Page 5 of One Weekend in Quebec City

“Okay. Hereare the facts,”I say aloud as I resume my walk around my small office, the old floorboards creaking softly underfoot.Shauntried to convince meout of rentingworkspace.WhenI worked for Marika, we ran remotely.Butwhen I decided to tackle journalismfull-on, I thought havinga legitimateoffice space would make me appear more professional and encourage me to leave the house more often.

“What do I know about Spencer Hollisother thanwhat’s been written in the press?”I start ticking off on my figures. “Arrogant. Rich. Womanizer.”Those things are obvious and mostly things I try to avoid when looking for a man.

But I’m not interested in looking for a man. I’minterested in this job.

I pause and gaze at the picture on the corner of my desk again, the elusive wish that I might someday find my soul mate filtering through my mind.

I’m going to nail this assignment. Period.

Focus on my writing. Focuson my career.

I don’t need a man.Ineed a Pulitzer.

My phone buzzes again, breaking my train of thought, and I rush back to my desk, snapping it up. It’sthe email from Ms. Morgan with all the details: itinerary, hotel confirmation, and travel options for flight, train, and rental car. Aquick glance at the cost confirms it’s first-class all the way.

Auberge Saint-Antoine, Quebec City, Friday afternoon check-in, Mondaymorningcheck-out.

Consider me booked.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, a flurry of keystrokes as I respond to the email with a breezy, “Thank you, Ms. Morgan. Everythinglooks in order. I’llconfirm everything by the end of the workday tomorrow.”

Ifireoffthe quick reply,thenimmediatelyfeeltheurge to call Marika.Beforeshesettled downwith Shaun and hadthe baby, she managedatravel blog and became a popular influencer.Shewould know what to wear. Ifthere’s something my best friend knows, it’s how to make a statement with clothes and accessories. Although, I have no intention of making a statement. Thestatement will be in my writing.

But I also need to tell somebody before I explode.Idialhernumber, and the ringtonefillsmy small office.

It rings twice before she answers cheerfully. “Shelby, hey, honey, how’s it going?”

“Hey, girl. How’smy sweet nephew?”

“He’s trying to walk.”

“Already?”

“Yup. And then all hell will break loose, because he’ll be intoeverything.”

Wechatabout the baby, Shaun, and the resorts theyownbefore Igetto the reason for my call.

“I need your expert advice.”

She laughs. “Of course, what’s up?”

“I have a location assignment next weekend,”I say, trying to sound casual. “And I need to know what to pack.”

“Ooh, exciting. Whereare you headed?”

“Quebec City.”

“Nice. Withwho?”

Do I tell her? Ichew my lip for a moment before blurting it out. “Spencer Hollis.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “TheSpencer Hollis? Asin, billionaire playboy Spencer Hollis? Theman whose family owns not only a modeling agency but also two production companies, a couple of magazines, and God knows what else?”

Her excitement only adds fuel to the fire. “Yeah, that Spencer Hollis.”

I can hear her walking, her shoes slapping against the floor tile, andthena door closes before she responds. “Okay, spill. What’sgoing on?”

Iexplainthe situation, start to finish, from the phone call to my upcoming trip.Asalways, Marika listens intently.

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