It just doesn’t change the fact that I’m feeling a strange loss without her here.
It’s annoying.
Infuriating.
Distracting when I can’t afford distractions in my line of work.
I’m balancing an entire media empire and wishing I was chasing a blood-drinking werewolf on the side rather than whatever type of monster Haydn is.
I remind myself for the hundredth time to keep this post-lunch meeting all business by the time Wednesday rolls around.
Instead of my intimate office, I’ve commandeered one of our smaller conference rooms. I’ve already hooked up my tablet to the projector and pulled reports to review with Callie when Wanda raps on the doorframe.
“Miss Landry is here for you, boss,” she says smoothly.
She also gives me one of those warning looks before turning away.
Careful, Mr. Osprey.
Tread very, very lightly.
I know, Wanda. I know.
Even my EA can’t overlook what a scattered, unfocused mess I’ve become. At least she’s kept the pointed comments to herself.
I never imagined I’d be so strung up over a girl—an employee—that my own EA would take pity on me.
Fucking hell.
Also, no matter how much prep I’ve done, I’m not ready for Caroline Landry sailing into the conference room.
My eyes flick up, drinking her in like a desiccated man seeing an oasis in a desert.
It feels like she’s come armored against me, wrapped in sleek gloss, waging war against me with her stark contrasts and cock-destroying brightness.
A sleeveless knee-length sheath dress clings to every curve. It’s black with playful white polka dots and a prim white collar, paired with a retro-yellow belt and matching pumps the shade that could shame a sunflower.
The very fucking sight of her gives me third-degree burns.
Primary colors indeed.
Especially when matched with her red hair and its blues, her crimson lips—now dotted with little bits of yellow paint that make them look like flower petals. Some strange, yellow daisy grown from the lustiest corner of hell.
My eyes catch on that dark seam where her mouth never quite closes, my attention drawn to the gleam of her tongue, the wet shine inside.
She stands with calm poise, chin up, looking at me through eyes winged in cat’s-eye liner and deep-yellow shadow. Her grey eyes glint faint gold like fresh champagne.
Goddamn.
I want to drink her in so badly my bones ache.
Even when I’m pissing her off, even when her stutter betrays her nerves, she’s never been afraid to be bold in her fashion, in being herself.
It shouldn’t blow me so off-kilter, despite her being dolled up in a way that could make designer Beatrice Brandt bow in awe—plus every other rich, whip-smart matriarch in this city.
We lock eyes. I lose myself in hers.
Callie looks like she’s ready to fight me for every ounce of professional respect she deserves.
Did I seriously call her a mouse before?
She’s a lioness today.
And I have a feeling there’s no chance of getting past her regal claws.
Why are you even thinking about that, man?
Focus on business.
It hits me how long I’ve been gawking when she looks away, her lashes lowering, a flush in her cheeks.
“I’m on time,” she says pointedly. “But I don’t have much time. So tell me what you’d like to discuss and let’s get to it.”
Right.
“Have a seat.” I gesture to the many chairs at the small circular conference table.
She chooses one halfway between me and the door—a safe pick that’s not too close and not too far.
Do I make her skin crawl to the point where she needs an easy escape?
Am I that big of a fucking Neanderthal in an imported suit?
“I’d like to show you a few reports,” I say, clearing my throat.
Even as I speak, the data on the screen changes, graphs spiking up and down.
Callie cocks her head. “This is real-time traffic?”
“Correct.”
Her lips purse, that flower drawing in like it’s closing up for the night. “I mean...it’s hardly impressive if we’re only seeing numbers in the hundreds.”
“That’s an abbreviation, Callie.” I pause for effect. “That’s hundreds of thousands. Per minute. We’ve got hundreds of thousands of clicks—of readers—pouring in every sixty seconds. Now let’s look at a few other metrics.” I flick through page after page, the projector screen mirroring me. “Ad impressions. Revenues. Engagement. Subscribers. New paid subscribers.”
“Ah.” She’s still frowning, though, and laces her hands together. “Isn’t this what The Tea averages, though?”
“The Tea, yes.” I stop, waiting to catch her eyes again. This time, I won’t let go. “This isn’t a report for my publication. This is for Just Vibing—and here’s the same aggregated report from this time last year.”
I flick to another page, showing the compiled numbers. It’s not even a tenth of what we’re seeing right now.
“Whoa, mama...” Her eyes pop and her breath sucks in.
Bad move. While she’s in stunned silence, I’m harder than a diamond.
“You mean...that’s us?”
“That’s you. Our team is transferring access to the tracking console to your team so you’ll be able to pull the same data yourself soon. Needless to say, you’re off to a hell of a start, Callie.” Why do I feel so much pride in telling her that? In watching how her cheeks glow with neon-red pleasure, the way her lips curve up in triumph? “You have a sharp eye for human content. For the stories that pull people in and make them care about musicians and songs that write the pages of a reader’s heart. Just Vibing never saw numbers like this. Not once. Not until you.”