Catch My Breath (12 page)

A short, blonde haired woman ran toward me, clutching her bouncing chest.

“Amelia.”

“Yes, Jeanie?”

“I need you. Louise is already in the booth, the writers are up to their ears in video and copy, and Vanessa is freaking out about her package. She’s looking for a sound bite from the transportation presser. Can you find it? Thanks.”

She waltzed off without waiting for an answer. I fumed, aiming a laser stare at her departing backside. I watched her return to her desk, sit in her little slouched position and stare blankly at the computer screen.
Yes, you’re so very busy. Don’t want to miss the online early bird sale at Beals?
I normally didn’t mind helping out a co-worker, but Jeanie Arrington grated on my last nerve.

“She’s something, isn’t she?”

I flicked my eyes to Sydney Makeeda, my co-worker and cubemate.

“Yep. ‘Something’ fits her perfectly.”

Sydney laughed. “Bet you ten bucks she’ll take the credit for finding the sound bite.”

I sighed, clicking on the file labeled
media
. The transportation department was dealing with a nightmare on I-4, the main freeway that everyone in Central Florida used at least once a day.

One of the lanes on the eastbound side, midway between Orlando and Lake Mary, had developed a good-sized sinkhole, paralyzing traffic. They were scrambling to get it fixed so people didn't have to spend two hours in their cars for a drive that usually took thirty minutes. I found something decent and emailed it to the editor.

The set was lit up under bright television lights as our evening anchor team, Cynthia Steele and Vance Winters, meandered to the desk fidgeting with their microphones. They droned on about the sinkhole when the show went live.

I glanced at the rundown for the eleven o’clock show and started rearranging some of the stories. The hair that was piled loosely on my head started to slip. I reached up to adjust the makeshift bun, but it was being disobedient so I yanked out the elastic and tossed it on the desk.

"Giving up on the all-business look?" Tyler Garrett mused, sauntering over.

"Shouldn't you be at the assignment desk on a pretend phone call?" I smiled.

"Probably. Are we all going out? You've been back since last week and still haven't told us about the big trip to Scotland."

"I know, I know,” I said, pulling my hair back into a ponytail. “We’re going to The Cottage, right?"

Meeting at the local bar and restaurant was a Friday night ritual for us if we had to work on the late broadcast.

"Yep. Wes is coming too. I'm assuming you'll be there, Sydney?"

"I'll go for a little while,” she said.

“Hey, Tyler,” Gus yelled from the assignment desk, his voice ricocheting through the rafters. “Cops are on the phone. They have new details about the highway.”

Leaning his body against my desk, Tyler exhaled until his lungs were empty. “If either of you get there before me, order me my regular.”

He threw his head back and plodded his way to the desk. A chronic chain smoker and whiskey drinker, Tyler was the hub of cynical fun. As he’d put it, “
Not bad for a chubby Jewish kid from Atlanta
.”

Sydney leaned forward, clasping the small divider between our desks. “You have been way too quiet about this vacation. If there’s anything you don’t want the boys to know, spill it now.”

I feigned an innocent look and glanced at her. She smiled, drumming her fingers.

“There’s not much to tell.”

“Come on, Lia. I’m married with two kids. My husband thinks switching from Coors Light to Heineken is exciting. You were surrounded by hot men in kilts for a week. I live vicariously through you.”

I laughed, continuing my dissection of the evening’s rundown. “I’d hate to disappoint you, seeing as you think my life is so exciting, but the only kilts I saw were in display windows on mannequins.”

“Fine,” she pouted.

I hadn’t spoken a word about Alastair to any of my friends at work. The last thing I needed was a barrage of questions from nosy journalists, producers and writers about the media heir I’d been cozy with. Especially since the news broke that Holden World Media bought several network affiliate stations in the U.S., including one right here in Orlando. It was all everyone talked about since I’d been back.

Plus, I hadn’t heard from him at all. We’d exchanged email addresses the morning I left, but I didn’t expect him to write. He’d been distant and preoccupied on the ride to the airport. After getting my suitcase out of the car, he’d stood with me on the sidewalk, memorizing my face as though he’d never see me again.

“Go to the terminal,” he’d finally said.

