Effortless. Lynn Montagano

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      “Did he?” he asked, clearly annoyed. “What time?”

      “Eight. He said he has a table at Pulse already reserved so—”

      “Will Garrison be there?”

      I could hear the scowl in his tone.

      “Not that I’m aware of. Do you want to come with me?”

      “This wasn’t quite what I had in mind for us,” he muttered. “I should stay here later seeing as you’ll be out. Maybe I could stop by around nine?”

      “If you’re not too tired. Julian likes to harass you into appearing on the show every time he sees you.”

      “I’m never too tired for you. Plan on seeing me at nine then.”

      * * *

      The taxi arrived to pick me up at quarter to eight. I gave my hair one last fluff and checked my lip-gloss. I’d read a little bit about Pulse and my impression was that it was fairly swanky. I did another quick check in the hall mirror at my black sparkly tank dress and was off.

      As the cabbie drove me through Glasgow’s West End, I soaked in the city. Old world charm weaved itself through modern flair. It was loud. It was quiet. It was bright. It was romantic. This was certainly a far cry from the brightly colored print shirts and never-ending flip-flops that defined tourist central, otherwise known as Orlando, and I loved every last bit of it.

      Pulse was located inside a large stone building. It looked rather nondescript on the surface, more like an old bank than an ultra lounge. From what I’d heard, Pulse had become quite the hot spot since Brent opened it over the summer. I noted with pride a glossy advertisement by the entrance that Stephanie had designed. She’d certainly found her calling, and her passion, with graphic design work.

      A rather large, intimidating looking bouncer walked over to me.

      “Miss Meyers?” he asked.

      “Yes.”

      “Follow me please. Mr. Archer is waiting inside.”

      I pulled out my cell phone and checked the time as he led me inside the building. It was only five past eight. Apparently, I was late. When I looked up from the phone, I gasped. This place was incredible. Dimly lit in shades of blue, cream and lavender, the whole room gave off a cool, modern vibe. White leather couches shaped like trapezoids were chaotically organized throughout the space. Small, cube shaped chairs flanked dark wooden tables. I couldn’t help but stare at the ceiling as we weaved our way through the crowd. It was made entirely of lights that were fragmented into triangles but were perfectly positioned to look like a huge stained glass window all in white.

      Every person I passed was better dressed than the last. I appreciated this being a high-end bar but found myself wishing it was a little less pretentious and a little more relaxed.

      “Ah, Lia.” Julian stood up from the reserved table and kissed both my cheeks. “Gorgeous dress. Have a seat. What do you fancy for a drink?”

      “Um,” I glanced at the drink menu, “I’ll have the Secret Crush please.”

      He grinned at me slyly after giving our drink orders to the server. My brows lifted a bit as I smiled back, anticipating what could possibly come out of his mouth.

      “Is there a specific reason why you negotiated your contract to last only three months, which incidentally, is the length of your temporary visa?”

      My stomach dropped and I did that really attractive fish mouth thing where my lips parted but nothing came out.

      “Well,” I started, finally finding my voice, “I wanted to see if this job was a good fit for me. For us. For the show.”

      “I see.” His blue eyes narrowed slightly. “And if it is?”

      “Then I suppose you’ll be stuck with me.” I smiled at the server as she placed our drinks on the table. Grabbing mine, I took a long sip of the raspberry flavored cocktail. The shrewd look Julian still aimed in my direction led me to believe he wasn’t satisfied with my response.

      “I’ve had a revolving door of executive producers over the last four years. Creative differences, incompetence, laziness, you name it. You came highly touted not only from your station in America but also from Sam and Robbie. If I’d known they were going to agree to such a short contract I would never have let you in the building.”

      This must be the bad side Robbie warned me about. I sank further into the plush cushion, nursing my drink and feeling more than a little bit guilty.

      “Wait a second,” I said, snapping out of my funk. “You didn’t know that I’d only signed on for a few months?”

      “No.”

      “They told me you knew. They said you’d be okay with it.”

      “Did they,” he grimaced. “Sneaky bastards.”

      “I’m so confused.”

      Julian downed his bourbon like a champion and leaned forward. “The two of them have been scheming behind my back for months. They kept Gemma on for much longer than was necessary just to watch me slowly implode. They want me out. There’s some younger, hot shot presenter from London making the rounds. His ratings are astronomical and the fine people at our parent company want to jump on the bandwagon. We’d be used as a satellite location for interviews and such but The Archer Hour would essentially go away.”

      The alcoholic fruity goodness of my drink slipped down my throat way too easily. I stared at the bottom of the empty glass, ordering another one through telepathy. I should have known being offered a three month contract in a different country without any pushback was too good to be true. Clearly, I was part of Sam and Robbie’s master plan to watch it die a slow death.

      Good thing I didn’t sell my car and kept the apartment in Orlando.

      Another cocktail appeared on the table in front of me.

      “Looked like you needed a refill.” Julian smiled and squeezed my knee with more affection than was necessary.

      “Thanks.” I drank this one a little slower not wanting to give off the impression I was an uber lush. For some reason the drinks in Scotland tasted much better than the ones in Orlando.

      “Sorry I laid all that out on you. You’ve been with us a month and I just assumed you were the savior I’d been waiting for. My job has meant everything to me and the thought of it being given to some little tit who’s nothing more than a glorified tabloid reporter pisses me off.”

      I felt bad for the guy. I really did. If I’d learned anything from my former night team it was to always stay ten steps ahead of the next generation. That rang especially true for the on-air talent. I could practically hear Cynthia Steele’s strong, melodic voice in my head saying there was always someone younger with no morals waiting in the wings. I was fairly certain she’d been exaggerating about the no morals part but there had to be a grain of truth in there somewhere.

      “Well, I’m not going to spend my time there going through the motions,” I asserted, taking another sip of my drink. СКАЧАТЬ