Page 19 of Rumor Has It

“How about because I’m a celebrity and the city needs the publicity?”

“You’re a clown.” She scoffs. “They need the entertainment.”

The guy in front of me extends a hand to her. “Thad.”

“Jane.”

They forget about me and make small talk with each other. She orders her drink, he orders his and pays for both, and then they move away to chat with each other.

I reach the barista, a young hipster who helpfully points out that he shared a gif of me smoking a cigar in a “rigid eating establishment” on his social media. He gloats that it was his most shared post of the week. I groan.

“Anything else, Mr. Fox?” he asks after he reviews my order.

“Yeah.” I reconsider as I pull money from my wallet. “You’d better add a donut, cake pop, and a breakfast sandwich to that order.”

Chapter 8

Catarina

A sack of food is placed on my desk in front of me, and I let out a sigh.

“I don’t want that.” My fingers on the keyboard, I change an adjective in my article from “cocky” to “egomaniacal.”

“Come on, Kitty Cat—”

“Stop trying to cheer me up, okay?”

For a change, his lips press closed. Barrett looks a touch scolded standing there with our coffees—mine the taller one that reads “Kitty Cat” on the side. His reads “Fox.”

He has a great name. Barrett Fox. Three syllables that roll off the tongue and sound at once sophisticated, masculine, and capable.

“Tell me what’s going on with you.” He teases me with my beverage but doesn’t hand it over when I reach for it. “There’s an empty office around the corner where we can talk.”

He points—with my beloved cup of coffee—toward the corridor off which there is, in fact, an empty office. Marge retired last week and they’ve yet to decide who to put in there. I asked if I could have it. Mia said “maybe” which probably means “no.” So much for seniority.

I stand and Barrett straightens, giving me a cocky—no, egomaniacal—smirk. “I’m only coming with you until I can claim my coffee, then I’m out.”

“We’ll see.” He leads the way. He has a nice walk. I’ve referred to it as a swagger before, and it is. His back is straight, his gait easy. He’s tall, long limbed, but muscular. Underneath that fitted button-down white shirt is a sturdy form. Rounded, strong shoulders. Broad chest…

Maybe talking to him won’t be as bad as I think. I should talk to someone. Since it happened Monday evening, I haven’t told a soul.

Inside Marge’s former office, he flips on the light, and I shut the door. If I do end up saying more than I intend, I don’t want the rest of the office to overhear. Mills pilfered Marge’s ergonomic chair, swapping it for a torn one with stuffing popping out of the seat. Barrett pulls out the chair for me. I plop into it and hold out my hand.

He sits on the edge of the desk. “No coffee until you tell me what’s going on with you. You’re always serious, studious, and focused. What you’re usually not is blatantly angry. I know I pissed you off on our date—”

“You behaved like a rowdy teenager instead of a grown man.”

“—but you’re not petty or uncommunicative. If you were still pissed about that, you’d tell me.”

“Fine. I’m still pissed about it.” I fold my arms and lift my chin into a stubborn tilt.

“What do you have to lose if you talk to me?” he asks, not buying my fib.

“Why do you want to know so badly?” My voice creeps into “whine” territory, but that could be because he’s breaking down my walls. They were stronger earlier this week, but as the long nights and longer days passed those walls have started to crumble.

He doesn’t answer my question, so I decide to tell him the truth—quick and neat and right to the heart of the matter. Or the heartless of the matter, as it were...

“Northrop and I broke up on Monday and please don’t use this moment to make fun of his name.” I shoot my arm out to collect my coffee. Barrett, eyebrows bent in what might be sympathy hands me the cup. I take a drink of the delicious, hot, strong Pike Place with a splash of half-and-half. It’s perfection.

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