Page 85 of Breaking News

“Calm down, Silas Brown,” Meghan teased. She put her hands on my shoulders. “Okay, look. I’m not going to lie, this might blow up.”

I let out a low, shaky breath, feeling like that bathroom floor was about to drop out from beneath my feet.

“But don’t forget how much the people of Woodvale love you,” Meghan continued. “If it gets leaked, it’s not going to ruin you or anything. You’re Jillian Fucking Taylor, remember?”

“What about Graham?”

“Oh, he’s toast.” Meghan picked a piece of lint off my shoulder and pulled away as another group of chattering women walked into the bathroom. She gave me a little smile to let me know she wasn’t serious. “He’ll probably have to step down. And then…” She hesitated.

“What?”

Meghan looked down at her feet before straightening herself and shrugging. “He’ll probably get his old editor job back.”

Her job. The editor position at theWoodvale Timeswasn’t officially hers yet—it was still tied to whether Graham stayed on as CEO. And now, that wasn’t looking likely.

My friend was losing out on her dream job, and it was half my fault.

“Meghan. I am so sorry.”

Another shrug to hide her disappointment. “Don’t even sweat it. Come on, the boys are probably wondering what’s taking us so long.”

chapter thirty-three

Jillian

Meghan and I slipped out of the bathroom into the wide lounge, where gray leather loveseats were clustered together and big, leafy plants filled the corners, making the room feel less sterile. People stood around chatting in groups, some of them making their way into the adjoining meeting rooms for their first conference sessions. A few expo booths were scattered along the edges of the room; there were journalism software demonstrations, podcast equipment vendors, and a university booth advertising their graduate programs.

We spotted Graham and Chase standing in front of a massive arched window that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, offering an expansive view of the city.

“Where’s Xander?” Meghan asked, scanning the room.

“He spotted one of his old buddies from hisTribunedays and took off,” Chase said, taking her by the hand. “Ready to go?”

They told us goodbye and wandered off together, staring down at their conference maps.

Suddenly, it was just the two of us. And for the first time since that morning in the parking lot, Graham really looked at me, studying my face closely with his arms folded against his chest. A few seconds passed without either of us saying anything, so I looked down and said, “Well, I’m going to find where I need to go.”

Just as I turned away, Graham’s fingers wrapped around my wrist, and he pulled me toward him with gentle dominance. His eyes never left mine. “Hey,” he said, sliding his fingers down to my palm. I could feel his body heat and smell the mint on his breath. After hours of barely even glancing at one another, the sudden closeness nearly stole the breath from my lungs.

“Whatever happens,” he started, squeezing my hand, “this is going to work out. I promise.” I didn’t even question how he knew. He just said those words with so much authority and confidence, I believed him. His steady demeanor flipped a switch in my brain, and I felt the panic begin to melt away.

Because if he was saying those words, that must’ve meant he didn’t regret getting involved with me.

“I hope you’re right.” I adjusted my fingers to squeeze his hand back. “I’ve been spiraling since we left Woodvale.”

“I know,” he said, glancing past me at the dwindling crowd. Everyone was finding their way to their first session. "I have half a mind to blow this off, but considering the network’s footing the bill, it wouldn’t exactly be ethical."

Something about this ethical dilemma after everything else we’d already done struck me as something so ridiculous, I actually laughed.

His brows furrowed. “What?”

“Ethics.”

Graham looked down at the ground between us, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Oh. Right. We might not be the poster children for that.”

He let go of my hand and stuck his in his pocket when a group of fellow journalists moved past us. For half a second, I considered suggesting we ditch the conference like he said. We could get out of here and find somewhere to talk about our situation alone. How far away was Central Park? We could walk for a while, find a bench under the shade of a tree, and hash this out. Make a plan.

I thought about all the times my mom had warned me not to let worrying ruin a good thing. Like our family trip to Myrtle Beach, the one where I’d spent half the time pacing the hotel balcony, fretting over some stupid rumor an ex-friend was spreading about me back home.“You stewin’ down here ain’t gonna stop what’s goin’ on up there,”my mom told me. Repeatedly.

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