Deadlines & Desires

Ch. 13

Lorelai

As I burst through the glass doors of The New York Times, dodging a wayward intern and narrowly avoiding a collision with a potted plant (first rule of investigative journalism: avoid the flora), I could feel my oversized white knit sweater clinging valiantly to the chill of autumn air. The coffee sloshed dangerously in my travel mug, a life-giving elixir that nurtured my accelerated heart rate as I rushed toward my office at a pace that could only be described as "jogging with purpose." Who needs a treadmill when you work in a building filled with furious journalists and way too many caffeine machines?

"Late again, Lorelai?" my boss's voice boomed like a foghorn in a silent sea. Great. Just great. My impeccable record of punctuality (read: habitual tardiness) was about to take a hit, and the onus was on my best friend, Ivory Winsor, to catch me before I crashed and burned.

"Good morning!" I chimed, pouring on the charm, my mind racing to craft some absurd pop-culture reference—something involving "The Office" or "Breaking Bad"—to diffuse the impending scolding. But Ivory looked at me, wide-eyed and slightly panicked, which made me reconsider. Maybe this was not the moment to casually reference Walter White.

Instead, I dove into my desk, flinging my slouchy bag across the room much like a hyperactive child kicking a soccer ball. Weaving around my cluttered workspace—a cavalcade of notebooks, crumpled papers, and enough sticky notes to build a fort—I managed to spill my coffee on my skirt, of course. Because what's a frantic morning without a stain to highlight your well-meaning chaos?

Just as the iced coffee smear threatened to make its permanent mark, Ivory stepped in with a paper towel and a conspiratorial whisper, "You won't believe who's in the office today."

"Give me the scoop," I demanded, letting my curiosity propel me forward. I could practically feel the caffeine coursing through my veins, fuelling my race toward the truth.

"Kai Archer," she said, lowering her voice as if saying his name too loudly would summon a three-piece suit that could collapse skyscrapers

I nearly spit out my coffee. What the hell was he doing here!?

"I suppose you want a latte," I quip as I saunter toward him, my own coffee steaming in hand. "You look like you just came from the land of 'No Fun Allowed.'" He doesn't react. Unbelievable.

I can't help it; the pop culture references spill out like the coffee I'm so fiercely loyal to. "You know, Kai, if you ever need to learn how to lighten up, I have an entire binder of quotes from The Office at your disposal," I say with a wink. Somehow, I've become accustomed to his overwhelming silence, like a high-pitched noise in the back of my mind that never quite fades away.

Deep down, there's an inexplicable tension simmering between us. The culmination of shared gripes, therapeutic doses of sarcasm, and what can only be described as the universe's twisted sense of humor. Yes, I've been in his penthouse—he even survived a night with me passed out on his desk, newspapers strewn everywhere like confetti at an awkward birthday party. And yes, being his fake date at that stuffy business bash was an experience I still haven't fully processed.

"Lorelai." His voice cuts through my dizzying thoughts, deep and gravelly, causing my stomach to do a little shimmy. "We need to talk." Oh great, here it comes—he's finally going to drop some earth-shattering revelation, or he'll just spend the next half-hour avoiding my questions like he's on some sort of stealth mission.

"Sure," I say, trying (and failing) to contain my excitement. "I could make some popcorn, cozy up with a blanket, and we can delve into the husk of your crumbling empire. I hope you don't mind me hogging the couch for our intimate little fireside chat." I'm about to drop another obscure reference when I catch the tiniest hint of a smirk—yes, a smirk—on his otherwise stoic face. Now, that's new.

Wait, was that a touch of attraction I sensed? Maybe I'd gotten it all wrong. Maybe the infamous CEO was just a guarded soul hiding a flamboyant heart under those bespoke suits. Or perhaps he was just a complicated puzzle I was determined to solve—even if it meant losing my grip on reality in pursuit of the truth.

"I just need you to understand," he finally says. The way he looks at me makes my heart race. "Archer Security is... intricate."

So, an intricate company led by an intricate man who despises coffee? Gosh, how original. I can't resist the urge to poke fun. "Elaborate, oh mysterious one! Help me to unravel this enigma, and I might even share the secret to brewing the perfect cup of joe."

"No," he says simply, crossing his massive arms. "I need to talk to you about your article."

Ah, the dreaded article. The one where I expose the shoddiness of his company, the security breaches, and the hackers who so lovingly tore apart his empire. I can practically taste my Pulitzer Prize at this point, but there's a little storm brewing deep inside Ky Archer's stormy gray eyes. He's not usually one to bend his stoic shell, but I have a knack for cracking tough nuts—or at least that's my goal.

"Can I offer you some caffeine to get you warmed up to the idea?" I quip, trying to lighten the mood. A silence hangs in the air—an awkward, tempestuous silence filled with tension. Sigh. I'm going to need more coffee to get through this conversation.

"I don't drink coffee, remember?" he deadpans, looking more serious than the state of my GPA in high school—almost comically so.

I roll my eyes like I've just been told that Lego is the new standard of journalism. "Seriously? What are you, a robot? That explains so much." My verbal barrage doesn't seem to phase him. In fact, it's like throwing popcorn at a brick wall and expecting a delightful explosion.

This back-and-forth has become a sport for me. We're like a mismatched pair of tennis rivals at the U.S. Open; it's exhilarating and a little nauseating considering that we're secretly tethered by an electric spark of attraction that I would rather not admit. I never wanted to feel anything for this stoic puzzle of a man, but here we are—one article away from his signing my death warrant and my heart doing somersaults in his presence.

"About the hackers," he shifts, finally bringing some substance to our exchange. "I have new information you need to know before you publish."

I'm hooked. It's like tossing a raw steak to a ravenous tiger. "Oh? Do tell! Did you finally figure out how to use the internet?"He's unfazed; this is his superpower. He could dodge my sarcasm forever and still maintain that air of brooding mystery while I throw pop-culture references that fly right over his head. "I've traced them to a dark web marketplace. If you publish now, it could jeopardize the investigation."

His words hang in the air, heavy and fraught with the gravity of our desperate situation. Of course, I'd find a real reason to work together, despite our incessant banter that undoubtedly skirts the line of actual attraction.

"Are you talking about the dark web hack-the-hackers who broke into your precious vault?" I asked as I swiftly surrendered my usual witty demeanor, letting determination take root in its place. Seriously, who knew the office could get this intense?

He fidgeted slightly; a rare occurrence I could almost interpret as nervousness. "I traced them back to a marketplace. I have information that could help."

Information. The bait that usually makes a journalist's heart race like a kid hurtling through a candy aisle. "You mean you've cracked the code on the baddies who've been decimating your fortress?"

"...Something like that." A hint of irritation flashed across his face, but he continued, "I need you to print this carefully. Lives are at stake."

While he spoke with a severity that could ruin the most trivial of sitcoms, I realized there was a hidden vulnerability under his gruffness. My ever-so-snarky heart fluttered—what was happening here? "Well, bring me that intel, and don't you dare run away from me like you usually do. I'm on to you, Archer."

He stared at me, his dangerous gray eyes locking onto my midnight blue ones. It was as if, for just a moment, the world faded away and became an echo of chaos. Yes, I was still Lorelai Forbes—practically a tornado in heels, rummaging through life for the next caffeine fix and self-deprecating laugh. But this man before me? In this storm of seriousness, I was drawn to the churning sea of his stotic charm like a moth to a flame.

"Let's talk," he said, and suddenly, it wasn't just about the story anymore; it was about peeling back the layers. We were in the midst of unraveling something far greater than a corporate scandal, and I realized maybe, just maybe, we weren't so different after all.