Be mine for 8 days E-Book

C. R. Scott

• Herausgeber: WS
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 327

Beschreibung

He will give you a great career. But in return, you must act as his fiancée for eight days.

Skye gets the opportunity of a lifetime when her boss assigns her to write an article about Ethan Huntington. Everyone wants to know what makes the handsome entrepreneur so successful, and what could possibly appeal to a man who already owns everything. But Skye's encounter with Ethan turns out differently than planned. Completely different! Out of the blue, he asks her to pretend to be his fiancée for eight days. In return, she gets a full home story. But why would someone like him need a fake fiancée? And why, of all things, for eight days? Complete emotional chaos erupts! And there is something about Ethan's crazy offer that not even he knows.

Leseprobe

Be Mine for 8 Days

by C. R. Scott

BE Publishing

Chapter 1

~ Skye

For the umpteenth time, I frown as I look at the recording. For the past half hour, which seems more like half a day, I've been doing research for my next article, which is to appear in the upcoming print issue and online. I wouldn't believe it to be possible, but now when I think about the so-called sources I have to deal with this time, I realize my job has reached a new low.

Speechless, I stare at the monitor and watch the Instagram video of a young, up-and-coming French pianist to the post's bitter end.

“Hey guys!”she greets her followers in a shrill voice. She appears to be strolling through a park as she records. “Guess what, it finally stopped raining and I'm meeting up with my friends to chill out! What are you guys doing right now? Let me know in the comments! A thousand kisses for you!” To emphasize her words, she directs an air kiss to the camera for all the viewers.

I sigh sadly and mutter to myself. “Can you believe it?”

“Believe what?” chimes Ray's soft voice, and he joins me, arms folded in front of his chest. “He looks cute, doesn't he?” With a nod, he points to the next video I'm watching by now—an Instagram account by a young man known for blogging about his favorite books.

I glance briefly at Ray. He's wearing a brightly colored, floral patterned shirt and matching suspenders again today. “That's exactly what my next report is about,” I reply and look at the monitor again.

“About cute boys?”

“About this.” My mouse pointer targets the bunny ears, the strikingly soft-lined face, the red-tinged cheeks, and all the hearts dancing above the book blogger's head.

“Hey,” Ray says, giving me a determined pout.

I don't look at him.

This doesn't stop him from continuing. “If boys want to be cute bunnies, it's their right, isn't it? Honestly, Skye, I would have expected more tolerance from you. You don't have a problem with my bisexuality. If I remember correctly,” he adds, “you thought it quite funny yourself when we fought over the same guy in the bar the other day. It ended up being a draw and neither of us got to approach him,” he recalls with a laugh, “but we had a nice evening with an apple martini or two, didn't we?”

I turn in my chair to face him. “First of all, the guy in the video isn't a boy; he's already of age—albeit just barely, because he recently turned 21. And second, my point isn't that he's male, but in general that more and more people are using these cat and rabbit filters in their videos.”

As he realizes what's bothering me so much, the expression on his narrow, fine-featured, made-up face changes. “Oh, so you're annoyed by those Instagram filters then?”

“Yes!”

He waves this off. “It's just a silly fad.”

Perplexed, I stare at him.

And then he finally seems to remember that this is exactly what I write about for Trends & Views. About flashy phenomena that polarize and divide people into two camps. Like skinny jeans that are so tight that it's almost a competitive sport to get your legs squeezed into them. Or T-shirts and blouses that are only tucked into the front of your pants. Some people love it, others get annoyed by it. That's why my column is called Hate it or Love it. It's quite normal that there are trends that you follow or that you find annoying. But … quite honestly? Having to write about them week after week after dreaming of broadening readers' horizons and changing the world with your reports after journalism school is tough.

“Uh, I mean …” he utters with a grin. “Sorry, that's what you're writing about. And … fads like that are important, too. Yes, of course they are. They reflect the spirit of our modern society. Isn't that what the whole magazine is about?”

