“Oh, so that’s where the drama comes from. You’re jealous because she beat you for the editor position at Évoque.”

Oh, Richard, if only you knew work is not an envy trigger here. Still, better than you knowing the truth.

“Aurora didn’t beat me, she cheated. Her mother bought the position for her.”

“So she’s from a rich, privileged family and she takes advantage. Wouldn’t you do the same?”

“Not if my family actually stole money by not paying taxes. How dare they show their faces at a fund-raising? They must enjoy pretending to be generous to the community while they’re ripping everyone off instead. All that extra cash has to go somewhere… right?”

Richard chastises me with a reproachful expression. “That’s a very serious accusation to make.”

“Not an accusation, a fact.”

“You’ve proof?”

“There were rumors at Évoque about a story on Rebecca Vanderbilt that got killed before publication.”

“Are we talking office gossip or real facts?”

“A rumor like that wouldn’t spread for no reason.”

“Why would the magazine kill the story?”

“Too serious for our type of publication and Maison Vanderbilt is a big cross-magazine advertiser at Northwestern. Even more now after they had to shop for Aurora’s promotion.”

“Is the reporter who had the lead interested in selling it elsewhere?”

“She can’t freelance while working at Évoque. Why? I don’t see you running a story about dear Aurora’s mommy.”

“If Rebecca Vanderbilt is cooking her books, you’re damn right I want to run the story.”

I finally relax my pout. “Are you serious?”

“Bring me proof and I’ll publish the article.”

“How am I supposed to prove anything? I’m not a reporter. I never did investigative journalism, I wouldn’t know where to start. And finance isn’t my strong suit.”

“But you’re smart, bet you can figure a way.”

“For real? You’re not just saying this?”

“If you can get the evidence, the story is a go.”

“Deal.”

We shake hands, and I regret the physical contact immediately. Richard holds my hand, and my gaze, a second longer than necessary, and I can’t help but enjoy the sensation.

Arrrgh, this man will be the death of me.

***

That night I’m brooding in solitude on the couch when the apartment door opens and Nikki walks in with Chevron in tow.

“Hey, you’re back.” My roomie smiles. “How was Hollywood?”

“A disaster.”

“That good, huh?”

“Imagine the worst thing that ever happened to you. It was worse.”

Nikki releases Chevron’s leash and they sit down and jump, respectively, onto the cushions next to me. “Better or worse than Bridget Jones going to the house party in the bunny costume?”

“Worse: I was humiliated.”

“Better or worse than when Ross said ‘we were on a break’?”

“Worse.”

“Better or worse than when Jon Snow died on Game of Thrones?”