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Shifting Tide
Tyler
Seattle, Washington
“Sure you don’t want to go home?” Dillon stood in my office doorway later that night. “There’s no press at any of the exits and your fangirls are gone for the night.”
“I’ll stay a few more hours.”
“As you wish.”
“Dillon, wait.”
“Yes?” He looked over his shoulder.
“On a scale of one to one hundred, what’s the percentage of people who hate me back home?”
“I’d say it’s about a ‘you shouldn’t give a fuck’ percent.” He smiled. “What can you do about it from here?”
He shrugged and shut the door.
Leaning back in my chair, I forced myself to accept a truth I’d been avoiding for weeks.
I’ve severely miscalculated this transition.
All my worst-case-scenarios were unfolding all at once, and I wasn’t sure where to start fixing them.
Despite my “Treat me like any other person” requests, the press—American & British—continued to make a daily residence outside the publishing house. Women (and men) not-so-subtly flirted with me during meetings, and I was having a private bathroom installed since six interns “accidentally” followed me into the men’s room the other day.
I’d long given up on asking Hazel’s opinion on anything except playlists, dinner recommendations, and—whenever I was desperate—tourist attractions.
Opening my laptop, I debated sending Victoria Nauss an email, demanding she stop her fake tears, but I knew she’d show it to my father. They’d find a way to twist it somehow.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“I didn’t lock it yet, Dillon,” I said. “You can come back in.”
The door swung open, but it wasn’t Dillon.
It was Chloe.
“The water just went out at my place,” she said. “Do you mind if I stay in your extra suite for the night?”
“My suite here or at my condo?”
“Here.” She blushed. “I have a few more hours of work to do, and then I have to get up early to handle a few meetings. I just need a napping spot that isn’t in the lobby.”
“When do you plan to come stay with me?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she set a small duffle bag on my armchair and plopped onto the cushions.
Taking out a folder, she looked at me. “Thanks for the real promotion.”
“You deserved it years ago,” I said, walking over to her. “What are you working on?”
“Promotional plans.”
“Want some help?”