I reward him with a smile for attempting to make me feel better about my column. But I quickly find my way back to a serious expression. “Thanks for trying, Ray, but I still dream of writing about other topics. Our whole magazine is devoted to picking up on trends in our society. And I undoubtedly got the silliest category.”

“Of course, Skye! You're just the new kid, you know? We all had to go through that in the beginning. Just think about how I started out here—doing obituaries for deceased celebrities! Believe me, I could have imagined something more exciting. But my perseverance paid off, and now I get to report on the charities of gay celebrities,” he says with a wink, “which I usually get to meet in person. It's a dream come true for me, and it will be for you, too.”

“But I've been here for three years now!” I complain. “Three years! And yet my employment contract has only been extended by another year and I have to write about stupid topics like rabbit-eared video filters. How long am I supposed to be the new girl?”

He shrugs his narrow shoulders. “Right now, we're just busy. Hey, you've got to be above that. Your time will come. Until then, you've got to prove yourself as a reliable writer who can deliver copy on assignment, no matter what the subject. That's what makes a true professional.”

I press my lips together and take an audible breath. “Yes …” Then I rub my eyes. “You're right.”

“Always, sweetie. Always.” He winks again, turns on the heel of his dark brown designer shoes, and strides away with a swing of his hips that might even be better than mine. “Keep your chin up!” he calls to me as he makes his exit.

With another sigh, I look after him and catch myself feeling all the sadder for his statement.

Because …

Does a professional journalist really distinguish herself by having her topics dictated to her?

I know the media industry is highly competitive.

And I'm afraid that in any other newsroom, I would feel the same way I do here.

Just …

Does that make my situation any less dire?

***

The following Monday, all the magazine's editors gather in the conference room, which is located in the center of the floor, surrounded by glass walls. No sooner has the last colleague entered the room than Clark Parker claps his hands. As editor-in-chief, he has no time to waste today and wants to move the meeting along before it has even begun.

“Okay, here we go! Lightning round. Where do we stand? Sally, you start, and then we go clockwise. I'm listening!”

“Uh…” Sally has to collect herself and pushes her horn-rimmed glasses higher on her nose—you just never know who Clark will call on first, no matter where we sit. “The photo spread on next fall's home ideas is in the can. Ben's working on post-processing, and my new intern Paula will have the captions done this afternoon.”

“Good,” he says, looking immediately at Sebastian seated next to her.

“The cover story on the latest developments in renewable energy can go to proofreading,” the latter responds without missing a beat. “I'll come to your office later with three drafts for the headline, Clark.”

Satisfied, our boss nods. “What about the perimeter? Do you need more room?”

“Another double-page spread would be good, of course,” Sebastian admits. “More and more people are becoming interested in sustainable electricity.”

“You got it.” Clark looks to his seatmate. “Anna, your report is unseasonal and will be postponed to the next issue.”

“But—”

“You heard me, right?”

“Of course,” she says. What else can she do?

“You can pause your work on it and write a short article on a related topic this week that we can put on the website.”

“Allright!” she acquiesces.

“What about you, Tom?” asks Clark. “Have you finally made any progress on the Huntington case?”

Right. Ethan Huntington, the millionaire entrepreneur. Tom Devito gets to write about him in the lifestyle section.

“Fortunately, yes,” replies my colleague. “After weeks of waiting, it worked out and I got an appointment.”

“Hopefully not until next year,” Clark murmurs tensely, seeming serious.

“No, a last-minute appointment came up for next week.”

“Next week!” Clark's eyes widen, then he laughs. “That's great news!”

“Yes,” Tom says. “A long-planned business meeting was canceled, so a window of opportunity opened up for us.”

“How long?”

“Just 30 minutes.”

“Too bad, but still 30 minutes.”

Tom nods. “I'll go over the questions with you tomorrow at the latest.”

“No, today,” Clark demands. “And again on Friday, with the final version.”

“You got it,” Tom replies.

Clark sets his sights on the next journalist, and that's me. “On with the program. Skye, where are we with the rabbit ears?”

