Page 69 of All's Fair in Love and Blackmail

I go back to my desk once we’re done with our meeting. “Did we decide anything for our next spot?” I murmur, flipping through my notebook. I spin back and forth in my chair a bit; it squeaks, but I have a hard time sitting still. “I know we listed a few…ah.” I find the list on one of the first few pages. “That’s right. Hot springs…”

But I trail off as my mind conjures up an image of India and I at the hot springs, both of us in our bathing suits. I reach up and undo the top button of my shirt, loosening my tie. It’s a little warm in here, a little stuffy.

“Maybe not the hot springs.” I’m Cyrus’s best friend. I have no business seeing his little sister in a bathing suit—as much as I can admit I’d enjoy the sight. Even thethoughtbrings an odd little spike to my pulse.

“Definitelynot the hot springs,” I amend. “All right. Movie theater it is, in that case.” I circle that one in my notebook, and I’ve just closed it when someone speaks from behind me.

“Hey, Felix.”

I turn to see Veronda towering over my chair, a friendly smile on her face. Her lips are very red today, and her blonde hair is poofed in a very nineties style, parted deep to one side.

“Hi, Veronda,” I say. How is she so tall? Is it because I’m sitting down? I resist the impulse to stand. “What can I do for you?”

A presumptuous question, maybe, but if she doesn’t need something from me, then she’s here to flirt, and I am very uninterested in flirtation.

“I had a couple questions for you,” she says brightly, and I relax a bit.

“Sure,” I say. “What do you need?”

She peeks her head around the wall of my cubicle and must not find anyone on the other side, because a second later she’s pulling my neighbor’s chair into my space. She sits down, crosses her legs, and then says, “I’ve been thinking about my proposal for the TV spot coming up,” she says.

I nod, and she goes on.

“I heard you on the phone the other day—in the break room,” she says when I frown, trying to remember where she might have heard me. “You were talking to a woman on speaker.”

Oh. My conversation with India. On…speaker.

Something like foreboding zips up my spine, but I clear my throat and say, “I remember.”

Veronda nods, sitting up straighter, and her hair fluffs away from her head a little bit at the ends—like it’s so light that gravity has no effect. “Anyway, I heard you mention the Bicentennial Pageant. That’s what you were talking about, right?”

“Uh…” I say eloquently. I rub the back of my neck as the foreboding prickling at my insides begins to congeal. “Yeah, I think so. Why?”

Her eyes are rapt on me now, her posture eager. I recognize this look: it’s the look of a reporter chasing a scoop. Crap.

“I thought so,” she says. “Thinking about the Pageant spawned a fun idea that I think could be really neat for the program. We could highlight the history of the Gazette, as told by our coverage of historic events.” She beams at me. “What do you think?”

It’s a solid idea; my unbiased mind can admit that.

But then the other shoe drops, the one I’ve been waiting for.

“And the woman you were talking to,” Veronda goes on, her smile faltering just a little. She fixes it back in place and continues, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “You mentioned some sort of mishap at the Pageant. That wouldn’t be…” She leans closer to me, and I startle, rearing back. “That wouldn’t be the infamous wardrobe malfunction during the Peter and the Wolf dance, would it?” she says in a low voice.

Crap. The contents of my stomach churn uncomfortably. “Did you overhear as you passed by the break room, or did you stand outside the door and listen?” I say, and I’m faintly surprised to hear the chill in my voice.

Veronda’s cheeks flush, and she leans back in her chair. “I’m a writer,” she says defensively, giving me what I think is supposed to be a playful swat on the arm. “Listening at doors is how I experience the world.”

“There are better ways,” I say curtly. “And no, that’s not what we were talking about.”

Huh. I guess I am willing to lie after all, if it’s for a good-enough reason.

The padded shoulders of Veronda’s suit coat drop in disappointment; it’s evident on her face as her conspiratorial expression fades into a little frown. “Oh,” she says. “That’s too bad. I thought you might have some insight.”

“No insight here,” I say lightly. “I do have a lot to do, though, so if you’ll just?—”

“One last thing,” she says. “I promise. You covered the Pageant, right?”

“I was one of the people who did, yes,” I say.

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