CHAPTER ONE
Brinton Shaw succumbed to the inevitable: she wasn’t getting out of this hellhole alive. Figuratively speaking, anyway.
She tightened her grip on the cold metal railing in vain. Beneath her, the red carpet stretched another ten feet longer each time she exhaled.
Crowds were her biggest trigger. Yet, there she was, one of hundreds of journalists tightly packed like sardines inside a bullpen.
Brinton couldn’t remember when the electric pulses started shooting up her arms and down her legs. Or, when she could no longer hear her own thoughts over the barricade of screeching fans.
She was, however, certain about this: the Grammy Awards were the absolute worst fucking place to have a panic attack.
Usually, she fought like hell to hide hers from everyone—and especially at work. But as the flashing cameras and swinging microphones gave her tunnel vision, there was nowhere to run.
Brinton’s videographer, Lucero, was positioned with his camera and tripod four feet away. “You don’t look so good,” he offered, tilting his bald head.
Built like a pro wrestler, he almost exclusively scowled unless asked about his new favorite K Pop group. “Kinda like…a hunk of wilting brie in a heatwave.”
Coincidentally, Brinton’s insides felt the same way.
Shifting in her black-heeled combat boots, she forced a laugh. “I’m good.”
You have worked so hard to get here,just—please. Hold it together.
She had to. In mere moments, she needed to smile and competently deliver the first of the night’s red carpet interviews. There was zero margin for error.
When Rich, herLandmarkeditor, assigned Brinton to cover the Grammys red carpet, it was the biggest opportunity of her career. It got her closer to finally writing a cover story forLandmark, the pretentious but respected magazine she worked for in New York City.
In four years, she was the onlyLandmarkstaff writer who hadn’t been asked to pitch a cover story. To her, this wouldn’t have stood out so prominently if, year after year, she hadn’t been the only Black person on staff.
The subtext popped out like a fresh BBL: in corporate America, diversity and inclusion were only valuable on paper. This was kindling for Brinton’s imposter syndrome. Hot and husky on the back of her neck, it admonished that she should begratefulto bechosen.
She was one of thegoodones.
Brinton had no choice but to keep her head down and work harder. Eventually, she would prove herself. Today was that day.
“You got Jamie Crawford Jr. headed straight to you,” Lucero said, now behind the camera.
“Country music guy—I got it,” Brinton answered, dragging her sticky palms down her silky gold wrap dress.
She swished her waist-length knotless braids off her right shoulder. Heat spread across her cocoa-brown cheeks. “This one will be easy.”
If her brain didn’t feel like a raw egg cracked onto a hot skillet, this might have been true. For days, she had memorized a dictionary’s worth of facts about artists she expected to interview. This included Jamie Crawford Jr. and dozens of DJs with stage names inspired by exotic fruits.
But right now? All that preparation was meaningless. What if she flubbed a word? Or, if she had pit stains on her dress? Or, if she failed so spectacularly that Rich demoted her to reviewingKidz Bopalbums for all of eternity?
“What’s the signal before we go live?” Brinton choked out, suddenly dizzy. She steadied herself against the railing behind her. The shock of cold felt like a relief on her sticky lower back.
“4…3…2…”
The light on Lucero’s camera flashed red as Jamie Crawford Jr. approached. He was that square-jawed,Varsity Blueskind of attractive. In fact, he looked evenbetterthan in the pictures. It was actually quite rude.
Jamie’s sandy blond waves were boyishly mused and kissed his ears. Brinton guessed he had earned his coppery tan from playing shirts-versus-skins football with buddies in a field. Or, driving a tractor for fun.
His midnight blue suit was impeccably tailored to his well-over six-foot-frame and drew out the shimmer highlights of his aquamarine eyes. The whole effect was effortlessly cool, like James Bond’s twin brother, separated at birth and raised in a honky-tonk.
“Hey,” Brinton said, hoping to sound more confident than she felt.
“Hey, yourself,” Jamie answered.
