Meet Scarlett Striker, a bold and quirky journalist for the Seattle Times. She's fun, confident, sassy, and just the right amount of weird. Scarlett is determined to rise to the top, no matter what it takes.
When her boss offers a golden opportunity...
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"Scarlett!" Eva's voice snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts. I look up, blinking, to see her wide-eyed and concerned.
"What?" I ask, trying to sound casual, but the edge in my voice gives me away.
"What's going on with you lately? You've been so distracted."
"Oh, nothing," I say, but it's everything. I can't concentrate. All I can think about is James, the masquerade ball, his offer, and the fact that Devin won't even speak to me.
Why couldn't James just keep his mouth shut? Or, better yet, leave me alone?
"Is it about James?" Eva asks, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. I chuckle nervously, trying to play it off.
"It's kind of everything," I admit, unable to lie convincingly.
"Like Devin not speaking to you?" she probes, and I can't help the bitterness that creeps into my voice.
"Can you blame him?" I ask, and she looks away, not meeting my gaze.
"I know, I know," I say, throwing up my hands. "I'm a horrible person, and he should hate me."
"No, it's not that," Eva counters, shaking her head. "I just think you should try to work things out with him."
"I would, if he'd actually show up to work," I snap, frustrated. Eva bites her lip, looking like she's choosing her next words carefully.
"He's sick?" she asks, but it comes out like a question, not a statement. I let out a sarcastic laugh.
"No, Eva. He's avoiding me," I say flatly.
"Okay, but... he was humiliated, Scarlett. He needs time."
"Humiliated? Nothing even happened between James and me! We were just discussing a deal," I explain, though it sounds weak even to my own ears.
"Just explain it to him," Eva insists, but I groan and lay my head on my desk, feeling utterly defeated. I already tried that, and it got me nowhere.
My phone rings, the sound slicing through the heavy air between us. I glance at the screen—unknown number.
"Hold on, Eva," I say, grabbing the phone with a mix of hope and dread, praying it's not James.
"Hello?"
"Miss Striker?" Elizabeth's voice comes through the line, all business.
"Elizabeth?" I ask, thrown off by her formal tone.
"This is Elizabeth Casana, Mr. Bryant's assistant. I'm calling to schedule your interview," she says, her voice so professional it makes me roll my eyes.
"Any day works for me," I say, trying to keep it light. Then, unable to resist, I add, "Are we not going to talk about the fact you stayed over at Chris's place?"
