Mr. Always & Forever

by Ashlee Price

  I glance at the clock on the wall, which tells me it’s only twenty minutes after six. That gives me plenty of time to shave, shower and have a heavy meal with at least two cups of coffee.

  “Yeah. Sure. I’ll be there.”

  ~

  At five past ten, I arrive by cab at the headquarters of SSJ Media, twin eleven-story towers in the heart of Boulder’s business district. Each tower’s lower half is clad in brick, like most of the historic homes in this city. The upper halves are covered with glass. It’s likely a metaphor for building on the old to come up with something modern for all of society to look up to.

  I like it.

  Straightening my tie, I go up the brick steps of the first tower and walk past the glass doors. Even the lobby is a mix of brick and glass. A huge brick fireplace dominates one side, and pieces of glass sculpture, including a giant bottle with smaller bottles inside and a mother and child, decorate the other wall. In the middle of the lobby, the Christmas tree still stands surrounded by large, gift-wrapped boxes, its boughs heavy with tinsel and ornaments of all shapes, colors and sizes.

  Well, it’s still only the first week of January, after all.

  I make my way to the reception desk at the other end of the room. The auburn-haired receptionist whose name tag reads Becky gives me my pass—and makes a pass at me. I play along, smiling, complimenting her earrings, then just before she gets any ideas, I head off to the elevators, taking them to the ninth floor.

  Stepping off, I walk down the door-lined corridor until I find the one marked Conference Room 7B. There’s a coat closet beside it, with two coats already hanging there—a pink fur-lined parka and a plaid jacket, size 46.

  I frown. Wasn’t this supposed to be a private meeting?

  I glance at the door.

  Then again, if we’re meeting in a conference room instead of Cassandra’s office, it makes sense that there are a few people involved.

  As I shrug off my gray coat and place it on a hanger, I remember that first phone call from Cassandra Newton, telling me to come to Boulder for a job offer. That was all she said—a job offer. Given the company overhaul and my reputation for getting great stories, I can’t say I’m surprised, but I have no idea what position or for which paper or how much higher the pay is. Hopefully significantly higher.

  But basically I don’t have a clue why I’m here in Boulder, and I’m eager to find out.

  Shutting the coat closet, I enter the conference room, pausing as I see its other occupants—a mustached man in his forties who I recognize as another journalist, Ed Parker, and a raven-haired woman in her twenties, who I’ve never seen before but find absolutely stunning.

  “Oh, shit,” Ed scoffs, turning his chair towards me. “Why the hell are you here?”

  Ah. Pleasant as always.

  I shrug, taking the seat across from him, which is also beside the cover girl. “My guess is as good as yours, Ed.”

  A veteran, they all call him, since he’s been a journalist for The Arizona Daily for nearly twenty years. Too old, I say. The wrinkles under his sleepless eyes and the thick lenses over them are proof of the toll the job is taking on him.

  “What happened to your leg?” I ask, catching a glimpse of his cast from beneath the glass table.

  “Hit-and-run,” Ed answers. “Probably some teenager who was either drunk or texting or both.”

  “Did they catch him?”

  He shakes his head.

  I nod. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry about my leg, sorry the kid didn’t get caught, or sorry he didn’t finish me off?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “What?”

  He leans forward. “Because by the end of this, you’ll be the one who’s sorry you dragged your pretty little ass all the way to Boulder for nothing.”

  “Hey,” the woman beside me scolds. “Let’s all play nice, okay?”

  Ed shakes his head as he sits back. “Unlike pretty boy here, I don’t play.”

  “That’s the second time you called him pretty,” she points out. “Maybe you have a crush on him.”

  Ed cocks his head, eyes furrowed in disgust. “Lady…”

  “Easy, Ed.” I raise a hand. “You don’t want to get your blood pressure up and end up back in the hospital, do you? Besides, the lady was just joking.”

  He frowns.

  “Good one, though,” I whisper at my seatmate.

  She smiles, offering me her hand. “The lady’s name is Tiffany Jordan.”

