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I won’t even touch on the third reason, considering that contemplating how out of my league he is won’t do my self-esteem any favors. I know I’m a catch, and I’m picky because I can be, but Shane is in a whole other dimension of gorgeousness.
Shaking my head, I rally and grab a cup of last night’s coffee, nuking it in the microwave and dropping in three sugars and a lot of milk, just the way I like. The caffeine and sugar are just what I need to get dressed and into the office for my check-in and assignment update.
Yeah, big plans, that’s me. Get off work and go to work. If I’m lucky, I might be able to squeeze in a workout at the gym to try and keep up my girlish figure.
Living the dream, baby.
The big open ‘bullpen’ of The Daily Spot is humming when I get in. Of course it is. A lot of my coworkers have been here for a couple of hours already, trying to make the noon update deadline. We may be a gossip rag, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have a schedule. Seven in the morning for the pre-work and water cooler crowd, noon to catch the lunch-timers, and then at six to give everyone a late-night update.
As soon as I log into the computer, my instant messenger box opens in the corner of the screen. It’s my new boss, Jeanine. Hi, Maggie! Come to my office ASAP.
Shoot, wonder what she wants. She’s definitely better than my old boss, who was a skeevy jerk. Actually, he was worse than that, but he went out in a blaze of glory . . . publicly. The Daily Spot’s reputation took a hit, but at the same time, website traffic is up. I guess it’s true—controversy creates cash.
Jeanine’s been here a little over a month now, but I don’t have a good read on her yet. She always seems serious and cold, and she communicates in snippets of sentences rather than in full, embellished diatribes. I’d bet money she’s never so much as cracked the spine of a book of poetry. No time for that prosaic nonsense.
So a tabloid full of gossipy blurbs is probably right up her alley. Actually, I read her biography when she took the editor’s job, and she’s worked in some legit journalism too, but still, the woman communicates by the five Ws—who, what, when, where, and why—almost exclusively. She doesn’t even bother with how. That’s my job, I guess.
I don’t waste her time by responding to the message. I just lock my computer and head her way as quickly as possible. Knocking on her doorframe, Jeanine doesn’t even look away from her computer, although she does wave me in with a quick little flutter of her fingers.
Ah, well. I sit in one of the chairs, waiting for her to finish whatever she’s working on and speak first.
Jeanine hits her Enter key with a flourish that’s sure to break her keyboard before too much longer and looks up, giving me a professional smile. “Maggie, how are things? What have you got for me?”
I swallow, knowing she won’t like my answer. “Honestly, not a lot right now. There hasn’t been even a pseudo-celeb in the club in over a week. I wrote that one up for last Saturday’s edition, remember? The headline was Bad Boy of Soaps Gets Glitter Bombed.”
Jeanine is silent, but she nods so I think she at least remembers the story. I’ll admit, it wasn’t that big of a story. I mean, sure, the guy’s made a few housewives fan themselves, but ever since he came over from New Zealand, he’s been getting himself in so much trouble the biggest story is whether the INS is going to let him renew his work visa.
Jeanine’s grey eyes narrow at me as she purses her blood-red lips, her expression making her look even harsher than usual. “Glitter. Oh, yes.”
She says it with a sneer, like the sparkly confetti is unwelcome contagious merriment. But that’s what it was, if you count getting smacked in the face with a dancer’s glitter-covered hiney a ‘bomb.’ But he’s single, not dating anyone, and most fans don’t really mind if a guy like that gets up to no good.
With a shake of the head, she continues. “I’ve received word that a certain All-Star basketball player will be clubbing sans the missus at a rather high-end venue tonight. I need you to go in, look the part, and see if he’s up to anything devious. If so, get pics and write up his delinquency. If he’s being a good boy, take pics of the sketchiest thing you see and write it up as supposition for why he’s out alone. Trouble in paradise type story. Got it?”
I fidget and tug at the sleeve of my blouse. “I’d love to, but I’m already working tonight. I can probably get someone to cover the later part of my shift and catch up with him after the liquor kicks in though. He’d be more likely to behave badly then, anyway.”
