“What’s up?” Vicky steps in the door looking professional and cool in cream-colored slacks and a green shirt that perfectly compliments her red hair. “Hello, Cade.” She looks around the office and adjusts her glasses. “Hey, Becks. Nice work with those little robots today.”
“Future Stepford Wives,” I quip, and she laughs. “Except for Petal.”
A stylish lady in her forties, Vicky Grant and I hit it off my first day, and she’s had my back ever since. We both share a vision of shaking up this football-and-oil-dominated city and shining a light on projects and organizations trying to make a difference . . . pageants possibly included.
“The consultants arrived this afternoon.” Marv pulls our attention back to him. “They gave me the feedback on our six o’clock show.”
My stomach sinks. Corporate sends a pair of “insultants” (as we call them in the newsroom) twice a year to watch our broadcasts and give “constructive feedback,” which essentially consists of ripping the reporters to shreds from the way we dress to how we walk to the word choice in our tags. It’s brutal, and I do not want Cade in here listening to whatever they said about me.
Marv leans forward on his desk, resting on his forearms. Gray eyes lift under his bushy eyebrows. Our gazes meet.
“Okay?” I shift in my chair.
“What other projects do you have in the works, Becks?” He’s back to playing with that pencil, rolling it back and forth in his fingers. “Any outside gigs in the hopper?”
“Outside gigs?” I’m confused. I spend every waking minute at this station, including weekends if there’s breaking news. “I don’t have time for a cat, Marv.”
“Hmmm. Any interest in joining the production staff?” He glances at Vicky, and I do the same.
I can tell she’s caught off-guard, but she covers it. “Er . . . of course, we could use someone like Becks in production. She’s smarter and has more experience than any of our reporters, but—”
“Great! That’s great!” Relief breaks over our boss’s face, and he leans back in his chair as if a decision has been made. “Don’t you think, Cade? You’re in management now.”
My eyes cut to him.
“In sports,” he says. “I don’t have any say over the regular reporters.”
“Still,” Marv continues. “You know what the board wants. You have eyes.”
Dread pools in my gut. “Wait . . .” I can’t hide the panic in my voice as I quickly glance from Cade to Marv. “Did you just take me off reporting? You know I’ve been working toward that weekend anchor chair.”
Cade’s brow lowers, and Marv’s moment of cheer flits away. “The consultants think you might do better behind the camera, rather than in front of it. But don’t worry, it’s not the end—”
“What the fu-hell?” I curb the profanity. He’s still my boss, but I’m on my feet. “Why would they say something like that? They loved my piece on the dinosaur excavation last summer!”
Marv’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. It’s his tell that he’s nervous—which makes me nauseous. “They think we need fresher faces. Someone who’ll appeal to the . . . eighteen to twenty-five age bracket.”
“You have got to be kidding me! Those aren’t the people who watch the news.” I pace around the room, propriety gone.
Cade clears his throat. “Marv, I’m not sure I should be—”
“They’re thinking of the advertisers,” Marv continues. “Viewers don’t want to be scolded by their mothers on the nightly news.”
My brain literally short-circuits, and I can’t decide if I’m more offended by his use of the word scolded or his use of the word mothers. “I’m single! I’m not even dating anyone!”
“Well . . . perhaps you should.”
My jaw drops. He did not just go there. “That’s sexist! My personal life has nothing to do with this job.”
“This is news to me, Marv,” Vicky says, her voice infused with calm. “Maybe we should discuss this in private before we make a decision.”
He shrugs, eyes fixed above my head. The ass can’t even meet my gaze. “Maybe there are some steps you could take to improve your on-camera look. Something around the forehead to look less . . . angry.”
“Botox?” I snap. “Are you saying I need Botox?”
“Now, don’t put words in my mouth.” He rises from his chair, holding out a conciliatory hand. “I didn’t say anything about possible plastic surgery. Did I, Cade?”
