Chapter 5
Chapter Five
EMMA
It’s been two weeks since I joined the newspaper, and I still haven’t gotten an assignment I’m remotely interested in.
Jake almost killed me after I tricked him into going to the three-hour history lecture that I told him was supposed to be a fashion coverage with supermodels.
After that, I was stuck writing about a poetry reading in town, a story about the new bus line to the city, and the first volleyball game of the season.
I thought I was done with these kinds of articles after months of trying to get on the paper, but it’s evident that I still have to earn my rightful place here.
I’m just not sure how.
The other writers and editors don’t take me seriously either. All my pieces have been well received and published, so that’s a good sign, but I need to take some kind of initiative before I drive a pencil into my eye.
Reaching the newsroom, I open the door to a hectic scene filled with people rushing to meet their deadlines for the printed edition of the paper on Friday.
I dash past everyone as if I’m trying to avoid cars hitting me on the street and find my desk, where my vintage-looking keyboard is, along with a picture from Stevie and Levi’s wedding with the whole group, one in King’s Wolf with our other friends, who we don’t see as often, and one with my parents.
Thankfully, I’m organized and have left everything in its proper place to finish editing the article on the latest update to the new parking lot.
Yay me. I also managed to do my makeup during the free hour I had between classes and fixed my hair with the dry shampoo I keep in my everyday purse.
I looked like too much of a mess to come in here before that.
I sit back and take a deep breath, glancing at the time to see I have half an hour left to finish, and less than a few hours before I need to change and head to the bar in town with the gang.
Easy-peasy.
I drown out the noise of everyone talking and Amelia yelling to add my last few notes. Ten minutes later, I finish.
“Emma!”
Jumping right as I hit save for the last time, I look up to see Amelia coming toward me, head down.
I straighten in my chair, waiting for her orders.
Amelia has kept our relationship very professional and is, overall, an excellent editor, but she can get a little antsy on Fridays… not that I blame her.
“Yeah, boss?”
“I need your edited article in my email and on my desk in twenty minutes.” She doesn’t look up at me. Instead, she continues to move her fingers on her iPad.
Hitting a couple of keys on my keyboard, I send her the article and hit print before she can take her next step.
“I just sent it to your email, and once it’s done printing, it’ll be on your desk.”
Her hand halts, and she looks down at me, raising a perfectly waxed brow. “And you ran it by Oliver?” she asks, making sure that our copy editor gave it a run-through. She may be the editor in chief, but she has others helping her.
“Yes. I sent it to him yesterday, added the last couple of things he told me last night, and did a final check just now,” I say quickly.
A small, almost unnoticeable smile slips from her lips, but I catch it. “Good.”
She walks away and calls on someone else. I slump in my chair and smile to myself. That’s the first time she’s looked impressed with me, and it gives me a tiny bit of hope that I’ll finally get a feature article.
Hopping off my desk and running to the printer, my beige boot heels clank on the wooden floor.
I decided to wear a comfortable outfit today, but ever since joining the paper, I’ve started dressing up a little more.
It makes me feel professional and more confident about myself and my writing.
It’s also too damn hot today to wear anything other than light blue jeans and my sleeveless white button-up shirt.
It’s risky to wear anything white, considering I drink two matcha lattes a day, but it was worth it for the way it breathes.
I drop the article off at Amelia’s desk and start heading back to mine. Waving my hand against my face as if it will help with this September heat, I stop and wrap the hair tie on my wrist around my hair to put it in a high ponytail. Then I almost get knocked over by my editor, who runs past me.
“Oliver!” she yells, and he comes rushing over, looking terrified. Based on Amelia’s contorted face right now, I don’t blame him. “Where the fuck is Samantha?”
Taking a couple of steps toward the water cooler, I serve myself a cup and watch the show.
“He looks like he’s about to shit his pants,” a guy says from my side. I swivel my head in his direction and see that it’s our photo editor, Ben. He’s a pretty nice guy, and we’ve had casual conversations here and there, but I haven’t been able to get to know many people yet.
I nod. “Oh, yeah. Do you know where Samantha is?” She’s usually always on time. She’s one of Amelia’s go-to reporters and gets many of the hit pieces.
“Nope.” Ben slides a hand through his red hair. “But I can’t wait to find out.”
Oliver’s light brown skin turns green. “She called in sick. I thought I told you earlier.”
“Oh, fuck,” Ben whispers.
Amelia slams her iPad onto her desk and rubs a hand over her face. “You’re completely right, Oliver. I apologize.”
He exhales a relieved breath, and I do the same.
“Did you find someone to cover the interview she has scheduled for this evening?”
Oliver takes a step back.
I hiss through my teeth. “Oof. Rookie move.”
“Mhm,” Ben agrees.
“I’ll get someone right now,” he tells my editor, and Amelia explodes for the first time since I’ve been here.
“You haven’t found anyone else?” She waves a hand around, and I’m surprised at how empty the place has gotten in the past thirty minutes.
“Look around! Everyone except our editors and photographers have gone home. This man has never agreed to an interview before and made it very clear that this was the only day and time he could do. He is one of the most important people on campus at the moment, and all of my interviewers are gone,” she seethes as the room goes quiet.
But my ears perk up at everything I just overheard.
Oliver hurriedly pulls out his phone. “I’ll call someone right now.”
“There is only one other person I trust to write this article, and she lives forty minutes away—”
“I’ll do it,” I interrupt.
Everyone’s heads turn toward me, and although I’m usually perky and confident, I feel like caving in on myself.
Amelia looks me over, and asks, “Have you ever interviewed someone for a paper before?”
Nodding feverishly and setting my paper cup down, I walk over to her.
