Page 69 of Making It Live!

But for a week and a half, the count had become the quiet metronome of my life.

The work was the best it had been in a decade.On air, I felt sharpened, honed by the voice in my earpiece.Jimmy didn't just produce the show; he conducted me.He knew exactly when to push me toward a senator's throat and when to pull me back into a moment of devastating silence.When he talked, the sound didn't just hit my ear; it settled in the base of my spine, a warm, low-frequency hum that made the studio lights feel less like an interrogation and more like a spotlight.

After the broadcast, the ritual was always the same.I'd return to my dressing room, the adrenaline still a metallic tang in the back of my throat.I'd wait.Three minutes.Five.Then, the sound: two sharp raps of knuckles against the heavy oak door.

Jimmy would lean against the frame, his auburn hair a chaotic halo under the fluorescent hall lights, his glasses pushed up onto his head.To anyone passing by, it was a senior producer checking in on his anchor.He'd step inside, the heavy door would click shut, and the icy anchor of Beacon Broadcasting would simply… melt.We were being profoundly unprofessional.Reckless.

And for nine days, I'd actually convinced myself we were getting away with it.

On the tenth day, the broadcast ended with an interview about the latest Middle Eastern war — a surgical strike that left the Secretary of Defense stammering into his lapel mic.I walked off set with my pulse still elevated, my skin humming.

Jimmy and I played the game with the practiced ease of double agents.I lingered in the hallway to discuss a "scheduling conflict" with a floor director.He stayed in the control room to "review the b-roll."We waited for the building to thin out, for the late-night skeleton crew to settle into their cubicles, before we met at the elevators.

We rode down to the lobby in a silence that was loud with everything we weren't saying.My eyes took in the lean line of him, and I could smell the faint scent of vetiver from the product he put in his hair.I had to clasp my hands behind my back to keep from grabbing him.

Outside, the October air was crisp, carrying the scent of rain and exhaust and the particular electric ozone of Midtown at night.Terrence's black town car was idling at the curb.Jimmy tilted his face into the wind, his eyes closing for a brief second."I'm starving," he said."Actually, I'm beyond starving.I'm at the point where I might start eating the upholstery in that car."

"There's the Italian place on Ninth," I said, my voice sounding more casual than I felt."The one with the green awning."

He looked at me, a challenge dancing in his eyes."The town car is right there, Nelson.We could be at your place in fifteen minutes."

I looked at the car.Then I looked at him.The "safe" choice was the sedan.The sedan meant privacy.But it had been ten days of us pretending to only be co-workers, and I felt a sudden, sharp needle of defiance.I wanted to walk down a street like a man who wasn't hiding.

I raised a hand, stopping Terrence before he could open the door."Terrence, I'm fine tonight.Take the evening off.I'll see you at the usual time tomorrow."

Terrence, a man whose professional discretion was his greatest asset, didn't blink."Yes, sir.Good night, Mr.Mackenzie."

The car pulled away, leaving us on the sidewalk.We started down the block, our shoulders not quite touching, but the gravity between us was so heavy it felt like we were leaning into a gale.

We were half a block from the restaurant when the world caught up to us.

"JIMMY!"

The voice didn't just carry; it commanded.It was the kind of volume that came from a lifetime of being the loudest person in any room.

Jimmy froze mid-step."Oh, god," he whispered."The universe has a terrible sense of timing."

Across the intersection, Jillian Morris was practically vibrating.She was clutching a bag of takeout, her glasses perched precariously on the bridge of her nose.Beside her, looking like he wanted the pavement to open up and swallow him whole, was Harry.

My personal assistant.The man who managed my life with the cold efficiency of a Swiss watch.He looked at me, and for the first time in three years, I saw him lose his composure.He didn't just look surprised; he looked guilty.

The light changed, and Jillian surged across the street like a heat-seeking missile.

"JIMMY GOODMAN," she shouted, ignoring the two tourists who stepped out of her way."I was going to call you tomorrow to stage an intervention, but here you are, delivered by the gods of Ninth Avenue."

She slammed into Jimmy, a full-body hug that looked more like a wrestling maneuver.Jimmy grunted, trying to maintain his balance.

"Jillian, hi.What a… coincidence," Jimmy said, his voice strained.

Jillian pulled back, her eyes immediately darting to me.She didn't look away, or offer a polite social smile.Jillian looked at me with the analytical intensity of a grand jury."Nelson.You haven't aged a day.It's genuinely offensive."

"Jillian," I said, my television voice sliding into place like a shield."I'll send you the name of my dermatologist."

I turned my gaze to Harry.He was standing a foot behind Jillian, his hands buried in his coat pockets.He wouldn't meet my eye.He gave a small, jerky nod."Nelson."

"Harry," I said, my voice dropping an octave.And I decided to make him truly uncomfortable.“I wasn't aware you and Jillian were on a first-name basis."

"We're on a 'three bottles of Pinot' basis," Jillian chirped, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous sort of mischief.She looked between Jimmy and me, her smile widening into something that felt like a trap."Where are you two headed?You look like you're on a mission."