“Plastic surgery!” My heart beats faster and my chest rises. I twist the handles on my bag. Shit, I might hyperventilate. “I just turned twenty-eight!”
Cade shifts in his chair, and Marv continues. “Now, Rebecca, even you have to admit you haven’t been yourself lately.” His eyes drift to my straining waistline.
I stiffen, standing straighter and trying to suck in subtly.
“You’ve been with us five years without a break.” He scratches his nearly white goatee. “Maybe a little R&R . . . combined with some good, brisk walks around the park.”
“Are you calling me fat?” My question is just short of a shriek.
Marv looks like he swallowed a goldfish and isn’t sure how it’s going to come out.
Again Vicky attempts to calm the situation. “It’s been a long day. Why don’t we all get some rest?” She takes my upper arm and leads me to the door. “Marv and I will get with Liz over the next few days, and we can talk more about it then.”
“Good idea,” Cade says.
I allow Vicky to lead me to the door, but I’m vibrating with anger and outrage.
“Just breathe,” she says a notch above a whisper once we’re in the hall.
“Oh, sure, quote classic country to me.” I don’t smile. It’s easy for her to say. She can age all she wants in the control booth, but I have to remain eternally twenty-one.
Cade exits Marv’s office and does a sudden U-turn when he sees us. I can’t stop a tiny growl. “He should not have been in that meeting.”
“I agree.” Vicky’s eyes narrow behind her glasses. “I don’t know what Marv is thinking.”
I’m still feeling sick. Production is where you work if you love TV news, but the camera doesn’t love you. “Is he right, Vicky? Do I look like somebody’s overweight, angry mother?”
“Of course not.” She pats my arm. “I’ve got you covered here. Still . . . you could help me help you.”
I halt and meet her gaze head-on. “What are you saying?”
“Stop frowning.” Her eyes travel down and up my body. “Just make some changes on your end. You know . . . little things.”
I grip her forearm. “Be brutal and pretend we aren’t friends. Tell me what to do to stay in front of the camera.”
Releasing a deep sigh, she crosses her arms. “Okay . . . but I’m only saying this because I care. You need to drop at least five pounds—at least. High-def shows everything.”
Looking down, I see the seams straining on the sides of my skirt, and I tighten my lips. It’s true. I’ve let things go a little bit. When my best friend Nancy had lived with me, she’d always been able to whip up my favorite Tex-Mex recipes with half the fat and calories. It had been her specialty—favorite foods with a healthy twist. Now she’s at the Culinary Institute in New York chasing her dream of being on the Food Network, and I’m left with Doritos Locos Tacos from Taco Bell . . . and an additional fifteen pounds.
Of course, there’s also the other thing.
“I guess I’ve been in a funk since James and I broke up . . .” I hope for a little sympathy. “It’s hard to care what you look like naked when the chances of anyone seeing you naked are less than zero.”
“You can increase those chances if you pay attention to your makeup.”
I throw up my hands. “We busted our asses to file that pageant story on time. It was hot as hell in the expo center, and when I realized I’d left my blotting papers in the van, it was too late . . .”
Her expression changes, and my voice trails off. I kn
ow what she’s going to say before she even begins.
“This is a competitive, appearance-driven field, Becks.” She gives my arm a squeeze. “You can’t slack off, even for a month, and expect to move up in the ranks. I’ll buy you a few weeks, but you have got to show that you’re making changes.”
“I know.” I rub my forehead. “You’re right. I know you’re right!”
“Get started tomorrow.” She leaves me at the door and heads back to the control room to prep for the ten o’clock broadcast.
I throw my blazer over my arm and start for the door. A unisex restroom is just at the back exit, and I decide to make a pit stop before heading to my car and getting stuck in late-evening Houston traffic needing to pee.
Flinging the door open, my eyes land on the glorious backside of none other than Captain Sexy himself. He steps away from the toilet, and not only do I get an eyeful of that sexy tush in all its toned and lined greatness, he turns before his slacks are completely over his hips, and I’m treated to a view of his long, thick . . . member. If that’s at ease, what must it look like at attention?
