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And the moment he crosses the threshold, as dozens of gasps rise, it happens.
Of course it happens.
His gaze drops on me like a brick, stone-cold blue cutting into me with a scalpel’s precision.
A chill blows through me like ice sliding down my spine.
While everyone else is practically panting over him—and adding a few smatters of applause—I’m the only one in the room not breathing.
Oh.
Oh, no.
So that’s what that cryptic parting congratulations meant.
Even without my name and the publication I work for, he’d sussed me out at the airport.
He knew we’d meet again and that he was basically set to be my boss.
My tyrant?
Ugh.
And he’d left me dangling, totally for the satisfaction of this moment, this torture.
He smiles in slow motion like there’s a terrible secret just for us.
It takes everything in me to keep my professional face on and not scowl. Or stick my tongue out. Or do something infinitely more childish like spewing the dregs of my coffee onto his expensive shoes.
The last one would be a particularly bad idea when I heard it turned another rich Chicago freak, Magnus Heron, into some girl’s freaking husband.
I’d rather be sentenced to decaf for life than even think about getting hitched to this clown.
He’d better not make any comments whatsoever about my looks today. I came smartly dressed to earn some respect.
I’m not here to play mouse to his hunting hawk.
I set my mouth in a thin line.
Big mistake.
It just causes his lips to twitch up at the corners before he spreads his hands and begins speaking, raising that rolling, masculine gravel roll of a voice until it dominates the room.
“Ladies and gents of Just Vibing,” he says smoothly. “Congratulations. Today you crawl out of the proverbial swamp. Welcome to the next evolution of your publication. I understand many of you have fears that my acquisition of this magazine means catastrophic change.”
He begins to walk slowly back and forth across the room like a know-it-all professor, a steady stride that’s less restless and more thoughtful. The motion makes everyone’s eyes follow.
He’s the kind of person I was thinking about before.
My exact opposite.
Not only comfortable in the spotlight, but basking in it.
Commanding it.
“You would be correct,” he says, stopping abruptly.
His penetrating gaze moves slowly around the room, from one person to the next, then lands on me and stays. Again, despite the annoying pitter-patter of my heart hissing go the hell away.
“There will be significant changes coming to Just Vibing, folks,” he continues. “But I hope that, if we work together, these changes will be constructive. We tear down only to rebuild—something stronger, something sharper, something better. Sometimes a horrendous forest fire clears the way for new growth. This publication has staked everything on the quality of its content. I have no intention of tinkering with that beyond what’s necessary. What we must do, together, is reach a younger demographic. Discover what excites them. Light the spark in their blood and turn it into lightning in a bottle we can harness to expand your distribution, our reach, and my profits to unparalleled levels.”
...I have to hand it to him.
The man gives a good pep talk.
He’s got the entire room in thrall, his presence capturing everyone as much as his words.
He has a way of speaking that makes the smallest detail seem important and personal. Like he’s whispering tenderly into every ear in this room.
If only he’d stop looking at me like I’m tonight’s dinner.
I can’t hold eye contact any longer.
Not when I’m starting to get dizzy from holding my breath. So I duck my head, fidgeting with my pencil and tapping it against the page.
It sounds like he’s finally getting down to business. I’d like to take notes on more than new ways to stab him in the eye with a 0.7mm mechanical pencil without going to prison.
He lets the room die down, waiting for the murmurs to subside, before he continues.
My eyes stay fixed on the lines crawling across the page, but that’s somehow even worse when it feels like he’s bent over me, whispering in my ear.
I feel the rough texture of his voice against my skin like bourbon blazing down my throat.
“For a time,” Osprey says, “we’ll have to adjust coverage to stabilize your revenue streams. Money isn’t in the arts, culture, and think pieces on the history of bluegrass music.” I hate how I don’t have to look up to know the shift in the tone of his voice means he’s smiling that subtle hint of a smile, at once mocking and self-mocking. “You’ll find your profit margins in contemporary music. Once you’ve tapped that market, you’ll be able to diversify your revenue to re-invest in broader coverage and more nuanced markets.”
It’s a little easier to breathe, right now.
He may be the most arrogant man in existence, but it’s not a bad plan.
