“So? What do you think?” Chester Godwin opened his rail-thin arms wide, as if offering the entirety of the room to Hannah. “You're the expert here, so you tell me. Are we doing the setup right, or are we royally screwing the pooch on this?”
“Boss, this is incredible. Better than I expected.” It was true. Hannah hadn't had a lot of expectations when her editor pounced on her the moment she’d walked into work, then dragged her upstairs to see Chicago Pulse’s new podcast studio. Housed in a large suite that smelled of sawdust and fresh paint, she took in the pair of ergonomic chairs pulled up to a glass and chrome desk with two boom mikes attached. Fancy acoustic tiling on the wall directly behind the seating area drew the eye, but she was more interested in the monitors covering the table, along with a complicated-looking soundboard that put hers to shame.
“There's going to be a bit of a learning curve here,” she remarked as she slid into one of the seats, already reaching for the soundboard. “Every chance I get, I'm gonna pop up here to play with this bad boy. I want to be perfect by the time the new podcast goes live.”
“Well, well, well.” Chester sat in the other chair and watched her with sharp eyes. “You know what that sounds like? It sounds like you're ready to leave the safety of the pop-culture society columns and branch out into something new.”
“Well,” she shrugged, “just look at this place. You're obviously getting ready to put someone’s butt in this chair and launch this new venture. Might as well be me.”
“So is that a yes?”
“I have a question,” she said instead of answering. “This is going to sound a little strange and a lot personal, but I have to ask because you're a man and I trust your opinions.”
He waited, then raised a brow when she didn't continue. “Okay...?”
Taking a deep breath, she dived in. “You know the job that I do better than anyone, so... how would you feel if your significant other wrote for the society column?”
“I don't date journalists. They all think they know everything.”
Ugh. “Accurate statement, but that's not what I'm asking.”
“I know, and I can see where this is heading,” he added when she made another sound of disgust. “What you’re really wanting is insight on how a man in your life might feel about your job. Here's a novel thought—have you considered just asking him?”
“Oh, there's no need to ask how Dalton feels about the subject,” she said in a tone that even to her ears sounded like a snarl. “The man has no qualms when it comes to sharing exactly how he feels about my job here at the paper.”
“How does he feel?”
“Like I'm a frivolous, airheaded party girl who's begging for trouble every time I go on assignment.” Then she loosed a short breath and shook her head. “No, that's not exactly true, or fair. The fact is, Dalton and I met the night I got hit with a roofie. He saw everything that happened to me up close and personal.”
Chester winced. “Yikes.”
Her heart sank like a stone. “That sums it up perfectly, I guess.”
“There’s no guessing about it, Hannah. I don’t know if you know this, but first impressions are an actual thing, and I’m not just talking about people. I’m talking about the careers we choose to do. You were just doing your job that night, covering a nightclub opening, something you’ve done a thousand times before without mishap—”
“Exactly,” she cut in, scowling. “Thank you for proving my point.”
“But,” he went on, giving her a meaningful look, “that night was different, because it nearly ended in tragedy. That's the lens through which he views your job.”
“But it didn’t end in tragedy. Sure, it rocked my cage a bit, and I’m definitely happy to transition out of the party scene and into the podcast. But I’m still here, and I’m fine.”
“Doesn’t matter,” came the unruffled reply. “Not to him, anyway. If I were in his shoes I wouldn't be able to get that first impression of your job out of my head, no matter how many times you might reassure me that it was a once-in-a-lifetime deal.”
That made sense, but... “If you were in that position, would you tell your significant other that you don’t want her to do the job she loves?”
“Is that what he told you?”
“He made it abundantly clear he wants me out of the party scene.”
“Okay, I'm confused.” Chester’s brows pulled together, and he stared at her as if she were speaking in another language. “You are out of the party scene now, aren’t you? Didn’t you just tell me you're transitioning from the society gig to the podcast, or did I misunderstand you?”
She shook her head. “You understood me perfectly.”
“So I don't understand what the problem is. You won't be hitting parties on a nightly basis anymore.”
“That's beside the point.”
“Not to mention,” he went on as if she hadn't spoken, “since you were dosed you've been less than enthusiastic about hitting the party scene. I know that, and so do you.”
So she’d been that obvious, had she? “Again, beside the point.”
“I don't see how. Unless I don't understand what your actual point is.”