The Dirty Truth

Those articles take me seven days, minimum. And that’s if I’m hyperfocused—which I haven’t been as of late.

“Can I ask what you didn’t like about this one? Maybe I can tweak it to fit what you’re wanting?” I slide my pen behind my ear and hug my notebook against my chest. I’m sure I look like a timid schoolgirl, but standing in this man’s presence makes me overly aware of every inch of my body, thus making it impossible to stand still.

West shrugs. “I hated every word of it.”

No one’s ever said they hated my work before—not even my Honest-with-a-capital-H editor. Never in five years have I had to rewrite anything at zero hour. And with my tenure in this role, I understand the expectations of both our loyal readers and the man who signs my paycheck.

At least I thought I did.

Glaring at his phone, he taps out another quick text before waving me off. “Just . . . send me something fresh by eight a.m. tomorrow, and we’ll be good.”

Shoving his phone into the interior pocket of his midnight-black suit jacket, he heads for the double doors, giving them a punishing shove.

“Wait,” I call after him before following in step. “Any particular topic you want?”

“I pay you to come up with the ideas, Napier. Not the other way around.” West exhales his words in one irritated breath, and I hardly have time to process the fact that he knows my last name. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

The article I wrote last week was for our upcoming June issue, and it was titled “The Dirty Truth about Active-Duty Dating.” Tom called it sharp and uplifting—a way to give hope to those overseas. I packed it full of flirty, sexy anecdotes from people I know who’ve dated someone stationed overseas or on base. I even took it a step further and outlined inventive and romantic care package ideas. Not only that, but I filled a sidebar with a list of highly touted long-distance-dating apps with generous coupon codes for active-duty service members.

I didn’t just go above; I went beyond.

I wanted to come back with a splash, to prove I still had it despite my two-month absence.

I’m not sure what West could’ve possibly hated about any of that. The man ships tens of thousands of magazines each month to various troops as his way of thanking them for their service, and there was nothing controversial or remotely offensive about my write-up.

Lifting his phone to his ear, West takes a call and leaves me in his leather-and-cedarwood-scented dust before I can muster another hesitation.

Dazed, I pace back to my office.

After locking my door, I plant myself at my desk and stare at a blank Word doc for the better part of an hour.

I don’t know what I’m going to write, but I do know one thing: West Maxwell is the worst.

CHAPTER TWO

ELLE

“Whoa. What are you still doing up?” My roommate, Indie, shuffles past my room at 3:00 a.m. Rubbing her eyes, she makes her way to my bed and collapses next to me in a yawning heap.

“Searching my soul for the answers to life’s big questions.” I close my laptop lid and reach for another Dove white chocolate. Unwrapping its tinfoil, I read off the message inside. “‘Don’t settle for a spark . . . light a fire instead.’”

“That’s a good one. You should hang on to it.” She reaches over me, helping herself to the half-consumed bag on my nightstand. “What are you really doing, though?”

Indie’s always been an insomniac. As a freelance graphic designer, she sets her own hours. And as a creative type, she lets her muse dictate those hours. It’s not unusual to both hear and smell her making grilled cheese at 4:00 a.m. or to catch her dancing in the living room at midnight, earbuds jammed in her ears. It never used to be an issue, as I typically sleep like a rock the second my head hits the pillow, but tonight I’m pulling an all-nighter to meet Maxwell’s 8:00 a.m. deadline. No amount of silence would make a difference.

“I’ve never seen you up this late.” She turns onto her side, head propped on her hand. “Ever.”

“Maxwell didn’t like the article I turned in last week. He informed me today that he wants a new one.” I exhale a slow breath that does nothing to calm the nerves that have been on red alert since that fateful meeting.

“When’s it due?” She lifts a brow.

“In five hours.”

Her freckled nose wrinkles. “Can you do that?”

I lift a shoulder. “I don’t have a choice.”

“What’s wrong with the one you gave them?”

“Million-dollar question, Indie,” I say, settling back against my headboard. “Million-dollar freaking question.”

“What if you say no?”

My mouth coils with amusement at the thought. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“So what are you going to write about, then?”