Oh, man, does he have to reduce my content to that?

Well, he is unfortunately right …

But does he really need to emphasize that again in front of the assembled team?

I try not to let my frustration show this time either. “The text will be ready in time. I have everything I need together.”

“Perfect.” He takes a breath and turns to my seatmate, Ray, to urge him to continue our assignment progresses.

“However …” I take the floor without being asked.

My boss is already irritated.

But I don't want to be discouraged by that. I push on. “I'd also like to get more space in the magazine and go deeper into the subject matter.” If I have to write about Instagram filters.

Clark makes no secret about the fact that he is anything but thrilled with my suggestion. “Your column always has exactly one double-page spread, Skye. That's the concept.” And this format has been around longer than you've been a staff member here, I'm reading in his eyes.

“But the potential is there!” I plead. “These belittling filters are now even used by women whose appearance shouldn't matter. By a very talented pianist, for example.”

“Skye …” he hisses, threatening to lose his patience.

“But also from older people!” I continue desperately, hoping to change his mind. “This points to a widespread problem in our society. Instagram exacerbates the pressure for perfect, cute selfies …”

He raises his finger and puts it to his lips in a hushing gesture.

I pause and fall silent. Again, I feel Ray's imploring gaze on me, and so I look at him.

Let it be, he admonishes me wordlessly. Now!

Yes, that's right. We're supposed to call our boss by his first name as if he were one of us, but you can't let that fool you. Clark Parker hates being argued with. Suggestions are vital, but talking back is fatal—for your career. No one else but he sets the tone here. Anna, whose article has been unceremoniously postponed, knows that … and so does everyone who works in these editorial offices.

And so I have no choice but to admit defeat. “Excuse me,” I even feel compelled to say, so I don't get kicked out the door.

“It's all right,” Clark growls, as if I had actually committed a crime. He turns his attention to my seatmate again with a look of mild confusion. “Where were we? That's right. Ray, my good man! What's the latest on Johnny Starr? Can you meet the fashion designer to talk about his charity?”

“Yes. Tomorrow I will have an appointment with him on Staten Island.”

Clark pauses. “Like, at his house?”

“Correct,” Ray proudly states.

“Good job!”

Satisfied, Ray grins.

I sigh …

How I would also like to meet a person whose work moves numerous people, to write an incomparable profile about him or her …

***

When the meeting is over and my colleagues gradually leave the conference room, Ray puts his hand on my shoulder and sends me a smile that is surely meant to cheer me up … or at least encourage me to grit my teeth and hang on.

I nod gratefully and start to follow him out of the room.

“Skye,” I hear Clark's raspy voice.

Wide-eyed, I turn to him. “Yes?”

“Do you have a minute?”

Uh-oh. I don't like his stern expression! Have I perhaps already maneuvered myself out the door with my suggestion? Temporary contract or not, with the reputation he enjoys in the publishing house, it would be easy for him to dismiss me without notice!

Instinctively, my attention drifts back to Ray.

It was nice to have known you, his look seems to tell me before he walks out the door and has to leave me behind. But perhaps my fear is getting the better of me.

“Of course,” I say and put one foot in front of the other to make my way back to the center of the conference room—not to say the lion's den. I take a breath and want to give the impression of a calm person. Or as Ray would now say, a professional. “Yes?”

Lightly pressing his lips together, Clark wears a worried expression that reinforces my uneasy feeling. “Listen, if you're not happy here …”

“No!” It shoots out of me. “It's not that!” One thing I realize very clearly: I don't want to be terminated! On the contrary—I want to develop further in these rooms!

“So you're happy here?”

“I mean …” That's when I decide to try honesty one more time. “Granted, I would be happy to get another rubric at some point …”

“But someone has to take care of Hate it or Love it. The short news stories about polarizing phenomena are as much a part of Trends & Views as any other category.”

Okay. I guess there's nothing we can do. He's not planning on transferring me anytime soon. Not to mention promote me. And if I'm not careful now, my contract won't even be extended, let alone converted into a permanent one.

