“I’ve been reading this.” She held up the glossy, waving it in the air, then slapped it down. “You really do not like Jackson Young.”
That was the review. The one that had made all the difference. The one that had gotten him noticed by Rose. The magazine had given him the chance of a full-time position rather than an internship or going freelance. That was the article that had brought Jackson Young to him. Hot under the collar of his navy shirt, Fletcher wriggled in the seat. That name just kept popping up.
Almost as much as the man himself did.
Peering over her glasses, Rose trailed her drawn-on eyebrows up her forehead in expectancy. “I want the story,” she said, a wry smile tugging at her lips.
“Sorry?”
“I want you off gossip.” She waved toward the door. “An intern can write gossip.”
“That’s what I was until you gave me the contract.”
“Yes, smart move of mine, thank you.” She leaned back, steepling her fingers over her red lips. “But you have talent. As a writer. Perhaps not as someone who can hunt down the best celebrity gossip, but this—”she tapped the magazine—”this is gold. I want more of it. I want your catty claws all over London Lights. I want you to write all the damning stuff. Starting with Jackson Young.”
“Rose, with all—”
“I’ve already hired an intern. They’ll be here in ten.” She checked her watch, shuffling her chair under the desk. “So all your sources can be passed to him. Including that Lily Grave. I’m sure you want to get rid of her.”
Fletcher went to open his mouth, unsure what he was going to dispute. He’d wanted off the gossip column since the moment he’d started on it. He’d wanted something meatier, something more fulfilling, something that would elevate his career to becoming a proper journalist. But why, why the feck, did this have to happen now? Twenty-four hours ago his response would have been different.
“I want a feature written on Jackson Young. I want to know where he’s hiding. I mean, that has guilt all over it.”
“What? We can’t just brandish around accusations—”
“That’s exactly what we do do! We’re not governed by newspaper etiquette. We are a magazine. We write what people want to read. And right now, people want to read that the Metropolitan police just let a murderer go free.”
The phone on her desk shrilled and Rose answered it before one full cycle ring. “Charles, darling, how are you?” She flapped her hand as if shooing away a pesky fly. “Yes, of course. I understand completely. We are doing our very best. I can’t imagine how traumatic this is for you.”
Understanding that to be his cue to exit, Fletcher stood and headed for the door. He curled his fingers around the handle before more flapping caught his eye. Rose placed one hand over the speaker of the phone and shifted it away from her lips.
“Series of articles. First one by end of the day ready for upload tonight. Starting with, where is Jackson Young and why, if he’s innocent, has he gone into hiding? He didn’t turn up at his home address yesterday.”
All Fletcher could do was nod, and swallow down the dread in his throat. This was bad. This was so fecking bad, he didn’t even have the words for it.
“And Fletcher?” she whispered his name through gritted teeth, tucking the phone away and covering the mouthpiece. “Do not forget who owns this magazine!”
Forget? He wasn’t sure he’d even known in order to forget. He’d thought it was Rose. But judging by the ingratiating of her voice on the phone, he gathered there was a bigger person in charge. Who was he working for if it wasn’t the sixties ex-catwalk model who’d used her millions to set up London Lights as her legacy?
Back at his desk, he slumped on his chair, blowing out a puff of pent-up air, and thought he better check the answer to that. A search online, several clicks later and there was his answer lighting up his screen and impaling his chest, thumping his brain to give him a sick-inducing headache.
Charles Payne. Entrepreneur and CEO of the hotel chain, The Meridian.
Tallulah Payne’s father.
Feck. Double feck. And bollocky fuck.
He nearly leapt out of his seat when his work phone rang, but he grabbed it with a garbled, “Aye?”
“Fletch? It’s Cam.”
His heart could not take any more of this.
“You said you wanted access to Kris? Well, he’s rehearsing at the studios today. Come meet me for lunch, I’ll introduce you.”
chapter eleven
One Shot
The last time Fletcher had been at the London Studios, he’d been a starry-eyed graduate, having an interview based on his freelance submissions. Cameron had been waiting for him in the pub across the road, ready to celebrate them both landing graduate jobs at the same place. They’d planned to keep living together. With Vanessa.
Fletcher had lied to him about not getting the job.
“Good morning, sir. How can I help?” The girl behind the oversized front desk smiled for his arrival.
He held up his ID pass. “Fletcher Doherty from London Lights. To see Cameron Dale.”
After a few taps on her computer, she offered up a practiced smile. “He’s in Studio Two. I’ll call down.”
Fletcher hovered over to the leather sofas in the waiting area. An array of magazines fanned out on the glass table. He leafed through them. There it was. On Air—the broadcasting glossy. The one he could have been writing for.
He didn’t bother picking it up.
“Fletcher Doherty!” Cam exited after the swoosh of the elevator doors, arms held wide and a smile that rivalled the length of his old embraces.
Fletcher’s breath caught, then quickened the closer Cam walked toward him. He allowed a smile to pull his lips up to greet the friend he’d been refusing to set eyes on for two years.
Casually dressed in black shorts and a black polo shirt that hugged his broad frame, the sleeves clinging to tattooed biceps, Cam beamed as he hauled Fletcher in for a bear hug. He smelled good too. That familiar scent of hard work, of masculinity and the hint of peppered spice. It took all of Fletcher’s effort not to bury his nose in the man’s neck and breathe him in.
“Cam. Howaya?” He stepped back. “Thanks for this. I appreciate it.” Keeping things work-based was best all round.
“Anything for you.” He thumped Fletcher’s arm playfully “And look at ya, mate. Been working out?”
Glancing down at his slim-fitting navy shirt tucked into his jeans, he shrugged and willed his burning cheeks to cool when he said, “Needed to get healthy after living on Guinness and beans for three years. Not a gym bunny like you though.” He bit his lip after saying that, cursing that he’d allowed himself the indulgence of checking out the changed body in front of him.
Cam had always been fit. He’d played rugby, football, swam for the uni team, and had danced the nights away in the basement student bar until the early hours of the morning. Everyone had wanted a piece of Cam back then. Things were no different. Except, maybe now he had a baby on the way, he wouldn’t tease the onlookers so much.
“Gotta get it in while I can.” Cam slapped his stomach. “I’m sure once the baby’s here, the Dad bod will follow. And I’m kinda looking forward to it.” Slipping an arm around Fletcher’s shoulders, he steered him toward the elevators, nodding to the security guard.