“Walk with me?”

A pained expression blanketed his features. I hooked my fingers through his belt and pulled him closer. His muscles strained when we made contact.

“Lia. You have to go.”

I’d wrapped my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek to his chest. He’d smelled so good. The clean scent of body wash had filled my lungs. The rapid beating of his heart hypnotized me. I didn’t know how long we’d stayed like that, mostly because I’d had a bad feeling that if I let him go, he’d run. He’d get in the car, drive off and I’d be nothing but a distant memory.

He’d tilted my chin up, a tiny smile curving his mouth. Seeing it calmed me down, but not much.

“Have a safe flight, love.”

That had been it. He’d released me from his embrace and got in the car.

Two piercing, high-pitched tones shook me free of my thoughts. It was an alert from the Associated Press. I clicked on it, expecting to see something about the debt crisis or new unemployment rates. It was from the international wires and it was all about Samuel Holden’s retirement party. My curiosity shot off the scales. I opened an internet browser and searched for any stories on the event.

What I saw hit me like a truck. There was a photo of Alastair, smiling and looking gorgeous. Next to him, or rather, draped on him like an over-styled, over-designed blonde ornament was Sarah. She was touching him, and not in the way people do when they’re casually posed in a photo. Her hand was resting against his stomach, the way lovers who know one another intimately touch. His arm was wrapped around her waist, providing an excuse for her body to press into his side.

Bile rose high enough in my throat to threaten an oncoming tidal wave. I swallowed hard, forcing it down through my burning, constricted esophagus.
I’m so fucking stupid.

“Ooh, who is that?”

I jumped, scrambling to minimize my browser.

“Nobody, Sydney.” The thick layer of dread coating my throat made my voice sound deeper.

“He’s hot. Look at all that gorgeous hair,” she said, leaning over my shoulder. “Alastair Holden -
yum
- grandson to British media tycoon Samuel Holden, arrives at his family’s estate in Ascot, England for his grandfather’s retirement celebration. He’s accompanied by Sarah Everett, Vice President of the prestigious Finley Marketing and Advertising Group based in Glasgow. Well, well. What a fancy schmancy little party that must have been.”

I exhaled as soon as she stood up straight.

“Holden…Holden…Didn’t they just buy WTDO a couple weeks ago?”

“I don’t know.”

Go sit down. Please go back to your seat and sit down. Sit. Sit. SIT.

“Yeah, they did,” she confirmed more to herself than to me. “You were on vacation. I overheard Bruce talking to Vincent Jennings about it. Apparently some of the higher ups are flying over from England this weekend. Maybe that young stud will be one of them.”

Oh thank God, she finally sat down.

“You should call Grant and see if he can….”

Sydney yammered on and on about how I should try to work my contacts so we could go to the HWM event on Sunday. I told her to stop being ridiculous.

“We’re the competition, Syd. The last thing they want is one of us snooping around their backyard.”

“It wouldn’t be snooping.” She tapped the desk with her pen for emphasis.

“Whatever,” I muttered, closing the tab so I didn’t have to see that picture anymore. My inbox was now staring me in the face, and I had a new email.

To: Amelia Meyers <
[email protected]
>

From: Alastair Holden <
[email protected]
>

Subject:

Hello Amelia,

I see you’re having a busy night at work. Sinkholes? Sounds dreadful. Sorry you haven't heard from me. Work was busier than I anticipated. As you’ve no doubt heard, we are the proud owners of some news stations in the States. One is even in Orlando. It’s not yours though, I checked.

I’m just relaxing now after my grandfather’s retirement party. Was thinking of you and wanted to say hello.

Write when you have a chance.

Yours, Alastair x

A tsunami of emotion flooded me. There were too many things in that email for me to process.

He’s thinking of me?

Heat blossomed through my lower abdomen, giving me an unexpected rush. An image of his gorgeous mouth popped into my head, along with what he did with it.

Stop it. You’re being ridiculous.

“Are you okay?”

I looked up, surprised to see that I was clutching the desk.

“I’m fine, Sydney.”