  “Conner Blake.” I shake her hand. “Dallas Times. Are you sure you’re in the right room? Because you look like you should be getting ready for the runway or something.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Ed roll his.

  “Cute.” Tiffany’s pink-tinted lips curve into a grin as she lets my hand go, tucking hers under her chin. “But I don’t do that anymore. Now, I just blog.”

  My eyebrows crease. “Wait. You were a runway model?”

  “For two years,” she answers. “I did a photo shoot for a magazine once, too.”

  “Ah.” I move my chair closer to hers. “So, you like being in between the pages. How do you like being in between—?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Blake, cut it out,” Ed interrupts.

  I turn to him, shrugging. “What? I was just making friends.”

  “Yeah, right,” he snorts. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “Nope, doesn’t look like it,” I mutter.

  Ed glares.

  “How about you?” Tiffany asks me. “Have you ever done modeling?”

  “Me?” I point to my chest. “Nope.”

  She scratches her chin. “Hmm.”

  Just then, the door opens and a curvy, olive-skinned woman with wavy black hair enters in a long-sleeved green dress.

  “Good morning, everyone,” she greets us, standing at the front of the room where she leans on the table. “I’m Cassandra Newton, the one who called all of you here. I’m so sorry I had to reschedule the meeting on such short notice, but you know this industry. Things can be unpredictable.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Ed remarks, grinning at her.

  Who’s flirting now?

  “You must be Edward Parker,” Cassandra says, turning to him.

  “Please call me Ed.” He offers his hand. “I’d stand, but…”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it.” She shakes his hand. “I’m sorry about your accident.”

  “Hey, I’m just glad I’m alive and here right now, Ms. Newton.”

  “You can call me Cassie,” she tells him. “In fact, everyone here can call me Cassie. We’re all comrades, after all, aren’t we?”

  She turns to Tiffany. “And you must be the famous blogger Tiffany Jordan. I’m a follower.”

  Tiffany stands up and shakes her hand. “Oh, I’m so honored.”

  “And you…”

  I stand up, straightening the edges of my jacket before stretching my hand. “Conner Blake at your service.”

  Cassie smiles as she shakes my hand, her ebony eyes glistening. “I’ve heard a lot of things about you, Conner.”

  I simply return the smile.

  She releases my hand. “And…”

  Cassie stops, frowning. “Aren’t there supposed to be four of you?”

  I glance at the empty chairs.

  She looks at her watch. “Oh, well. I guess we’ll have to start without her.”

  Her?

  “As you all know, a lot of print media have been brought together under the umbrella of SSJ Media,” Cassie starts. “And I am Deputy Head of the News Division.”

  Ed lets out a whistle.

  Cassie clasps her hands together. “I am pleased to announce that the powers that be have decided to launch our own news magazine.”

  My eyebrows go up. “A news magazine?”

  “You know, the kind of magazine where they publish news stories instead of pictures of naked women,” Ed tells me.

  I throw him a pout.

  “Like Time?” Tif
fany asks.

  “Exactly.” Cassie taps her fingers on the table. “Now, you know what that means. New magazine. New staff. New editor-in-chief.” She straightens up. “And one of you could be…”

  Suddenly, the door opens and a woman in a knitted white sweater and black pants enters the room.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she mutters as she takes off her bonnet, revealing a head of ash-blonde hair. “I was…”

  She stops, her blue eyes growing wider than her mouth as they recognize my own dark brown ones from across the table. Her face turns pale, as if she’s seen a monster from her nightmares, which I probably am.

  I sit up, grinning at her as I wave my hand. “Hello, Ingrid.”

  Chapter Two

  Ingrid

  Conner Blake. In the flesh. In Boulder. Right here in this very room.

  I close my mouth, drawing a deep breath as I clutch the handle of my purse.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  “You know each other?” the woman in front of the room, who I’m guessing is Cassandra Newton, asks.

  “No,” I answer at the same time that Conner says yes.

