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Irritated, she slid off her shoes and pulled her office chair over to the bookcase.
The photographer cleared his throat. “I should get that for you, Ms. Mitchell. I’m taller than you, and—”
“Chairs were invented so that women could stand on them when necessary.”
Still, she was about to curse Cole for putting it on the highest shelf when she remembered she was, in fact, the one who had instructed him to do that.
Stepping onto the chair, she reached out.
Why had he put it so far back? Presumably Cole found it as loathsome as she did.
She rose on tiptoe and felt the chair wobble slightly.
She closed her right hand around the base of the award, remembering too late that it had required two hands to hold it steady when she’d been handed it the night before. As she swung it down from the shelf, the chair wobbled again, sending her body off-balance.
By the time she realized she was going to fall, it was too late to recover.
She groped for the bookcase with her free hand, but instead of providing solid support it tilted toward her. She had time to make a mental note to fire the clueless individual who had forgotten to secure the bookshelves to the wall, and then she was falling, falling, falling... One of the points of the heavy golden star smashed into her head and she crashed onto the hard office floor.
She was conscious for long enough to wish the decorator had given her deep-pile carpet. And then everything went black.
She missed the sound of Rochelle screaming and the sight of the camera rolling.
For a brief period of time she was blissfully oblivious to the chaos erupting around her.
Her return to consciousness was slow and confusing. She heard a low humming sound, a whirring in her head. Was she dead? Surely not. She could hear things.
She could hear people panicking around her, even though panic was an emotion specifically banned from her office.
“Oh my God, is she dead? Is she dead?”
“Not dead. She’s definitely breathing.”
Gayle was relieved to have that confirmed by an outside source.
“But she’s unconscious. I called 911. They’re on their way.”
“Is that an actual hole in her head? I feel a little faint.”
“Pull yourself together.” A rough, male voice. “Did you get the shot, Greg?”
“Yeah, the whole thing is on camera. It’ll be a happy day for the headline writers. My money is on STARSTRUCK!”
“Could you be just a little sensitive here?” Rochelle’s voice, sounding traumatized. “She’s badly injured and you’re writing headlines!”
Didn’t they know she could hear them? Why were people so clueless? She had no idea how long she’d been knocked out. A minute? An hour? A day? No, if it had been a day she’d be lying in a hospital bed now, surrounded by a chorus of beeping machines.
Her chest hurt. Why did her chest hurt?
She remembered the bookshelves falling with her.
Someone must have caught them, or lifted them off her. As for the fate of the award—she had no idea. If the pain was anything to go by, there was a possibility it was still embedded in her head.
There was a crashing sound and the doors to her office burst open.
Gayle tried to open her eyes and give someone her scariest stare, but her eyelids felt too heavy.
She heard more voices, this time firm and confident—presumably the EMTs.
