Page 14 of Red

I brought the cup to my lips and I felt Peter's eyes on me, but I pretended I didn't.

"Careful, it's hot," he warned softly.

"Thanks mom," I winked, but I warmth pinched my cheeks because I knew he wasn't nagging like my actual mother did. It had been almost a year since I'd gone home and I still heard her voice whispering when I got ready in the morning. I gave you such beautiful blonde hair, why would you go and ruin it with that jet black crap? If you went out in the sun, met a nice boy, instead of holing up in here, you wouldn't look like a vampire. Thank God you have good genes or you'd be as big as a house!

Fun times with my mom. But Peter wasn't like that. He'd seen me in sweats, face filled with pimples like I was going through puberty, and on the verge of tears because Perri tore me a new one in a meeting.

Meeting.

Holy crap there was a meeting this morning...and I was supposed to be bringing in a lead for a new story.

Me burning my mouth was kind of irrelevant because I lowered the cup back to my desk with a groan.

"Did they screw it up? It's supposed to be a vanilla latte, extra shot, with two extra pumps of vanilla-"

I smiled glumly up at him. "No, the drink's great. I really appreciate it. I'm just about to make a fool of myself in the staff meeting. Again."

He grimaced. "No lead?"

I shook my head. Lying. The truth was, I had a lead. A damn good one. It didn't get much better than a behind the scenes look at Hush. But I knew Perri. I'd seen and experienced first hand the way she demolished reporter's ideas, claiming they were ridiculous or a waste of time. I wouldn't let this story die on the vine, or let some other writer take my story and run with it. But I was so wrapped up in my side project, a project that could open a whole new world of opportunity for me, that I completely ignored the job that was currently paying the bills.

I shimmied my mouse and brought the screen back to life. The clock didn't help, there was only five minutes left until the meeting. My fingers flew over the keys, hoping that Google would throw me a lifeline. Some new celebrity catastrophe that I could throw out when we went around the table. The chances that someone else would have the same lead were high, but something was better than, "um...uh..."

"You know that douchebag chef from all of those cooking competition shows?" Peter asked, taking a sip of my coffee. "The one who's always cussing and throwing things and he gets away with it because everyone wants him?"

I was only half listening, scrolling through headlines that read like what you'd expect. Socialites partied, celebrity couples were getting divorced, actors were saying stupid stuff on Twitter, and actresses were condemning hackers that stole their nude selfies. "Yeah, I know who you're talking about. A bastard, but damn if he isn't hot as hell."

"Right, Desmond O'Connell. I got this tip that the reason the last contestant got axed on America's Chef is because he told the dude that he 'wasn't good TV'."

I stopped skimming. It wasn't the a career making story, but the public gobbled up behind the scenes looks at how reality TV shows worked and the lives of the rich and famous.

"I think that would work," I mused, tapping my nails on the desk before I came to a hard stop. I looked up at him, guilt settling in my gut. "But what about you? That's your lead. I wouldn't feel right taking credit and leaving you hanging."

"C'mon, Soph," he winked. "You know I've got lots of tricks up my sleeve."

I narrowed my eyes in disbelief, clutching my coffee cup. "Peter, if you're sure-"

"I wouldn't have offered it to you if I didn't have it to give," he assured me, standing upright. He cocked his head toward the conference room. "Shall we?"

"Let's do it." I rose from my chair with a nod, pulling my cardigan tighter. Peter was already making a beeline for the meeting, but I tugged his elbow, needing to say something. "Thanks for helping me out." There was the guilt again. The worry that even though I didn't feel like I was leading him on, that any kind gestures came with strings attached, even if he had the best intentions. But he just smiled and shrugged like it was no big deal, so I breathed easy, grateful that he had my back and I'd dodged a bullet.

We walked through the sliding glass doors, the room humming with our co-workers gathered around the long table that nearly stretched the entire length of the room. People from all walks of life surrounded the table. There were the hard boiled journalists who reminisced about the good ole days, dressed in skirts and blouses and shirts with ties. There were the hipsters, my age to thirties, in their beanies with their eyes glued to their cell phone screens. And then there were the bots, women and men who made it clear that this was a stepping stone for them, and they were just waiting for one of their celebrity subjects to fall madly in love with them...or some producer to notice them and hand them their own reality TV show on a silver platter.

Peter and I nudged our way in between Carl and Lucy, both of them talking about some new action movie at the box office and how CGI had destroyed modern movies.

"It was just so blatantly fake, so over the top that I hurled my popcorn at the screen and walked out," Carl huffed.

Lucy nodded. "And I'm the biggest action movie enthusiast ever. Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Wallace." She shuddered, glancing over at me. "Have you seen the new one yet? Fist to the Face?"

Before I could tell her heck no, that I was one of those saps that lined up for romances and tearjerkers, her face went pale and I knew that the Queen had arrived. And just like any queen that wielded her power like a lethal weapon over her kingdom, she stood in the doorway for a good five minutes past the start of the meeting, hollering into her Bluetooth.

"I am aware that English is your second language, but I do not pay your company's inflated prices so you can write me a check when your idiot staff destroys my custom Gucci! What am I supposed to wear to the Met Ball? Your check?"

I exchanged a look with Peter and he leaned in, whispering, "Won't someone think of Perri Collins?!"

I bit back a smile as I sat back in my seat—and my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach when I realized that Perri was looking right at him.

Not looking. Glaring.

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