“The god is here,” Aaron whispers.
I glance up. “Who?”
“Tristan Miles,” he whispers.
I spy over the screening above my desk as he talks to the manager of the floor, Rebecca.
He’s wearing a pin-striped navy suit, his brown wavy hair is in just-fucked perfection, and he has this dreamy smile on his face as he talks. He has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen and huge dimples.
“She’s giggling like a schoolgirl.” Aaron frowns.
“He’s never on this level,” Molly says.
“What do you reckon he’s doing here?” Aaron whispers as his eyes stay glued to the fine specimen.
“His job,” I reply flatly. “He does work here, you know.”
The more I think about it, the more I know I’ve romanticized this whole Jameson Miles thing. He doesn’t like me—he’s just horny, and there’s a big difference. He’s probably had sex with five women since Friday night when I spoke to him. I haven’t heard from him since, and I don’t want to either.
I didn’t leave Robbie because Jameson told me to; I left Robbie because he’d stopped putting in any effort. If Jameson knows we broke up, he’s going to assume it’s because I want to sleep with him . . . and I don’t.
I really don’t. Stupid men.
I’m not telling my coworkers that we broke up. I don’t want to make a fanfare of it. I want to take my time to get my head around it.
Tristan Miles says something, and Rebecca laughs. Then he disappears into the elevator, and we all get back to work.
I struggle with my umbrella as I trudge down the pavement in the rain. New York isn’t as dreamy in the wet. I grab the Gazette while I’m waiting for the lights to change and stuff it in my bag. I’ll read this while I wait for my coffee. My phone rings.
“Hello, Emily Foster speaking,” I answer as I power walk among the crowd.
“Hello, Emily,” a familiar voice says.
I frown, unable to place who it is. “Who’s speaking, please?”
“This is Marjorie. We spoke yesterday.”
Oh shit—the graffiti lady. “Oh yes, hello, Marjorie. It’s a bad line, and I couldn’t hear you properly,” I lie.
“It’s Danny Rupert,” she replies.
“I’m sorry?” I frown.
“My neighbor’s name is Danny Rupert. I couldn’t remember it yesterday.”
I screw up my face and cringe. Oh God. I hope it hasn’t gone to print. I completely forgot to go back to it. Panic begins to swirl in my stomach.
Shit.
“I think the story has already gone to print, Marjorie. I’m so sorry I didn’t recheck it with you.”
“Oh, that’s okay, dear. It doesn’t matter—no harm done. I felt foolish being unable to remember, and I wanted to call you.”
My stomach rolls. It does matter—you don’t get names wrong in a story. Reporting 101.
Fuck.
I puff air into my cheeks as disappointment in myself runs through me. Damn it. This is not a little mistake; it’s a major fuckup. “Thanks for the call, Marjorie. I’ll call you when I get into the office and let you know when it’s running.” With any luck it won’t be until tomorrow, and I will have time to change it.
I hang up and internally kick myself. Damn it. Focus.
I walk into the café opposite the Miles Media building and order my coffee. I drag the paper out of my bag and slam it onto the table.
I am not going to hold on to this job with sloppy mistakes like that. I’m so annoyed at myself.
I flick through the paper, and then something catches my eye.
Satanic Graffiti in New York
A spate of bizarre graffiti attacks on houses in the West Village has the residents running scared. Marjorie Bishop’s house has been graffitied three times, and the police are refusing to take action. Another resident, Robert Day Daniels, has been suffering too.
I frown as I read the story. What?
Marjorie said she didn’t tell anyone about this other than me. I read it again and again. It quotes my story almost word for word, and each time I get more confused.
Did she tell another reporter the same wrong name? I take out my phone and dial her number, and she answers on the first ring. “Hello, Marjorie, this is Emily Foster.”
“Oh hello, dear; that was quick.”
“Marjorie, did you speak to anyone else from another paper about this graffiti story?”
“No, dear.”
“You haven’t told anyone?” I frown.