Page 3 of One Weekend in Quebec City

“It’s not a date.”

“No, but spending just a couple of hours with you won’t give her the whole story.”

“I have no desire to be a public relations puppet.”

Linda smirks. “You’re not a puppet, Spencer. Butyou need to convince her that there’s more to you than flashy parties and beautiful arm candy. Honestly, if she gets to know the real you, I think she’ll discover you’re not what the press makes you out to be.”

I mull it over, weighing the odds. “Alright. Reachout to her. ButI want to make sure she understands what I’m looking for. Thiscan’t be a total fluff piece. Ineed her to see the real Spencer Hollis.”

“Just don’t go falling for her, Spencer. Remember, this is work.”

What a strange statement for Linda to make. “And why would I fall for her?”

Linda gives me the look mothers give children when they’ve tried to pull a fast one. “Because she’s young and beautiful.”

“Trust me, Linda,”I reply, my voice steady. “I know how to keep my head in the game.”And my cock in my pants.

My phone buzzes before Icanfinish the thought, pulling my attention away from our conversation. It’sa text from Hayden. Ifrown as I read it because he’s asking if we can have dinner next month. He’snot supposed to be back in town for at least another two months. God, what the fuck did he do? He’sthe one that deserves the reputation. He’stechnically the most intelligent of the three of us, but that kid can’t keep his zipper closed.

That ever-present sense of familial guilt creeps in. Ihate Dad for what he put us through, and I don’t want Hayden to become just like him. Oneday soon, he’ll join me at the company, and we can’t afford for his behavior to rock the boat. If the board members thinkI’ma treatto deal with, they’ll all have coronaries dealing with Hayden’s antics.

Maybe Linda is right. IfI want to set the record straight publicly, then a long weekend with a journalist is only a few days out of my schedule. It’sthe least I can do to preserve our family’s name. Then, once I have them off my back, I can deal with Hayden before he starts stirring the pot.

ChapterTwo

Shelby

What 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’scalling me at this hour?

“Hello?”

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