Page 22 of Off the Record

“Must keep you busy.”

“It does.” He looks at me sidelong. “I’ve really enjoyed stepping back into the editor role.”

“I know. I’ve been getting all sorts of special treatment.”

He laughs. We’ve reached his car again and he slows on the sidewalk, hovering next to it. “I might’ve been a little over the top, but I need my uncle to see me succeed here. It’s important.”

“Why?”

He looks like he wants to tell me something, then glances away and shrugs. “Don’t you want to make the adults in your family happy? My mom left the business long ago, my brother has never been interested, and my uncle never had kids. It’s just…my grandfather built this company, and now there’s only two of us involved. I want him to be proud of me.”

“I get that.” My parents still cut out my articles sometimes and put them on the fridge or share the online links on their Facebook feeds. It’s not the same, but the parental pride is.

“I’d better get you home.”

I ball up my napkin and throw it in the nearby garbage can. “Yeah, I have an article to edit.”

Hudson leans over and opens my door, holding it for me. I look at him for a long while, trying to read his eyes through his sunglasses without much luck. He’s standing close, and I can feel the fissure of energy running between us, but I don’t know if he’s feeling it too.

“Or, if you don’t have to be home right away, I know a great trail on our way back into Nashville. It’s not too long. It circles a small lake and the trees are all changing colors.” He’d remembered what I’d said earlier about the fall leaves.

“That. Let’s do that,” I say, without thinking too deeply about my answer, and slide past him to get in the car. He closes the door, but he’s smiling, and I can’t help but wonder if this is how his secretaries have all fallen in love with him, too.

Because, honestly, the more time I spend with him, the harder I have to suppress my growing crush. I’m not in danger ofreallyfalling for Hudson Owens. He’s not the kind of guy who sticks with one woman for long, and I know I’m worth more than that.

seven

“Did you see the invitation?”Simone asks, rocking back in her chair and spearing a cucumber with her fork. We’re having lunch at our desks—or, rather, she’s eating lunch at my desk while I snack on peanut butter filled pretzels and polish the article due by the end of today, the one about Linus the shop owner. It’s been just over a week since I met Linus, and three days since the first paper went out with my human-interest articles. We’re calling the column “People of Nashville,” and I haven’t heard yet whether it tanked.

“What invitation?” I ask, popping another pretzel in my mouth.

Simone chews her cucumber. “We’re all invited to the awards banquet next weekend.”

I glance up. Hudson had told me about it when he’d ordered dinner that evening over a week ago. His friend Pete, who made the amazing mushroom sourdough toast, is catering the banquet. I frown. Was that really only a week ago? Hudson and I have been spending so much time together it felt like much longer.

Not that our little excursions to find the People of Nashville or our late-night text conversations have meant anything, of course. Hudson has been hyper focused on theRhythm, and I’ve been part of that. There’s no part of me that believes he means anything special by the attention. He enjoys my friendship, that’s all.

“We’re always invited,” Stan says from his desk a few feet away. His frown lines sit over dark, thick eyebrows, his thick sweater making him look all of his forty-five years. “But why go? Mr. Prescott just wants to hand out awards to his favorite people. It’s basically just a big pat on his own back. TheRhythmnever wins anything.”

“You’re letting your bitterness show, Stan,” Simone says. We all knew Stan was nominated the last two years for outstanding writing, but he didn’t win either time.

“Well, what’s the point of the nominations if every award will go to theTribuneanyway?” Stan mutters.

The Nashville Tribuneis the most elite of our publications, and I aspire to someday write for them. That doesn’t make it sting less when they win every award every year. I wouldn’t know firsthand—this is still my first year with the company.

“So Stan won’t be going,” Simone says, eyebrows up as she swivels to face me again. “We will, right? We can eat their food and drink their drinks. Sounds like a win-win.”

“Who are you hoping to see there?” I ask, reading over my final sentence again and thinking it needs more of a punch. It falls down at the end, and I need to think of a way to swing up instead.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says in a way that means she knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“You must have someone in mind?—”

“Okay, fine,” she hisses, scooting her chair closer. “Have you met Phil from theOutdoors?”

“No, but I’ve seen his name. He’s a photographer, right?”

“Yeah, and he’s up for an award.”

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