Page 6 of The Golden Scoop

“You didn’t.”

“It sure doesn’t seem that way.”

He exhales, shaking his head. “Can you let it be?”

“Why do you always have to—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“You’re—” He huffs. “You’re just too much.”

That does it. I drop his hand and step back. The song’s almost over anyway.

“You know what, Matt?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “At least I’m real.”

I turn on my heel before he can respond and rush toward the bathroom. My pulse is pounding. I scrub my hands at the sink until the warmth of his touch is gone. Every trace of him washed down the drain.

At least after this I won’t have to see him again.

TWO

Emma

Turns out, being one of Hollywood’s best-kept secrets isn’t nearly as glamorous as it sounds.

I’ve been writing for Golden magazine for five years now. What started as a part-time gig covering celebrity fashion and ‘red carpet moments’ somehow evolved into a full-time, anonymous gossip column uncovering the city’s biggest scandals.

Ironic, isn’t it? In trying to expose everyone else’s secrets, I became one myself. It’s the only part of my life that’s a mystery. Aside from that, I’m an open book—inherently explains why I hate almost every celebrity I meet: they’re too fake.

It’s not exactly what I imagined when I graduated with a journalism degree, but hey, at least my days are varied; a couple in the office, the rest out on the field with a front-row seat to chaos. Not bad, considering it pays the bills.

Besides, digging up dirt on celebrities isn’t hard. Leaves me plenty of time to write what I actually care about—on my personal blog. I have about twelve consistent readers, two of whom are my mom and Julia. So, yeah. Pulitzer, here I come.

I groan and force myself out of bed. I could technically work from home today, but I already milked that excuse all last week while helping with the wedding madness. Which means, even in my still-exhausted, post-party haze, I need to show my face at the office.

The traffic’s a nightmare, but I manage to get downtown in under thirty minutes. Summer’s in full swing, the sun’s out, the doors of my Jeep Wrangler are off, and the ocean breeze almost makes up for the honking. Almost.

I pull into my employee spot, grab my purse and laptop, and head for the elevator. All the way up to the sixth floor. My stomach knots as I wonder what mood Martha, my wonderfully unhinged boss, is going to be in today.

It could go either way, honestly. Her attitude depends on a complex formula involving commentary on previous issues, ad revenue, online ratings, and even the exact taste of her morning coffee. Statistically speaking, the odds of having a full conversation with her that doesn’t involve at least one complaint are roughly the same as winning the lottery.

“You don’t want to be here today,” Kate says, pushing off the wall as I step out of the elevator, almost giving me a heart attack.

“You’re right.” I laugh, striding toward my desk. “I don’t want to be here. But if I skip another day, people might start forgetting I actually work here.”

“I’m serious,” she insists, stepping in front of me and forcing me to stop. “There are articles everywhere, and Martha⁠—”

As if on cue (or thanks to her supernatural hearing), Martha pops her head out of her office and points directly at me.

“Miller. In my office. Stat!”

I sigh. “Well, whatever it is, it was bound to happen sooner or later,” I tell Kate, who gives me a pitying look.

Unlike most of my coworkers, meetings with the boss don’t faze me. My online ratings are too good for her to fire me, and I don’t mean that in a cocky way. Just… factual. Sucks that I have no prospects of moving upward, but at least I’m secure.

I drop my purse on my desk and make my way to the back of the room, where Martha’s glass-walled office overlooks the floor. Through the pane, I can see her pacing, clutching a stack of magazines like she’s about to start selling door-to-door.

Martha’s the human embodiment of Cruella de Vil. Her faux-fur coat has been hanging dramatically in the corner since the last time she wore it. Her jet-black bob is cut to perfection (although it’s not the legendary half-black, half-white). One could never catch a single gray strand on her. It would ruin the illusion of eternal youth.

And I’m convinced she copied her makeup straight from the 1961 movie. Extremely defined eyebrows, dark green eyeshadow, crimson lipstick, and enough contour to make her face look photoshopped.