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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WARNING: Spicy Times Ahead!!!
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I pull up to the gate as the Uber driver follows the directions Chris gave me. The building is strikingly familiar—James's place, without a doubt. I lean forward to instruct the driver to pull up to the security gate. Not that I don't have my own car anymore; after the night I was nearly kidnapped, it just... disappeared. Another little detail James decided to manage, I suppose. It's made Uber my new best friend, though I don't mind since driving always spikes my anxiety.
"Thanks," I say to the driver, giving a quick smile before I step out. A man emerges from the security booth, his demeanor as rigid as his clipped, no-nonsense stride. My gaze catches on the gun nestled in his waistband, my stomach twisting briefly before I look up to meet his eyes.
"Are you lost?" he asks, tone sharp and entirely unwelcoming.
"No, I'm Scarlett Striker. Here to see James," I reply, lifting my chin, trying to ignore the cold biting at my legs through my tights. The security guard's eyes rake over me, lingering just a little too long. He says something in Russian into his sleeve, then just stares, waiting.
It's one of those stares that lingers a beat too long, edging into awkward territory. It's also freezing, and I feel the chill seep into my bones. My coat only just reaches the edge of my skirt, and the low-cut neckline on my top isn't exactly offering warmth. But no way am I letting this guy see me shiver.
Finally, I arch a brow. "Look, are you going to open the gate, or is standing around and freezing the new way to win James's favor?"
The guard narrows his eyes, but there's a flicker of respect—or maybe just annoyance—in his expression.
Just as I'm thinking the cold can't get worse, two more men appear from the shadows of the garage, suits crisp and guns conspicuous. Perfect. They give me the same head-to-toe appraisal, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
"Right this way," one of them says, barely looking at me as he turns on his heel. I glance at the security guy, who's still watching me like I might disintegrate under his stare, then quickly follow the two men, my heels clicking against the concrete as we make our way past the gate and deeper into the garage. The gleam of luxury cars surrounds us, each one meticulously polished, reflecting the cold, sterile lighting overhead. At least I know James is here. No way they'd go through all this trouble otherwise.