“Absolutely,” I agree with him. “As I said, at some point it would be nice …”

“Of course, Skye. We have the best opportunities for advancement here. No one who puts in the work will be overlooked.”

Don't I put my back into it? At least, as far as my frustration allows …

“Unfortunately, magazines like ours are struggling with declining sales and tremendous competition online,” he continues, as if he heard my question. “For that reason, there hasn't been a change in our staff for quite some time.”

I nod.

“But at least no one has had to leave in the past few months.”

“Yes, that's true,” is all I can say.

“Just keep sticking to the concept, okay?” he asks of me—again without sounding like I have any choice at all. “That's what's worked for me. And I promise you, as soon as something comes up, you'll get your chance.”

My eyes widen. “All right. Yeah, that sounds only fair. Thanks, Clark.”

“All right. You can go now. Back to work.” He laughs.

“Of course.”

Well.

Even though I've been waiting for said chance for over a thousand days—oh, yes, I'm counting …

Clark is not a bad boss, and I'm lucky to even have a job as a journalist in this day and age to pay my rent here in New York.

I'm afraid I'll have to settle for that in the future.

If necessary, for the next thousand days.

Chapter 2

~ Skye

“See?” she says to me as she finishes tying the double knot. Concentrating, she keeps her undivided attention on the red yarn, radiating composure. “We've already finished another row.”

“No, you have a new set of knots ready, Mom.” My tone is warm as I speak, gentle with her. “But I don't do patience games like that, sorry.”

“Don't be sorry, dear. I figured friendship bracelets weren't your thing. Still, I wanted to show you the new things I've learned.” Satisfied, she points to the zigzag pattern of rainbow colors.

“I think it's really neat that you're crafting so much now! And while I may not be interested in knotting bracelets like this myself, you know I wear mine every day, and I love it.” I lift my arm up to bring the braided jewelry of dark brown faux leather so she can see it. It was one of the first bracelets she finished when she discovered this hobby for herself. It is a symbol of how close we are to this day.

She laughs happily. “It seems to be holding up well, isn't it?”

“Yes, it's really sturdy. And beautiful.” It does have a few blemishes, since it was one of Mom's first crafting attempts, but just knowing it came from the heart makes it perfect.

“Nevertheless, if at any point it starts to crack, I'll make you a new one right away.”

I wave this off. “I'm sure it will last quite a while.”

It wasn't too long ago that Dad cheated on my mom with his tennis partner and accidentally got her pregnant, at which point there was no more basis for discussion for my mom and she filed for divorce. As a result, she realized not only that he doesn't want to fight for her one bit, but that he also wants to raise the unborn child with his new wife. So I'll have a half-sister or half-brother soon, somewhere here in New York. On paper, anyway. Whether Dad wants me to form a relationship with the child, and whether Mom would be okay with that, and how it will feel to me, remains to be seen.

Anyway.

In order not to fall into a mental hole, my mother has taken up one or two new pastimes. Making her own jewelry is one of them. Only privately, for herself, relatives and friends, because she is still happy with her job as a nurse, she says. She also now goes to the nearest soup kitchen twice a week to help out. Not only does this allow her to do good for others, which is obviously in her blood, but she has already made several new friends, she said.

But of course, Dad's affair surprised her at least as much as it did me and must have affected her deeply. In that sense, it wasn't out of mere impulse that she made the breakup happen. And we haven't talked about him much in the past few months. We are close, and I quickly realized that she would cope better if we devoted ourselves to other topics of conversation. Everyone deals with such a loss differently. Seeing her become more active and socialize more made me feel good. I wanted to trust that Mom would eventually say something about the divorce on her own. Nothing big, just something … final.

And she did. Just recently. Once, out of the blue, she told me that Dad made it easier for her to forget him with his impossible behavior. I understand that. And just the other day, she told me that she likes being single at the moment and living her own rhythm. The way she looked at me saying that and living her life now, I immediately believed her. My mother, Sandra Beaufort, is an independent woman who can manage without a man. I am very happy about that. She also doesn't let her anger at Dad eat away at her, so she hasn't taken back her maiden name, but keeps the same last name as me.

