Nodding feverishly and setting my paper cup down, I walk over to her. “Twice for my high school paper. One was a teacher,and the other was a lunch lady.” I cringe, and so does Amelia, at the examples I used, but I have a gut feeling that Samantha not being here is fate. Fate can be a bitch sometimes, but she might be throwing me a bone to make up for my past.
“I don’t know?—”
“I can do this. Give me one chance to prove myself. I know I can do this.”
She narrows her eyes, studying me as I try to keep my determined expression, while my heart feels like it’s about to fall out of my asshole from how hard it’s pounding.
My editor looks away and saunters to the other side of her desk. I glance at Oliver, who shrugs. A second later, Amelia hands me a thin folder. “Those are some of the interview questions Samantha came up with. Stick to them but dig deeper. Give me something good. He’s an important person, Emma, and people barely know anything about him.” My eyes widen as I see no sign of any research notes. “If Oliver or Samantha had done their job properly, I’d also have her research notes. Unfortunately, all I have are the questions that she drafted up.”
My heart beats faster for an entirely different reason. I can’t believe I finally get to do something other than cover local news. If she were my friend, I’d be screeching and jumping, but I keep my composure. I don’t mind doing the research on my own, and I still have some time. “I won’t let you down.”
She laughs humorlessly. “Oh, I know you won’t. This is your one chance, Ms. Haywood.”
I keep nodding. “You got it. I’ll look into him now.”
“Nope,” Amelia says, stopping me short.
“Boss?” I ask, confused.
She smiles impatiently. “The interview’s in forty minutes, and it’s across campus where the culinary arts building is. Do you have a car?”
I take a sharp breath. “I don’t drive.” Growing up in Manhattan, I never felt it necessary, though I eventually want to learn. I do have to admit that I’m a bit of a passenger princess.
“I can give her a ride,” Ben says from behind me.
I sag in relief for a moment. I’ll have time to look him up on my phone in the car. Then Amelia opens her mouth again. “I need everyone here to stay and finish the final edits for the printed issue.” She gives me one last look, and I can see the slight sympathy behind her hard mask. “I’d leave now if I were you.”
She’s right. I’ll have to run to get there. It’s a half-hour walk, and I have to deal with the fact that I’m going in completely blind.
“Heels? Today is not your lucky day.” I look up at Oliver, who sounds all too condescending for a guy who royally fucked up with his editor.
“It’s a good thing I’ve been wearing them since I was thirteen, then.” I rush to my desk and grab my purse, not bothering to fix anything. “When do you need it written by?” I ask her quickly.
She smiles slightly. “Tuesday morning.”
Dipping my chin, I rush to the door and down the hall, all the while trying to hold on to the folder and my phone for dear life. I unlock my phone and see a page that offers an overview of Professor Grayson Adam Hayes’s achievements and career.
This is a fun way to start the article.
Thirty-five minutes later,I enter the culinary arts building, gasping and sweating. My curtain bangs cling to my face, and I know that my waterproof makeup—although great—can’t hide the droplets of sweat on my nose and forehead.
Looking at the sign near the elevator, I see the floor number for the professors’ offices. The doors open, and I enter, dumping the folder in my hand onto the floor, and snatch my compact mirror from my purse, along with the small makeup bag I brought.
Taking a quick look, I find my mascara and eyeshadow in perfect place, but my face is sweaty and greasy. And as I suspected, some hairs are frizzy on the top because my hair tie began to loosen up on the run here.
My Chanel blotting papers absorb most of the unwanted shine on my face as my heart races with each beep on the way to the tenth floor. I reach the eighth floor with two minutes to spare and decide to retie my hair and call it a day. I look professional enough for a professor, but from what I read, he’s no ordinary professor. He’s wealthy and well-known for his craft. There were plenty of pictures of his dishes online, but none of the man. His age also wasn’t anywhere, only an estimate, anywhere from twenty-nine to forty-five. He started from the bottom and worked his way up. Still, the article I managed to skim was sparse.
I don’t like not being in the know or being unprepared. All it does is heighten my anxiety.
The doors open, and I scramble to grab the folder and step out into the hall. I jog lightly, looking left and right, my heels barely making a sound against the carpeting. That’s when I see a gold plaque with “Grayson Adam Hayes,” and I stop so abruptly that the papers fall.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” I bend down and quickly collect them. “It’s fine. Just take a deep breath, and everything will be okay.”
Standing back up, I close my eyes, open my mouth, and breathe in and out slowly. I put on my professional smile and knock on the door.
“Come in,” a deep, muffled voice says.
Turning the knob, I step into the office where Grayson Hayes has his back toward me.
