Page 1 of Off the Record

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If I’d wantedto be an emotional punching bag, I never would’ve left my last job as a freelance writer forMusic City Monthly.There, my daily abuse came in the form of red strikes through my sentences. No one is as brutally honest as an editor scorned, hiding behind his computer screen and commenting in all caps about incorrect grammar and preposition lists with the odd tirade about how there are no good women left in this city. That bitter moron tended to get handsy at holiday parties and had a penchant for telling me to leave my girly prose at the door and write the grit America needs today.

At least he never cheated on me.

Now, facing a workday where I’d have to see the actual cheater, I almost wish I’d never left that abusive job.Almost.

I’d only been with my new paper,The Nashville Rhythm,for a month when Leo Davis, our resident photographer and travel columnist, romanced me into a swift, head-over-heels and throw-all-caution-to-the-wind relationship. Six months later, in his true reckless fashion, I found Leo in the broom closet with Kyla from the advertising department.

I should have known such a careless man couldn’t be trusted.

It was a stroke of luck that immediately took him on a two-month hiatus from the office, photographing and reporting on the East Coast national parks within easy travel distance of Nashville.

Now that blissful break is over. Leo is coming back. Like,today. The daily torture of seeing my ex and his new girlfriend together—yes, it’s still Kyla from advertising—will commence. Like I said: emotional punching bag.

In true Paisley McConkie fashion, nothing is going my way. My deodorant ran out this morning after only servicing one armpit, my roommate finished the last of my Cheerios, and my tire popped on the freeway off-ramp. Which is where I am now, kneeling on the side of I-65 in cream slacks while cars fly past me to get to work.

To make matters worse, my phone is dead. So much for just charging it when I get to work.

I throw all my weight into the wrench to get the final blasted lug nut off. The stupid thing isn’t budging. I sit back on my heels—my pants are utterly ruined, so I no longer need to try to salvage them—and drop my head back. It’s not defeat, okay? And it’s definitely not me giving up.

I’m just tired.

Puffing up my cheeks like they’re holding two big marshmallows, I rub my eyes and let out a frustrated groan-yell. This tire is not going to best me. Not today of all days. I imagine Leo’s face on the lug nut and prepare to give it a firm push when a man speaks behind me.

“Do you need help? It’s Paisley, right?”

I’m so startled I squeal, chucking the wrench at my assailant.

“Whoa!” He dodges the flying tool, and his arms shoot up. “It’s just me.”

I catch sight of him and stare.Just me: my boss, Hudson Owens. On the side of the road. Dodging my lug wrench.

No, that’s inaccurate. He’s myboss’sboss. Mostly only sighted from afar because his office is so many floors above mine. His time is spent exclusively with execs from our parent media mogul’s various publications or doing things rich men tend to do, like golf or eat caviar on a yacht.

I can’t believe he remembers my name. We met in a meeting last month about the future of the news columns inThe Nashville Rhythmand the impending cuts to staff. He’d joined us for a few minutes, driving home how our readership was down and everyone’s jobs were on the chopping block. All the columnists had been asked to be there. I wasn’t special.

Utter mortification seeps into my cheeks. I’m sure my skin could melt ice cubes despite the frosty October weather. What is he doinghere?

“Mr. Owens,” I say, getting to my feet. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The roar of a truck passing swallows the tail end of his words. He looks from me to the tire, then shrugs out of his blue designer suit coat. He leans down to pick up the lug wrench, and the tool looks a lot smaller in his hands than it did in mine.

Hudson Owens isn’t anything like my first editor. For one, he’s not an editor anymore now that he’s risen a few floors in the building to the executive level. He used to manageThe Nashville Tribune,the most elite of the publications owned by our parent media company. TheTribuneis endgame for me, but I need a few years with this paper before they’ll look at my resume or discuss me taking that leap. Ben told me as much when he hired me on. It won’t happen at all if I’m one of the columnists cut from theRhythm.

I don’t know why Hudson would give up the best job in the company to work at the executive level, but to each his own. Technically it was a promotion.

Two, Hudson is one of Nashville’s hottest bachelors. He’s probably a vampire, because there’s no other explanation for how he can spend all those hours in the office and the society pages and the gym and have any time left over to sleep. Something’s gotta give, and with this guy, I’m guessing it’s the latter.

Vampires don’t sleep.

“May I help?” he repeats, like he didn’t see me give up and wail like a lonely fox while he was parking and sneaking up on me. Cars keep whooshing past us on the off-ramp, and I can’t quite compute what’s going on here. Can Hudson even change a tire? Don’t people like him pay grunts to do menial things like this? They have a guy for everything.

Furthermore,why did he pull over to help?

Dark eyebrows slash higher on his forehead, informing me I’m taking too long to respond. But he’s an alien life force. I know a lot about this guy, but nothing about him at the same time. Again, why is he here?

“It’s stuck,” I say, stepping back to give him room. “But you shouldn’t kneel?—”

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