“And you, dear?” she had asked me. “Have you got back in touch with your father in the meantime?”

I denied that without elaborating.

“You know that I would never make you feel bad about your contact with him, and that I'll be fine with you talking to him again, right?”She had wanted to reassure herself afterwards.

I affirmed to her that I am aware of that and I simply need some more time myself. That's why I left his previous calls, only two in number, unanswered.

Am I angry with him?

I was at first. After all, one could also think that his second, unborn child will replace me. But in the meantime, I have come to the conclusion that this is nonsense.

Have I been sad?

I was sad much longer than I had been angry.

But my life has also moved on, and two things have become clear to me: First, you shouldn't force staying with someone if it just doesn't fit anymore. Mom can't trust Dad anymore, plus he seems more interested in his new partner anyway and wanting to see the kid grow up. Whether the whole thing is a life crisis or not is up for debate.

And secondly …

I am also willingly and currently single.

Because first I want to concentrate on my career as a journalist.

How could I blame Mom for wanting to enjoy her life without a man by her side for a while after being betrayed?

Yes, I, too, do not need a man in my life at the moment.

But who knows …

I may even reach out to Dad on my own at some point so as not to completely collapse the bridge between us.

Any other route I chose would only be harming myself.

Doesn't everyone, no matter how old you are, have a deep-seated need within them to maintain a good relationship with their parents?

And shouldn't this need actually be mutual?

“Well?” chimes Mom's clear voice.

I wince.

“Where are your thoughts, dear?”

I feel caught and grin accordingly. “You're jumping back and forth again, in my thoughts.”

She lovingly strokes my hair. “Your active mind will definitely come in handy at work.” She pauses. “Or does it actually get in your way?”

She knows she can say something like that directly to me.

“You can view it anyway you want,” I say contritely.

After all, I'm good at managing the many and varied tasks that arise for a journalist. On the other hand, I want to go higher than my boss can allow me to at the moment. Who knows when that will finally change?

What was that about the next thousand days?

“Tell me. What are you writing about right now?”

I pucker my lips. “Using Instagram.”

She has to think. “Oh, that network with the photos?”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“I see.”

Well, how do I explain it? I counter with my look alone. The actual topic is not exactly something that challenges me as a reporter: Rabbit ears.

“You're not unhappy in your job, though. You would tell me that, and then you would change something, wouldn't you?”

I think about it for a moment. “No, I'm not unhappy.”

But …

Unfortunately, I am unhappy.

And maybe Mom is right.

I should stop waiting and take my happiness into my own hands.

Just as she has done in recent months.

For my own sake.

***

The next week begins for me as usual: At seven o'clock sharp, my cell phone alarm clock rings. Gentle, Asian-influenced sounds, which I bought via a meditation app, that gradually get louder, smoothly bring me out of the dream realm and make me blink several times. This way, when I get up, I don't suffer a heart attack from shock. Anyone who voluntarily lets a sudden, loud, glaring beep jolt them out of sleep day after day is crazy in my eyes.

While I'm waking up, I pad into my small bathroom to relieve myself, take off my pink pajamas, and freshen up. After I have brushed my teeth with narrow eyes in front of the mirror, I go back to my manageably sized bedroom and get dressed. Today I opt for tight-fitting stretch jeans in light gray, combined with a white girlie shirt and a dark blue blazer over it. Just half-casual and half-business, as they say. Since I never leave my workplace anyway, I could theoretically dress even more casually, but somehow, I don't choose those clothes for myself.

In the kitchen, an opened box of cornflakes and chilled milk are waiting for me. While I sip the flakes and milk from a light blue bowl and listen to a podcast about good journalism on Spotify, my eyes fall on the old, simple coffee machine. Even today, I choose not to wake it from its eternal slumber, preferring to supply myself with caffeine by other means later. After all, what am I a New Yorker for? There's a coffee house on every corner here.