“Twice for my high school paper. One was a teacher, and the other was a lunch lady.” I cringe, and so does Amelia, at the examples I used, but I have a gut feeling that Samantha not being here is fate.
Fate can be a bitch sometimes, but she might be throwing me a bone to make up for my past.
“I don’t know—”
“I can do this. Give me one chance to prove myself. I know I can do this.”
She narrows her eyes, studying me as I try to keep my determined expression, while my heart feels like it’s about to fall out of my asshole from how hard it’s pounding.
My editor looks away and saunters to the other side of her desk.
I glance at Oliver, who shrugs. A second later, Amelia hands me a thin folder.
“Those are some of the interview questions Samantha came up with. Stick to them but dig deeper. Give me something good. He’s an important person, Emma, and people barely know anything about him.
” My eyes widen as I see no sign of any research notes.
“If Oliver or Samantha had done their job properly, I’d also have her research notes.
Unfortunately, all I have are the questions that she drafted up. ”
My heart beats faster for an entirely different reason.
I can’t believe I finally get to do something other than cover local news.
If she were my friend, I’d be screeching and jumping, but I keep my composure.
I don’t mind doing the research on my own, and I still have some time. “I won’t let you down.”
She laughs humorlessly. “Oh, I know you won’t. This is your one chance, Ms. Haywood.”
I keep nodding. “You got it. I’ll look into him now.”
“Nope,” Amelia says, stopping me short.
“Boss?” I ask, confused.
She smiles impatiently. “The interview’s in forty minutes, and it’s across campus where the culinary arts building is. Do you have a car?”
I take a sharp breath. “I don’t drive.” Growing up in Manhattan, I never felt it necessary, though I eventually want to learn. I do have to admit that I’m a bit of a passenger princess.
“I can give her a ride,” Ben says from behind me.
I sag in relief for a moment. I’ll have time to look him up on my phone in the car.
Then Amelia opens her mouth again. “I need everyone here to stay and finish the final edits for the printed issue.” She gives me one last look, and I can see the slight sympathy behind her hard mask. “I’d leave now if I were you.”
She’s right. I’ll have to run to get there. It’s a half-hour walk, and I have to deal with the fact that I’m going in completely blind.
“Heels? Today is not your lucky day.” I look up at Oliver, who sounds all too condescending for a guy who royally fucked up with his editor.
“It’s a good thing I’ve been wearing them since I was thirteen, then.” I rush to my desk and grab my purse, not bothering to fix anything. “When do you need it written by?” I ask her quickly.
She smiles slightly. “Tuesday morning.”
Dipping my chin, I rush to the door and down the hall, all the while trying to hold on to the folder and my phone for dear life. I unlock my phone and see a page that offers an overview of Professor Grayson Adam Hayes’s achievements and career.
This is a fun way to start the article.
Thirty-five minutes later, I enter the culinary arts building, gasping and sweating. My curtain bangs cling to my face, and I know that my waterproof makeup—although great—can’t hide the droplets of sweat on my nose and forehead.
Looking at the sign near the elevator, I see the floor number for the professors’ offices. The doors open, and I enter, dumping the folder in my hand onto the floor, and snatch my compact mirror from my purse, along with the small makeup bag I brought.
Taking a quick look, I find my mascara and eyeshadow in perfect place, but my face is sweaty and greasy. And as I suspected, some hairs are frizzy on the top because my hair tie began to loosen up on the run here.
My Chanel blotting papers absorb most of the unwanted shine on my face as my heart races with each beep on the way to the tenth floor.
I reach the eighth floor with two minutes to spare and decide to retie my hair and call it a day.
I look professional enough for a professor, but from what I read, he’s no ordinary professor.
He’s wealthy and well-known for his craft.
There were plenty of pictures of his dishes online, but none of the man.
His age also wasn’t anywhere, only an estimate, anywhere from twenty-nine to forty-five.
He started from the bottom and worked his way up.
Still, the article I managed to skim was sparse.
I don’t like not being in the know or being unprepared. All it does is heighten my anxiety.
The doors open, and I scramble to grab the folder and step out into the hall. I jog lightly, looking left and right, my heels barely making a sound against the carpeting. That’s when I see a gold plaque with “Grayson Adam Hayes,” and I stop so abruptly that the papers fall.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” I bend down and quickly collect them. “It’s fine. Just take a deep breath, and everything will be okay.”
Standing back up, I close my eyes, open my mouth, and breathe in and out slowly. I put on my professional smile and knock on the door.
“Come in,” a deep, muffled voice says.
Turning the knob, I step into the office where Grayson Hayes has his back toward me.
“Professor Hayes?” I say a little too sheepishly. “I’m here to do the inter—”
“Yes, I know.” His voice has a dismissive tone, and I can already tell this is going to suck. He still doesn’t turn around when he asks, “Ms. Samantha Anderson?”
Closing the door, I clear my throat. “Samantha is currently sick, and I offered to take on the interview, but I come fully prepared,” I lie.
Something akin to a scoff escapes him, and I raise an eyebrow at his rudeness. The jerk still hasn’t bothered to look at me and keeps fixing books on the shelves behind his desk. “Like I told your editor, I only have twenty minutes. I have a meeting to attend.”
“May I sit?” My voice is as calm and kind as I can make it while I try to mask my annoyance.
Mr. Hayes’s shoulders lift and fall in a sigh. His crisp, expensive-looking dark blue dress shirt matches his movements. Finally, he turns his head toward me, and my knees almost give out as I see the face that’s been haunting my dreams since July.
His face pales, and he drops what he’s holding.
How? How is this happening? How is Ace a nickname for…Grayson…ayson…ays… “Ace?”