My jaw goes slack, and the horrible meeting is forgotten as my purse plops to the floor. Never in my life have I ever wanted to increase my chances of being seen naked again. Forget being seen—I simply want to be naked all over that . . .
It. Is. Amazing.
Cade
“DON’T YOU KNOW how to knock, Stone?” I finish buckling my belt, hiding my surprise at seeing the sexy blonde bursting in the door like a wild woman.
Her mouth opens, closes, and then opens again. “Your pants were down! I saw . . .” She swallows, her face cardinal red. “I can’t believe you go commando in Armani!”
My lips twitch as I wash my hands and dry them. “It’s called taking a piss, and I usually do it alone. Do you mind giving me some privacy?”
I turn to adjust my tie in the mirror, secretly pleased we have something to distract us from that bullshit meeting Marv pulled me into just now. He’d been dead wrong thinking I’d side with his sorry ass over Stone. I’ve had my eye on her since day one, with her laser focus and her utter disinterest in me. Part of me finds it intriguing—a woman not falling at my feet—while the other side of me is annoyed. I want to get to the bottom of it.
She huffs. “Well, you should have locked the damn door—and stop calling me Stone! It’s ridiculous. Killer.”
My jaw tightens at her reference to my old football nickname. “I see you’ve done your homework. Do you prefer Becks?”
“That’s for close friends only.”
“Rebecca?” I ask silkily, liking how the three syllables roll off my tongue. Our eyes meet in the mirror.
“No.” She crosses her arms.
“Why don’t you like me, Stone?” I arch a brow as I turn around to face her. “What have I ever done to you?”
“For starters, you should not have been in that meeting just now.”
“Agreed.”
I can tell she’s stunned by how fast I answer. Her face shutters, and she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. While her eyes are fixed on the floor, I take a minute to study her uninterrupted. Her rumpled hair is a deep honey color and perfectly complements her pale, creamy skin. She mutters something to herself.
“What was that?”
Clearing her throat, she says, “I said you also remind me of someone. My ex, James. He had the beard thing too.” She waves her fingers toward my face, still not making eye contact.
“It didn’t end well?”
“He was a douche.” Her hair slides over one shoulder as she shrugs. “He left me three months ago for the coffee barista who used to wait on us every morning on the way to work. Now I can’t even go to my favorite coffee place. Did I mention she’s twenty-one? Right up your Killer alley.”
“Are you saying he’s my doppelganger?” That bothers me, imagining Stone in a relationship with my twin, not twin.
She sighs. “The beard and hair is the same, but you’re—”
“Hotter?” I grin.
Her lips purse and she starts to say something but seems to think better of it.
I study her. “The truth is you’ve been mad at me since I started here. Why?”
A flash of determination glints in her irises. “You want to know?”
“I wouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s annoying—no, maddening—that you breeze into the best station in Houston without a journalism degree and suddenly become the sports guy, all because you were a decent quarterback and your dad happens to own half the city.”
I smirk. She’s trying to get under my skin, and I like it, but I can’t let the football slight pass.
“Decent quarterbacks don’t score Super Bowl wins. I’m one of the best.”
She thinks for a moment and nods. “Fair enough. But you insist on having that . . . that hair on your face when everyone else on camera is clean-shaven. Heck, your beard even gets fan mail!” A long exhale comes from her mouth. “Everyone loves you, and you didn’t earn it.”
“That’s it?” I tuck my hands in my pockets.
“Mostly.”
I shrug. “Cool. I can live with that.”
She cocks her head and gives me a quizzical look. “It doesn’t piss you off when I say you’re skating by on your ridiculous beard, past talent, and family name?”
“How do you skate by, Stone? What’s special about you?”
Her lip trembles, and I immediately want to yank the words back. Shit. Usually she’s up for the snarky banter, but after that brutal meeting . . .