No sooner said than done.

A short time later, I leave the apartment and stroll through Brooklyn, whose streets are never empty anyway, but are currently even busier than usual. Tightly surrounded by noisy people streaming in all possible directions, I stride along the sidewalk. Halfway there, I pass the coffee house I trust, enter the shop and order the usual: a large cappuccino with caramel syrup. Because I want to start the new week with goodwill, I even order a latte macchiato with marshmallows for Ray.

My path leads me on to the publishing building. Surrounded by several other people, who all seem to want to get to different floors, I let the elevator take me to the top.

When the elevator reaches the floor of Trends & Views and the silver door bursts open, the sounds of a newsroom pressed for time immediately flood my ears. Lisa is sitting at the reception desk, struggling to keep up with the many calls that come in so early in the morning. As I walk past her with a greeting, she doesn't manage more than a brief look up from her notes with a nod and smile as she continues talking into her dark gray headset.

A few yards away, I overhear photographer Harry and designer Ben having a lively argument about the color temperatures for the next photo series. As the discussion continues, there seems to be a huge difference between coloring the images lightly in ocher or deeper in mustard yellow. And as I walk past the open break room, I can't help but notice that the snack machine is on strike once again and has just taken a hearty beating from another graphic designer.

Yes, everything is as usual.

The week seems to be like any other.

The fact that I'm one of the first editors to reach my desk and switch on the computer this Monday morning also speaks to the norm. Writers are generally regarded as a peculiar guild that prefers to get up a little later and work longer in the evenings. That way, editorial deadlines and printing deadlines can be stretched to the last second in order to include the latest news. That's also why I start later than Lisa at the reception desk, for example, but still earlier than most of my writing colleagues. After all, I want to show commitment.

In fact, it takes half an hour to a full hour before the first other writers show up and take their places around me. Ray is also among them and, despite the continuing noise level, can hardly be ignored as he enters the floor and strides to his space.

“My, what a weekend!” he exclaims, slamming his jacket down on the keyboard. “Actually, I'm too old now to sleep so little, but Mary didn't make it easy for me to get any shut-eye at all. The woman is insatiable!”

Oh? So this time he had fun with a woman.

“Mary …” I mumble, tapping my chin thoughtfully as Ray approaches my table as if it were a matter of course. “Who was Mary again? Oh. Was that the physics teacher?”

“The therapist!” he corrects me. “Don't you ever listen to me?” His eyes take aim at the abandoned coffee-to-go cup. “Oh, is that for me?” Without waiting for an answer first, he grabs the cup, brings it to his mouth and tastes. “Mmm, with marshmallows! You're a sweetheart, Skye!”

“So much for not listening to you, huh?” I can't help myself and turn back to the screen to continue working.

But Ray has other plans. “Tell me,” he demands, sitting down right next to me on the desk so I can't possibly ignore him. “How did you spend the weekend? After you turned down my invitation to join me at the swingers club, I'd love to know what better plans you had.”

“I don't swing, so anything is better for me than going to a club like that,” I reply calmly, clicking the next unread email in my inbox.

“What do I always say to you, sweetie? You won't know until you try it.” He vigorously sips his marshmallow-sweet latte macchiato.

“And what do I always say to you, Ray? Some things you know without having to test them first. After all, at 29, I know myself well enough to guess that I don't need changing sexual partners, and certainly not with strangers.” Well, right now I don't even have a sexual partner, but that's not the point.

He takes a breath and is about to say something back, when our boss rushes in wearing a bitter expression, as if someone has died.

“Tom!” he growls, upset. “He …” He lowers his eyes and shakes his head.

Oh, God, Tom died?

“He's on sick leave,” he tells me instead. “For two whole weeks!”

“Oh,” I say.

“Well, that happens?” retorts Ray, as if emphasizing a question.