  The man with the glasses, who I recognize as Ed Parker, chuckles. “Oh, Blake, what did you do this time? Break this poor girl’s heart?”

  “No,” I protest quickly, maybe too quickly. “Blake, you say? On second thought, I think I’ve heard of you.”

  “Come to think of it, didn’t you used to work for The Dallas Times?” Cassandra asks.

  “Yes,” I answer, sitting down. “But it was a long time ago.”

  Six years ago, to be exact. Frankly, I never thought I’d see him again. I hoped I never would.

  “Not that long,” Conner contradicts. “I remember you as if it were yesterday.”

  I roll my eyes. Once a jerk, always a jerk.

  “Well, take a seat, Ingrid,” Cassandra tells me. “For those of you who don’t know, Ingrid Halfield is from The Colorado Chronicler.”

  I pull out the chair closest to me, behind Ed.

  “Tiffany,” the woman across from me introduces herself, offering her hand.

  I shake it, narrowing my eyes at her as I try to remember where I’ve seen her. Ah, yes. That famous fashion blog. They call her the woman who can never go wrong with fashion.

  “I’ve read a few of your articles,” I whisper. “They were helpful.”

  She smiles. “Thank you.”

  Cassandra speaks. “Now, as I was saying, SSJ Media is launching a news magazine. We’ll be doing features that will appeal to a wide range of demographics, and we’re looking for an editor-in-chief.”

  My heart skips. Editor-in-chief? Of a news magazine?

  That means a higher-paying job, which I desperately need. And a desk job, which I need just as much, what with all my other responsibilities.

  “As you may have already guessed, we’ll be choosing from the four of you,” Cassandra continues. “Yes, we could have chosen one of the other editors-in-chief, but we decided we want someone new. Plus, we chose you all for specific reasons—Conner, for your tenacity and hard work…”

  Ed snorts before I can.

  “Tiffany, for your creativity and understanding of what people want, especially young people. Ingrid, for the passion you have for your craft and your excellent writing skills…”

  I nod, smiling.

  “And Ed, for your experience, and well, because we know this accident makes it harder for you to be a reporter. Maybe it’s about time you sit behind a desk.”

  “So it’s out of pity?” Ed asks.

  “Not at all.” Cassandra shakes her head. “You are the most experienced person here, and you’ve done a lot for this company.”

  “And how will the winner be chosen?” Tiffany asks. “I mean, the editor-in-chief for this magazine.”

  “Good question.” Cassandra walks to the window. “We decided that we’ll start with blank slates and just give each of you the same test. Whoever does best at this test will get the job.”

  “And what will this test be?” Conner asks, swiveling his chair.

  Cassandra turns to us. “You will all be tested at what you’re best at, of course—writing. Each of you will have to write a story.”

  Ed chuckles. “That’s way too easy.”

  “What story?” I ask.

  “You’ll have to impress us by writing a piece about the best love story you can find,” Cassandra informs us. “A real love story, of course. No Romeo and Juliet or Edward and Bella here.”

  “A real love story?” Conner asks.

  “It has to be new,” Cassandra says. “It has to be genuine. It has to be powerful and of course, inspiring, moving.”

  “Unbelievable.” Ed shakes his head. “You want me to write a cheesy article?”

  “If you want the job, yes,” Cassandra tells him, holding her chin high. “Any more problems? Tiffany?”

  Tiffany shakes her head.

  “Ingrid?”

  “None,” I tell her. “I think it’s a good assignment, actually. I look forward to it.”

  “Great,” Cassandra approves.

  “Although, of course, Mr. Blake might have a problem,” I add.

  Conner turns to me with raised eyebrows.

  “You see, I believe this kind of story requires heart, and I don’t think Mr. Blake has one.”

  Ed feigns getting shot. “Ouch.”

  “You seem to know Mr. Blake better than you said,” Cassandra says. “Well, I’m sure he’ll manage. Won’t you, Conner?”

  Conner nods. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my best.”

  To what? Sleep with women to get a lead? Sweet talk women into spilling their stories? Or steal someone else’s story, maybe?

