headlines suggest.
“He’s traveling to Quebec City next weekend,”she continues. “And if you’re amenable, he’d like to conduct the interview there. You’dhave access to him for three days—Friday evening through Sunday evening. Ofcourse, he’s there for business, but you’ll be able to watch him work part of the time and conduct your interview the rest of the time. You’llalso be able to take photos that might want to include in the article.”
Quebec City? Along weekend in one of the most beautiful cities in Canada with Spencer Hollis? AndI get to write the story of my career.
I can think of worse things.
As I holdthe phone to my ear, my mind spins with possibilities. Isthis opportunity really happening? Myfingers tap nervously against the desk. CanI manage this? Whatif I mess it up?
“I’m very intrigued, Ms. Morgan,”I say, trying to keep the eagerness out of myvoicewhile my heart pounds like a drum in my chest. “Could you send over the details? I’llcheck my schedule and get back to you.”
“Of course,”she says. “I’ll email you everything right away. Welook forward to hearing from you, Shelby.”
I give her my email, and when the line goes dead, I drop my phone back onto the desk, the dull thud echoing in the small room. Itake a moment to let it all sink in, a smile spreading across my face. “This is happening. I’mgoing to meet Spencer Hollis.”My summer evening ritual of walking alongthe beachwhile I reflect on my day and figure out my next move is long forgotten. Mymind is already racing, the possibilities spinning out before me like a web. SpencerHollis wants me . Towrite a piece on him .
This is wild.
I stand up, the old wooden chair creaking in protest, and pace around the office,thinkingand plotting.Thatman has connections everywhere. Models. Actors. Highlysuccessful and influential people in business.
Thisassignment is a gift, the type ofassignmentthatcould help my career take off if I pull it off.
I can’t blow it.
After five years of paying my duesandmakingnicewith dozens of celebs of varyingdegrees,I’m ready.Evenif it means spending a weekend with a ridiculously gorgeous billionaire flirt. I’llwatch him work and ask hima few questions in between his meetings. IfI’m lucky, I can get him alone for an hour or twoso we can reallyfocus on the interview without distractions.
Pausing near the window, the wood of the sill warm and smooth beneath the tips of my fingers, I gaze out over Lake Ontario. Thewater is a glistening expanse of sapphire, the setting summer sun casting shadows in the distance.
Thewaves splashing against the stone pier belowusuallysoothe me. Tonight, the sound excites me, quickening my pulse. Mom would encourage me to jump at this opportunity.
Dad wouldundoubtedlychastise me for keeping the window open while running the air conditioning. Evenwhen the humidity in the air is thick enough to taste, I can never resist keeping my window open so I can hear the birds and listen to the sounds of tourists taking advantage of such a beautiful day or evening by the water.
I wish they were both here to support me. AuntEloise would tell methey’relooking down, sending positive vibes.
Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath. Thescent of summer—freshly cut grass, lake water, and the faint tang of barbecue smoke—drifts in, grounding me, calming me.
“Okay. Hereare the facts,”I say aloud as I resume my walk around my small office, the old floorboards creaking softly underfoot.Shauntried to convince meout of rentingworkspace.WhenI worked for Marika, we ran remotely.Butwhen I decided to tackle journalismfull-on, I thought havinga legitimateoffice space would make me appear more professional and encourage me to leave the house more often.
“What do I know about Spencer Hollisother thanwhat’s been written in the press?”I start ticking off on my figures. “Arrogant. Rich. Womanizer.”Those things are obvious and mostly things I try to avoid when looking for a man.
But I’m not interested in looking for a man. I’minterested in this job.
I pause and gaze at the picture on the corner of my desk again, the elusive wish that I might someday find my soul mate filtering through my mind.
I’m going to nail this assignment. Period.
Focus on my writing. Focuson my career.
I don’t need a man. I need a Pulitzer.
My phone buzzes again, breaking my train of thought, and I rush back to my desk, snapping it up. It’sthe email from Ms. Morgan with all the details: itinerary, hotel confirmation, and travel options for flight, train, and rental car. Aquick glance at the cost confirms it’s first-class all the way.
Auberge Saint-Antoine, Quebec City, Friday afternoon check-in, Mondaymorningcheck-out.
Consider me booked.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, a flurry of keystrokes as I respond to the email with a breezy, “Thank you, Ms. Morgan. Everythinglooks in order. I’llconfirm everything by the end of the workday tomorrow.”
Ifireoffthe quick reply,thenimmediatelyfeeltheurge to call Marika.Beforeshesettled downwith Shaun and hadthe baby, she managedatravel blog and became a popular influencer.Shewould know what to wear. Ifthere’s something my best friend knows, it’s how to make a statement with clothes and accessories. Although, I have no intention of making a statement. Thestatement will be in my writing.
But I also need to tell somebody before I explode.Idialhernumber, and the ringtonefillsmy small office.
It rings twice before she answers cheerfully. “Shelby, hey, honey, how’s it going?”
“Hey, girl. How’smy sweet nephew?”
“He’s trying to walk.”
“Already?”
“Yup. And then all hell will break loose, because he’ll be into everything .”
Wechatabout the baby, Shaun, and the resorts theyownbefore Igetto the reason for my call.
“I need your expert advice.”
She laughs. “Of course, what’s up?”
“I have a location assignment next weekend,”I say, trying to sound casual. “And I need to know what to pack.”
“Ooh, exciting. Whereare you headed?”
“Quebec City.”
“Nice. Withwho?”
Do I tell her? Ichew my lip for a moment before blurting it out. “Spencer Hollis.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, “ The Spencer Hollis? Asin, billionaire playboy Spencer Hollis? Theman whose family owns not only a modeling agency but also two production companies, a couple of magazines, and God knows what else?”
Her excitement only adds fuel to the fire. “Yeah, that Spencer Hollis.”
I can hear her walking, her shoes slapping against the floor tile, andthena door closes before she responds. “Okay, spill. What’sgoing on?”
Iexplainthe situation, start to finish, from the phone call to my upcoming trip.Asalways, Marika listens intently.
“So, he wants to revamp his image?”she asks when I finish. “Honey, that’s going to be a challenge. Theman’s practically a walking scandal.”
“Tell me about it,”I scoff. “But this is my shot, Marika. Ihave to take it. Now, back to the clothes. Whatdo I pack?”
Marika launches into a rapid-fire monologue. “Okay, first of all, you need something sophisticated but approachable. Thinkclassic silhouettes, neutral colors, but with a modern twist. Youwant to project an image of ‘I’m someone you want to take seriously, but I can also have fun.’ Sinceyou’ll be in old Quebec, and probably doing a lot of walking, make sure you take shoes that are attractive but functional and will go with any outfit you have. Eventhough it’s July, there could be a cool breeze coming off the water, so take a sweater. Andtake on really nice dress.”
“Why?”
“Because you never know when you’ll need one. Andbrush up on your French so you can impress him.”
We spend the next hour debating outfits, accessories, and what kind of shoesscream,“I’m a journalist, not a model.”My head is spinning when I hang up, but my suitcaseisat least half-packed.Ifeel a little more prepared.
And a lot more terrified.