“Don't you understand?” hisses Clark, looking as if he'd like to grab Ray by the collar of his floral shirt. “He was to finally have his face-to-face with Huntington on Wednesday.”

“With the millionaire entrepreneur?” I mutter.

“Oh, I see,” Ray now realizes.

“Even if Tom is well by next week, which is likely not the case … I remember well how long he waited to be promised an in-person interview. He can't get another appointment that quickly again!”

“That's stupid, of course,” Ray comments, seeming to ignore the penetrating gaze Clark has directed at him for several moments.

“Ray.”

“Yes, Clark?”

“You have to take the appointment.”

“I can't!”

“What? Why not?”

“On Wednesday, I'm going back to Staten Island to see Johnny Starr.”

“Are there any problems with your profile about the fashion designer?”

“No, on the contrary. He liked my look and is allowing me to meet with him again to work out some final issues.”

“But, Ray …”

“Exclusive questions, Clark! I made a connection with him. I think at a second meeting I could talk to him about his personal life without him kicking me out immediately. At least let me try. His fans and everyone who dreams of working for him will snatch the magazine out of our hands!”

Sighing, Clark rubs his forehead. “But we can't postpone the appointment with Huntington …”

“I'm not going to postpone the appointment with Johnny either. That could send the wrong signal.”

“Oh, now you're already calling him Johnny? Well, I should approve—”

“I'll do it!” I finally dare to interrupt their exchange of words.

In unison, they turn their heads and look at me questioningly.

Self-consciously, I add to my interjection. “I can meet with Mr. Huntington.”

Silence.

For a moment, silence actually falls.

Not around us, which is as noisy as ever.

But both Clark and Ray stare at me wordlessly, albeit with different facial expressions.

Apparently, I have to help out my outburst. “Please, I won't let you down! I'll work my way through Tom's files, get on the phone with him, talk it over with you again, Clark … and then I'll drive to … Where is this Huntington's company located, anyway?”

Well, this is going to be fun, I immediately read in Clark's face.

“I'll get into it all!” I affirm eagerly. “Believe me! I'll be fully immersed in the material by Wednesday! Yes, I'll be fully into Mr. Huntington!” Okay, now that was unfortunate wording … “Oh, you know what I meant.”

Ray is the first to noticeably stir again. “Well, why not?” Demonstratively, he turns to Clark. “That would solve all our problems.”

But unfortunately, my boss continues to show skepticism. “I don't know, Skye. You kind of came to us right after you graduated, and you've never done anything like this before. So, interviewing someone one-on-one.”

I take a breath and want to say something.

“I know you're waiting for your chance,” he says, beating to a reply. “I haven't forgotten that … You remind me too often for that, and it shows how serious you are. Fair enough, but this is Ethan Huntington we're talking about!”

That's right, Ethan is his first name. And he is the CEO of Huntington Industries, a globally successful high-tech company that you read about in the media every now and then.

“I was thinking more along the lines of you accompanying Ray or Tom to a less sensitive appointment sometime soon and watching from the background for now, Skye.”

Hmm.

This speaks to the fact that Clark has indeed not forgotten my request and really wants to finally offer me a chance.

But …

Now can be my chance! Served on a silver platter!

And I can do it!

I know I can do it!

“Clark.” Instantly, I look him in the eye. “Sometimes circumstances require us journalists to jump in at the deep end. Where would Trends & Views be if we always just played it safe?” Briefly, I look at Ray, too. “How would trends and inspiring success stories like Ethan Huntington's even come about if everyone merely played it safe?” I turn back to the boss. “Leadership people, especially, understand that. Someone like you. And someone …” Okay, now that's bluffing a bit, but not so far-fetched. “Someone like Mr. Huntington.”

Again, Clark freezes to ice.

Ray and I look at him tensely.

What will he say now?

Will he give me the chance?

Help, he is still hesitating!

“Clark—” I want to continue with my rousing speech.

“Okay,” he interrupts me. “You get the article.”

My eyes fling wide open. “What?” Wait a minute, did I just hear right?