  “Careful he doesn’t steal your stories,” I warn under my breath.

  Conner’s eyes grow wide.

  “What was that, Ingrid?” Cassandra asks.

  I put on a smile as I sit back. “Nothing.”

  “Well, that’s it then.” Cassandra sits down. “Deadline is two days before Valentine’s Day. Come to my office, hand your stories to me in person and in the next twenty-four hours, you’ll know who gets the job. In the meantime, Ed, Ingrid, Conner, you don’t have to do your usual work. We want to be sure you can give this the best you’ve got. You’ll still get paid, of course.”

  I blink in disbelief. “Really?”

  “And Tiffany, just tell us how much you earn a month and we’ll write you a check.”

  “Oh, no thanks.” She shakes her head. “I need to keep my blog updated. Don’t worry. I’ll still give this my best shot.”

  “Fair enough,” Cassandra says. “Any more questions?”

  I shake my head. “None.”

  “Well, the clock is ticking. Your story’s waiting. Go find it.”

  I pick up my purse, heading out the door first. Grabbing my black coat, I put it on while walking to the elevators. I want to be out of the building before Conner catches up to me.

  No such luck.

  “Hey.” Conner runs after me. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “You’ll forgive me if the feeling isn’t mutual,” I tell him without looking at him, walking faster.

  “You look great.”

  I snort. I’m well aware I’ve gained weight and lost a lot of sleep in the past six years.

  “So, are you living here in Boulder now? Is this where you went after you left Dallas?”

  I stop, taking a deep breath before turning to face him. “What do you want, Con—?”

  The moment my eyes meet his, though, my breath gets stolen, my words fading.

  How can he still be so damn good-looking after all these years?

  “I’m just really glad to see you,” he says, those chestnut brown eyes of his gleaming with warmth. “And I wanted to say I’m sorry about what happened before. I never did get the chance to say that.”

  At the mention of that, my temper simmers again and I cross my arms over my chest.

&n
bsp; “Oh, really? You’re sorry you used me?”

  He frowns. “I thought you’d forgotten all about it.”

  “I’ve forgotten all about you, not all about it.”

  “Are you sure?” He steps forward, eyes gazing into mine, challenging. “Because that’s not what I think.”

  I look away, stepping back with my fists clenched at my sides. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

  “I’m sorry, Ingrid.” He reaches for my hand.

  I pull it away. “Wow. You almost sound like you mean it.”

  “I do.”

  “And why apologize now, huh?” I push him back. “Because you want to sleep with me again? Because you want to use me again?”

  “Because I don’t want you to hate me.”

  I snort. “Yeah, right. I should have known Conner Blake can’t stand to be hated.”

  He reaches for my hand again. “Ingrid…”

  Again, I pull away, raising it. “Do us a favor, Conner, and just stop, okay? Just leave me alone. I…”

  My phone rings, interrupting my train of thought. I fish it out of my purse, glancing at the screen before answering the call.

  “Ms. Potter? Is Alexa okay?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Halfield, but she’s been taken to the hospital. She just wouldn’t stop throwing up.”

  My heart stops. “Hospital?”

  “Yes. She’s at the Children’s Hospital,” Alexa’s teacher tells me.

  “Alright. I’m on my way there.”

  Ending the call, I toss my phone back into my purse and rush towards the elevator, sending up a prayer as my heart pounds in fear.

  Please let Alexa be alright.

  ~

  “Alexa is suffering from a case of acute food poisoning,” Dr. Williams explains to me as soon as I reach her room at the hospital. “Dehydration was already setting in, so we decided to put her on IV fluids right away.”

  “Food poisoning?” I give the doctor a puzzled look. “From what?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us,” she says. “How long has she been having diarrhea? How long has she been vomiting? Can you think of anything she ate that might have caused this?”

  “No.” I shake my head even as I try to remember the past few days. “I can’t think of anything she ate that was unusual. And she only threw up once last night. She said her stomach hurt this morning, but she said she was well enough to go to school.”