Page 27 of A Ticking Time Boss

He nods solemnly, like we’ve just brokered peace between two warring nations, and returns to his work with frenzied typing.

I spend the rest of the night working, fighting against the deadline. The story is good. But it’s not great, and I want to impress Booker. I want her to turn me from someone junior into someone, well, not senior, but someone with a long-term permanent contract and preferably a little pay raise.

I want her to read the article and be impressed.

Perhaps that’s not a reasonable goal to set for myself, but damn it, I was always the one who got As in J-school. I worked overtime at the school newspaper, I did every extra assignment, I aimed for valedictorian.

So I’m not about to stop a lifetime of overachieving when I’m finally in a place where it’ll be rewarded.

“Spitfire,” Booker says.

I startle in my seat. “God, sorry. Yes?”

She gives a half-crooked smile. “It’s late. What are you still doing here?”

“Working on the Decker story.”

“That piece is no more than seven-hundred-and-fifty words.”

“I know, but that doesn’t make it less important.”

A snort. “You’re so young.”

I discreetly shut the screen to my laptop. “Thank you?”

Booker looks over her shoulder at the near-empty newsroom. Declan had left an hour ago, too. “You love this job, don’t you?”

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,” I say honestly.

“I can tell. Look, tonight is the Reporters’ Ball. Have you heard about it?”

“Yes, absolutely,” I say. “It’s the biggest event of the year for journalists in the city. It’s where—”

“I know what it is,” Booker says with an uncharacteristic smile. “I’ve been a few times, and was planning to go tonight before my sitter cancelled.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that.”

She shrugs. “After one ball you’ve been to them all. Want to go in my place, Spitfire?”

I stare at her. “To… the Reporters’ Ball?”

“Yes.” She looks at her watch. “The doors open in an hour and a half, so if you’re interested, I suggest you head home right away.”

“I’m interested,” I say. “Definitely.”

“I suspected you would be,” Booker says. “I’ll send you the e-vite. And Spitfire?”

“Yes?”

“You’re a good enough writer, so learn when to stop polishing.”

“Thank you. Will do.”

Booker gives me another nod and strides off, leaving me spinning in my chair. Metaphorically, despite the fact that it does spin. The Reporters’ Ball in an hour and a half. And she thinks I’m a good enough writer!

I make it back to my tiny room in Queens in time to have a shower in the bathroom I share with the student across the hall. My hair is a lost cause of curls, and I pin most of it up, only bothering to style the tendrils that fall around my face.

I have no idea how they dress at the Reporters’ Ball. I know it’s black tie, though, and there is decidedly nothing in my wardrobe that looks black-tie appropriate. It’s also early fall and the evenings are chilly.

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