“Bingo!” Euphoric, Ray claps, then hugs me effusively and squeezes me against him. “Congratulations, sweetie! You did it!”

I still wonder if I'm just dreaming this, and can hardly bring myself to utter a word or move. Then finally, I can allow the thought and pull the corners of my mouth into a smile.

“Nothing's done yet,” Clark says. “Now the work really begins, understand?”

“Of course!” I assure him and free myself from Ray's embrace. “I'll get right to work.”

“And your bunny ears contribution?”

Can we please call it an Instagram article? I would like to reply, but I don't want to overstep myself.

“It's as good as done,” I reply instead.

Clark nods. “All right. Then I expect full throttle, Skye. Get Tom's list of questions so far and read up on his concept so you can start there.” Already, he's setting off for his next appointment.

“I won't let you down!” I shout after him, full of drive.

“I should hope so. I'll go ahead and let Tom know we saved his ailing ass.”

When he is out of earshot, I beam fully at Ray and don't know where to put my energy! I promptly return his intimate embrace, to which he reacts much better than I did to his.

“Oh, my God, Ray! Can you believe it? Here it is at last! My chance!”

“Just as I predicted, sweetie!”

“Yes. Whereas …” I break away from him again. “Just waiting wouldn't have bought me to this opportunity. I had to take the initiative.”

“Maybe.” He waves it off. “You better tell me what you're going to wear!”

Briefly, I ponder. “You mean, for the interview?”

“Of course! You're meeting one of New York's richest and most attractive entrepreneurs, after all. Every layer of fabric has to fit perfectly.”

“That I have to make an impeccable impression is clear to me. But that would also apply if the person I was talking to was poor and ugly.”

“Sure, sweetie. Sure.”

Again, I'm beaming from ear to ear. “I can't believe it! I got my first interview for a profile!”

“We have to celebrate that.” Ray thinks. “Don't argue with me! Let's go out tonight and toast?”

On a Monday? is the first thing that goes through my mind.

But then I realize that he is right.

“You bet we will!”

After all, this article could become my springboard for a permanent employment contract. And for all the topics I would like to write about.

Yes, Wednesday's upcoming appointment could change my life!

My professional life, of course.

What a thrill!

There is only one thing I have to find out before then.

Who is this Ethan Huntington, anyway?

Chapter 3

~ Ethan

The moderator, who is a bit older than me, enters the stage in his white tuxedo and casually stands in front of the microphone, flashing a bright white smile. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this year's Make It!, the gala for selected start-up entrepreneurs!”

The audience, dressed in evening finery, applauds and gathers closer around the stage set up in the middle of the skyscraper's foyer.

“You are all our guests this evening because you have recently founded a company that quickly celebrated its first successes. Or because you are the better-looking addition of someone like that.”

Everyone laughs.

“It's unusually warm today by New York standards, but I'm sure we can heat you up even more with our program. So let's do the obligatory part, which should give you fresh drive before the sticky part begins, and you might even get the best business idea of your life over a glass of whiskey,” the moderator says with a wink.

Again there is laughter.

While he continues, and I actually want to keep concentrating on it so as not to miss my cue, Alexa approaches me in her skin-tight dress of black sequins. Unobtrusively, she leans closer to me and I get a heady whiff of her floral perfume by Dior. I should know—I gave it to her for her last birthday.

“Ethan,” she breathes into my ear as discreetly as possible, also quite sensual—by design.

Reluctantly, I lean closer to her face. I know if she disturbs me at such a moment, it must be important.

“Your mother.”

“What about her?”

“She's on the phone.”

Again? Why is she already trying it on my assistant?

“She says it's urgent.”

That's when I look at Alexa. “An emergency?”

“No, not that.”

“I'll call back. I was going to anyway. But I can't now.” I point to the stage.

“Yes, I know. But she made me promise to at least try. That's what she insisted on.” A barely perceptible smile curls her full, shimmering pink lips. “Your mother can be just as stubborn as you. Now I know where you get your assertiveness from.”