Page 2 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
All of the worries.
My heels click-clack against polished marble floors as I make my way down the overly shiny hallway and reach a set of glass double doors. Etched above brushed nickel handles are an interlockedAandGinside the planet Earth. The illustrious thirty-seventh floor. An entirely different world from floor thirty-six and its threadbare carpet and cramped cubicles. Floor thirty-seven is where the real action goes down, housing not only “Cal” and Shirley, but the senior writers as well, better known to us floor thirty-sixers as the Internationals.
I pass by their offices now, all empty. Not entirely surprising since Calvin lets them work remotely when they aren’t on international assignment. As long as they agree to come into the office once a week for company-wide meetings, he has no problem extending them that flexibility—a flexibility never extended to us Locals. Calvin calls it a perk earned for all their time spent flying across the world. I call it bullshit.
Reaching Shirley’s closed office door, I knock softly, hand trembling, heart jolting against my rib cage with each rap of my knuckles against glass. The entire thirty-seventh floor is a transparent box that reflects any sunny skies outside a little too harshly—except for Shirley’s office, where the shades stay permanently pulled (to hide her perverse indoor smoking habit, I’m willing to bet).
A gravelly cough emerges from the other side, followed by a husky, “Come in.”
As I push through the door, Shirley waves away the last wisps of smoke.
“Go on.” She inclines her head in the direction of the open office door of Calvin Cramer III, president of Around the Globe Media’s print division. “Cal’s waiting.”
Moving past her desk—hoping my hair doesn’t pick up the lingering scent of cigarettes—I tap my knuckles against the open door of Calvin’s office to announce my arrival.
Steel gray eyes cut to mine over the top of a computer monitor, and my stomach twists. I don’t know why this man intimidates me this much. Yes, he’s my boss. Yes, he’s worked for this company longer than I’ve been alive. Yes, with his glassy eyes and head full of solid-white hair leading to a short, well-kept beard the same color, he gives me major President Snow fromThe Hunger Gamesvibes. But in any of my (limited) interactions with Calvin Cramer III in passing, he’s never been anything other than professionally polite, even if a bit dismissive.
“Ah. Ms. Miller,” he says, halfway rising from his seat and motioning opposite his desk to a plush chair that definitely cost more than the entirety of my cubicle furniture combined. “Please, have a seat.”
I sink into what can only be described as pure suede luxury. “Please, just Mona is fine,” I manage, feeling my go-to,No Worries!smile firmly in place.
Calvin leans back in his ergonomic chair, fingers steepled in front of his chin, backlit by a sweeping view of Manhattan. “All right then, Mona. I’ll cut to the chase. I was impressed with your last piece.”
The biscuit festival?
“Oh. Um. Thank you, sir.”
“You do solid work here. Always have.” His cold eyes wash over my face. “You’ve worked for us now, for what? A few years?”
Seven in addition to the eighteen-month internship out of college, but who’s counting?
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
“After reading your last article, I think it’s time to give you a shot at bigger things. I think you’re ready.”
Again, the biscuit festival?
I’m so confused. Clearing my throat, I gingerly prod. “Thank you, sir. May I ask what you mean by that?”
Leaning forward, he places both elbows on his tidy desk. “I’m sending you international. Iceland to be exact. I’m giving you a shot at the December cover story.”
It’s official—I’m dreaming. Or hallucinating. Or maybe I’ve been transported to some weird birthday parallel universe.
“Mona?” Calvin prompts at my prolonged silence.
Fingers pulling at my stiff, starchy collar, I tilt my head. “Sorry, I’m a little confused. You read my article on the Montpelier Biscuit Festival, and now you want to send me to Iceland?”
Shifting in his chair, he hesitates, then says, “I’m in a bit of a pinch. Iceland was Suki’s story, but she broke her ankle roller-skating this weekend. Abigail is going on maternity leave any day now. Devon just returned from Cairo. And Jeff’s preparing for his wedding next month.”
Ah. Now this makes sense.
There are four Internationals, and Suki and Devon are the two typically assigned to locations with any need for athletic prowess. Both are the fit, outdoorsy, adventure-loving, risk-takingtypes. I don’t know much about Iceland, but somewhere in the depths of my brain I recall the country is known as the land of fire and ice, which certainly has the ring of an adventurous, risk-taking kind of place.
There once was a time in my career I used to daydream of an overseas assignment, yet I always imagined something serene and relaxed. Riding a gondola through Venice. Carb-loading in Rome. Driving the rolling landscapes of Tuscany in an open-top convertible with my silk scarf whipping in the wind.
So, Italy. I imagined Italy.
Iceland feelschallenging.
