Page 26 of A Ticking Time Boss

My phone chimes again. It’s a distracting way to work, texting with her, but I wouldn’t change it.

Audrey: He did, he had to fill in for another teacher tonight. Huge sigh of relief for me.

Carter: Still gets your nerves going, huh. What will you do instead? Go home and watch back-to-back documentaries about political scandals?

Audrey: Lol. I know it doesn’t seem like it but I have a few other interests outside of my job. Emphasis on “a few,” though.

Yes, and that’s just it. She’d love the Reporters’ Ball.

Fuck, I wish I could take her as my date. My invite includes a plus-one, but I can’t ask an employee. And even if I could, I’d mentioned the event to Becca weeks ago, a long-term friend with occasional benefits. She’d said yes before I met Audrey. But it was in a casual way, a mutually beneficial way. She loved fancy events and I liked having someone there to talk to who wasn’t interested in my industry opinions. Now it seems like a waste of both our time.

Audrey would appreciate it more.

EIGHT

“Spitfire,” Booker says. It’s a week later, and the nickname shows no signs of fading. “Get the draft of the Decker story to me by lunch tomorrow?”

“On it!” I say.

“Declan, how’s the research for Emery coming along? Give me an ETA.”

“Just dotting some i’s,” he replies. “I’ll forward it to Emery before I leave for the day.”

“Dot them faster,” she says, and then she’s gone in a breeze of sensibly heeled shoes and determination. I watch her disappearing form, the queen of this office, the master of the story beats. She must keep the next day’s edition of the newspaper in her head at all times. Moving stories around, editing, polishing, pushing and pulling to put together the best edition every single time.

Just being near her makes me a better journalist.

“Dot them faster,” Declan mutters by my side, but there’s reluctant admiration in his voice too. It’s hard not to have any for Booker, even if she can be mean and harsh when needs be.

I’ve lived at the office for the past few days. With less staff than usual, but with the same printing requirements and story beats to fulfill, the newspaper is struggling.

And every single person knows who to blame.

Well, maybe not, I amend, watching as Tom Wesley walks through the investigative floor. There is little love lost between the staff and the Globe’s editor-in-chief.

He catches me looking and I quickly focus on my computer screen. The Decker story. It’s an interesting one, and my fingers ache to write the article myself instead of just researching it for one of the senior journalists.

From the corner of my eye, I watch him come closer. Damn. Where Booker is stern but encouraging, Wesley’s voice is syrupy with falseness.

“Audrey,” he says.

I meet eyes that hold no humor, despite the smile on his face. “Mr. Wesley.”

He leans against the edge of my desk and crosses his arms over his chest. “Quite a performance last week. In front of our new CEO and owner, no less.”

The all-hands meeting. I wet my lips, keeping my hands clasped tight on my lap. “I felt we were owed answers, sir.”

His smile widens and a shiver runs down my spine. “How fitting, for a junior investigative reporter.”

“Uhm, yes.”

Wesley’s eyes shift to my screen, evidence of my research. “Well, good luck, Audrey. I hope the new owner looks as favorably on your… spirit, as I do.”

My lips part in shock, but not a single word comes out. Wesley knocks twice on my desk and saunters off without another word.

Declan meets my eyes, and for the first time, there’s no competition in them. No I-told-you-so, either. “If the CEO cares about investigative journalism,” he says, “then he appreciated your questions.”

“Thank you,” I say.

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