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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After that kiss with James, my mind is a hurricane of confusion. I've also found myself spiraling down an endless rabbit hole, obsessively searching for any information on this Natalia woman. The mystery gnaws at me, even though I know it shouldn't. James isn't mine, I remind myself, but the thought doesn't ease the scowl that creeps onto my face. I take a sip of my coffee, the bitterness doing little to calm my nerves, and refocus on my current task—digging into Enrique Gomez's whereabouts. If he's in Seattle, surely he'd be involved in the new center for his charity. Maybe I should pay it a visit.
The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts, and I quickly close the tabs on my computer, hiding the evidence of my fruitless search for Natalia. My eyes dart up as Elizabeth strolls into the kitchen, looking far from her usual polished self. She moves with a sluggishness that's unlike her, casually grabbing eggs and orange juice from the fridge. I take another sip of my coffee, setting the mug down on the kitchen island with a loud clank, the sound cutting through the silence like a knife. Elizabeth jumps slightly and spins around to face me.
"Oh, good morning," she mumbles, her voice lacking its usual energy.
I raise an eyebrow, taking in her disheveled appearance. "Oh, that's not a happy good morning," I point out, my tone laced with concern. I was expecting her to waltz in and spill all the details about Paris, but something's clearly off. She sets two eggs in a pot of water and turns on the stove, her movements almost robotic.
"I'm just on Paris time," she says, but she avoids meeting my eyes, and I know there's more to it than just jet lag.
I furrow my brows, leaning forward slightly. "Spill the details, Elizabeth. I've been waiting five days for this," I prod, trying to coax the story out of her. There's a pause, and she lets out a sigh, her shoulders slumping as she pulls out a bagel and puts the carton of eggs away.
"It was beautiful, it was... everything," she says, but there's a heaviness in her voice that doesn't match the words. She pours herself a glass of orange juice with a huff, her actions almost mechanical. I take another sip of my coffee, watching her closely, trying to figure out what's really going on.
"Everything?" I press, my curiosity piqued. Elizabeth is usually bubbling with excitement after a trip, especially one as romantic as Paris, but today, she seems drained, like the city of love has dimmed something in her.
"Yeah, everything," she repeats, but it's clear she's holding something back. She tears her bagel in half with more force than necessary, her mind clearly elsewhere.
I take a deep breath, deciding to push a little harder. "Elizabeth, you're not fooling anyone. What happened? Was it Chris? Did something go wrong?" My voice softens, hoping she'll open up.
Elizabeth presses her lips into a thin line, hesitating. Finally, she blurts out, "Chris and I... kissed." Her voice is shaky, almost like she can't believe it herself.