Two icky, sweaty palm prints marked the spot my hands occupied on the desk after I lifted them. I closed my email account and went back to the rundown. I had to; otherwise I’d spend the rest of the night obsessing over everything. I didn’t stop revising scripts for the next two hours. By the time the late night news team signed off the air, I was ready to claw out of my own skin. I grabbed my car keys and walked out into the muggy night air.

If I hadn’t agreed to go to The Cottage, I would have hightailed it home.

Tyler was nursing a Jack and Coke at the bar and shoving nachos in his mouth when I got there. An old school Journey song pulsed from the speakers.

"Well, well. Look who's already drinking their troubles away,” I remarked.

Tyler rolled his eyes and took another long sip. He sized me up, opened his mouth to give one of his trademark responses, but put the glass to his lips again. I ordered a sparkling water with lime and sat down. Sydney waltzed through the door with Wesley Jenkins not too far behind. They were bickering about the broadcast.

I spent the next hour telling them about my trip. Being inquisitive news people, they had a zillion questions. I answered everything as best I could, even the ridiculous ones from Tyler.

"So, like, what exactly did you eat for food over there? Don't they like sheep guts in Scotland?"

"It's called haggis," I retorted. "And it's not sheep guts. It's more like a savory pudding."

“Yeah right. A pudding served in a sheep's stomach lining," Wesley snorted.

"Okay, that's enough. If it makes you feel any better, I ate nothing but neeps and tatties."

"Lia, I don't understand your crazy British talk. The least you could have done was wave hello to the Queen for me." Tyler stood up and saluted at us. "I'm off people. See y’all Monday.”

It was nearly one in the morning when Sydney, Wes and I walked out, yet the steamy Orlando weather was still bearing down on us.

"It feels like I'm walking into a sponge.” I tugged at my t-shirt and frowned. “Bye, guys."

My little yellow Fiat sat all by itself under a light in the parking lot. By force of habit, I walked to it quickly, remotely unlocking it as I approached so the interior light popped on. There had been many times over the course of the last year that I’d have a note or a rose waiting for me on the windshield, courtesy of Nathan. I thought it was cute at first. Then it became creepy, especially when stuff would be waiting for me when I hadn’t told him where I was going. At one point, I’d considered renting a car so he wouldn’t know where to find me.

Scanning the car with a quick walk around it, I checked the back, then sank into the leather seat and sighed. I pulled out of the parking lot, turned the radio up and tried to sing along with Coldplay about ruling the world.

Once I got home, I grabbed my laptop and collapsed onto the couch. It was so quiet in the living room I could hear the air scraping through my lungs. Against the better judgment of almost anyone else on the planet, I opened my email. His message was still sitting there, daring me to open it and respond. Did I? No. I did the next best thing. I searched online for more photos from the party.
Yes, Lia. This is healthy. Torture yourself over someone who was no more than a one-and-done fling.

I hated that photo of them. I hated myself for hating it. Bitterness and hurt wrapped their iron-clad hands around my heart.

This is what you get for letting him squirm his way in and see through you so easily.

Angry with myself for being so gullible and eager, I saved the photo to my desktop, opened the email, attached it and hit reply.

To: Alastair Holden <
[email protected]
>

From: Amelia Meyers <
[email protected]
>

Subject: Re:

It certainly does appear that things have been “busier than you anticipated.” Hope you were both able to get what you wanted.

CHAPTER TEN

The stupid whiteboard needed to be broken in half and thrown out the window. Bruce Singleton kept writing more and more story ideas on it; computer hacking, child pornography, embezzlement. I was sitting in the conference room surrounded by the other producers, reporters and assignment editors. Cynthia and Vance huddled at the head of the table, scribbling furiously in notebooks.

For a Monday, my attention span was somewhere between nonexistent and barely functioning. I drew little corkscrew patterns on my notepad as Bruce droned on about an investigative piece on business owners in Deltona trying to cheat the government out of millions in taxes.

Riveting.

The rest of the meeting was spent brainstorming and planning for the week. One good thing about May was the busy workload. I had zero time to obsess over anything but how many stories I could cram into each night’s show and if the special projects pieces stayed on time without any glaring mistakes. By Wednesday, I was ready for the week to end. The day started with a bang. Literally.