I scrub my face. “Er, what I meant was—”
She holds a hand up, seeming to find her equilibrium. “First off, I don’t have to skate by. I have a bachelors in pre-law and a masters in journalism—”
“Couldn’t get into law school?”
“And six years experience in front of a camera—”
“So do I. It’s called the NFL—”
“Get into law school?” she repeats. “As if I want to be stuck in a stuffy office all day reading briefs and clocking billable hours.”
“Good point. I probably wasted my time in law school.”
Her eyes widen. “What? Where?”
“Leland, top of the class.”
“You’re lying.”
“I thought you did your homework?” I smirk.
“Why are you smiling?” she demands with a little huff, and my slow grin widens.
“Because I’m not the dumb jock you think I am. I deserve this job. I’ve worked for it just as hard as you—only in a different way.”
She dips her head. “You’re probably right.” Her voice is defeated.
No. I don’t like this. My jaw grinds, and I’m pissed at Marv for blindsiding her like that. Stone is never this easy to best, especially in a verbal sparring match. I let my eyes cruise over her, scrutinizing her wilted shoulders and the way she holds herself as if she might break, and shit—her face scrunches up.
Wait.
Is she crying?
No, Jesus, please. Not here. Not now. Not with me.
She is. Her shoulders tremble as she sniffs and wipes her nose with her hand.
Fuck me.
Helplessness rolls over me, and my eyes roam around the room. Seeing the tissues on the counter, I grab a handful and press them into her hands.
“Shit, Stone. Did I hurt your feelings?”
She takes them and cleans her face. “God no. It’s not you. Sorry for this. I never cry. It’s been a long, craptastic day.”
“Right.” I pause. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not with you.”
Thank fuck. I don’t know how to talk to women. I’ve spent most of my life in a locker room surrounded by men.
Against my better judgment, I ease closer to her. “Look, I know we don’t know each other well, but I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”
She blinks up at me, emerald eyes glistening with tears. “Of course you are. You
’re Mr. Perfect, right?”
“I’m far from perfect,” I murmur quietly. “In fact, I’m drawn up in a knot right now because you’re crying.”
She smiles a little. “Really?”
I nod.
She gathers herself as she dabs at the mascara under her eyes. I watch her intently. The truth is I’m a bit fascinated by Stone. I blame it on her lips. They’re a deep pink color—naturally—with a lush bottom lip that begs to be tugged in a soft nip.
And her breasts are fucking incredible, perky and full, and I may have pictured my face there a few times—
Don’t touch those tits, I remind myself sharply.
Don’t mess with your co-worker when you’re beginning a whole new career.
Voices echo from out in the hall, bringing home that we’re two people in a one-person bathroom—which could be construed as inappropriate. Marv and I do not see eye to eye, especially when it comes to Stone, and I don’t want to give him any more ammunition. Since the moment the board agreed to give me free reign of the sports department without his influence, he’s been a little bitch.
She’s still unsuccessfully fighting tears, and I rake a hand through my hair and pace around her. Screw it. Feeling uncomfortable, I go with my instincts and walk over to her, wrapping my arms around her loosely. It’s a slight hug, sort of like I’d give a sister if I had one.
“Fuck Marv,” I say gruffly. “Want me to kick his ass?”
Her head is buried in my shoulder and moves from side to side in a no motion.
We huddle together in the small space, and I wait patiently as she takes deep breaths, seeming to calm herself. After a bit, she leans back from me, straightens her shoulders, and looks around the room as if orienting herself. “I’m sorry for barging in on you.”
“It’s nothing,” I say softly. “We can get out of here and have a drink if you want?” My eyes land on her full lips.
She stares at my beard, meets my eyes, and then flushes a deep red again. “No . . . no, I can’t.”
I heave a sigh of relief. I don’t know what crazy part of me even offered that.
She says a hurried goodbye, scoops up her purse, and practically runs out the door. I hear her bump into someone in the hallway and apologize. It sounds like the fresh-from-college reporter Savannah.
The Last Guy Page 2