The receipt lies between us like a challenge. I set down my quill and lean forward, studying the document Mrs. Dalloway must have given him. The ink catches the lamplight wrong—too glossy in some places, too matte in others. The seal's impression varies in depth across the wax.
My certainty wobbles for the very first time since this morning.
"You went behind my back." I keep my voice quiet, but irritation bleeds through. "I told you and Jamie to leave this alone."
"I did this alone. Jamie had nothing to do with it." He steps closer to my desk, his calloused hands bracing against the polished wooden edge. The muscles in his forearms flex beneath his rolled sleeves as he leans forward, and I catch a glimpse of old ink stains on his fingertips—permanent marks of his profession. "You need to look at this instead of ignoring it simply because it wasn't your idea."
The accusation hits deeper than I'd like to admit. My spine straightens automatically, years of maintaining editorial authority kicking in like armor. "That's absurd."
"Is it?" His voice drops to something lower, more intense, carrying the weight of someone who's spent years digging into uncomfortable truths. The lamplight casts shadows across his angular features, emphasizing the stubborn set of his jaw and the way his dark eyes refuse to yield. "Because from where I'm standing, you've dismissed every piece of evidence that's landed on your desk today."
"You need to leave," I tell him, my voice carrying the crisp authority I've cultivated over years of running this newspaper. "I'm tired of you stomping in here with your heavy boots and that insufferable attitude, acting like you know better when you clearly don't understand how things work in this town."
"You're just afraid to work with me, aren't you?" His laugh is sharp, cutting through the tension like broken glass. "Afraid to admit that someone other than the almighty Calla Mercer might actually have a good idea for once?" The mockery in his tone makes my jaw clench. "I bet you're one of those types who takes credit for everyone else's work, then pretends it was your brilliant editorial vision all along."
The accusation stings more than it should, hitting against insecurities I thought I'd buried years ago. Heat flares in my chest—part anger, part something I refuse to acknowledge.
He moves around the desk with deliberate steps, his presence filling the small office like a storm front rolling in. Suddenly he's too close, much too close. The polished mahogany that usually serves as my protective barrier becomes meaningless as he invades the carefully maintained space I've built around myself. The distance between us shrinks until I can feel the warmth radiating from his broad frame, smell the complex mixture of ink stains and autumn air that clings to his rumpled clothes. There's something else too—something distinctly him that makes my heartbeat quicken despite every rational thought screaming at me to step back, to maintain professional distance.
"I'm not afraid of you," I manage, though my voice wavers slightly on the last word.
The words come out steadier than I feel. His greyish-green skin looks almost bronze in the lamplight, and those dark eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Prove it." His voice carries a challenge that sends heat spiraling through my chest. "Work on this article with me, then."
I should say no. I should maintain professional boundaries and proper editorial control. I should remember that he's here because he messed up somewhere else, not because I need his help.
Instead, I hear myself snap, "Fine."
"Fine," he echoes, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays his satisfaction.
My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape my chest and leap straight into his hands. The receipt lies forgotten on my desk as we stand locked in this moment, the air between us charged with something far more dangerous than professional disagreement.
CHAPTER 8
BRAKKOR
The morning air predicts the crisp bite of autumn as I lean against the brick wall beside the Whistle's front door, watching Calla approach with her usual measured stride. Her heels click against the cobblestones in a rhythm precise as a metronome, each step calculated and purposeful. The brass key catches the early sunlight as she withdraws it from her leather satchel, and I find myself studying the graceful movement of her fingers as she slides it into the lock.
"Good morning," I say, pushing off from the wall. My eyes trail the elegant line of her navy blazer, the way it hugs her waist before falling in clean lines over her hips. No point pretending I'm not looking—we're past that kind of polite fiction now. "Ready to crack this thing wide open?"
She glances over her shoulder, one dark eyebrow arched in that way that's becoming familiar. The morning light catches the severe angles of her face, highlighting the intelligence in those dark eyes.
"This article isn't my only responsibility here, you know." She pushes the door open and steps inside, her voice carrying that crisp authority I'm beginning to find more attractive than annoying. "I can't simply abandon everything else justbecause you've decided we should focus exclusively on this investigation."
I follow her inside, crossing my arms as I lean against the doorframe. The scent of coffee and old paper fills the office, mixing with something distinctly her—something clean and sophisticated that makes me want to step closer.
"Still mad that I'm right," I tease, watching as she settles into her chair. Every movement is controlled, deliberate, like she's choreographed her entire existence.
Her fingers pause on the stack of morning mail, and when she looks up at me, there's fire in her eyes.
"Right now you're not anything but an insubordinate writer whom I have to babysit."
The words should sting, but instead they pull a genuine grin from me. There's something intoxicating about the way she fights back now, the steel beneath that polished exterior. My annoyance has waned in favor of something softer. Most people either cower or try to charm their way around conflict. Calla meets it head-on with the kind of sharp wit that could cut glass.
"Our first step should be talking to the transport company directly," I say, straightening. "Get answers from the source instead of dancing around the records."
She opens the first envelope, not looking up. "That would require a full day's trip. The main depot is three hours north."
