Page 15 of Cut Off
“And we thank you for your service. But you’re an assistant producer, Zoe. Those are a dime a dozen, and I can have you replaced by this afternoon with someone who’s willing to do what it takes to get our network back on track.”
“Wow.” Sothat’show he sees me! A cheap, replaceable cog in a wheel. He’s so wrong, but he doesn’t know it. He clearly doesn’t realize the infinite little fires I put out everyday, and all the quirks of this station that no one knows how to fix but me. I save Donny’s ass daily. I do all the research and behind-the-scenes work on the stories. I’m here working split shifts more often than anyone should because something’s gone sideways, and I seem to be the only person who knows how to fix it. “Someday soon, you’ll realize I’m not so easily replaceable.”
I stand, surprised to find my legs steady beneath me. “And when you do, don’t come to find me.”
Donny’s smirk grows into a full-blown grin as I turn to leave. I resist the urge to “accidentally” spill my coffee on his pristine white shirt. Barely.
I don’t know why, but I’m not sad, although I probably will be—let’s get real. But right now, I’m just… ready to leave.
Maybe because I’m tired of how quickly Marcus will throw others under the bus for ratings, how loyalty means nothing in this business, how thin the line is between reporting and exploitation. I already learned that with Sydney, so this just feels like a confirmation that KBVR is not the place for me. Maybe that’s why this is so easy—it’s been in the back of my mind for a long time now.
It’s clear my much-deserved promotion was never coming.
The walk to my desk should feel like one of shame, but it doesn’t. And I’d know—I’ve had some doozies. Like the time I tried to sneak out of Brad Wilkins’ dorm room at 6 a.m. only to bump into his entire Ultimate Frisbee team doing morning stretches in the hallway.
I grab a cardboard box from the supply closet, tossing in my sad little plant that’s somehow survived four years of neglect, my “World’s Okayest Producer” mug (a gag gift from Sydney), and the framed photo of my family from our trip to Yellowstone. My two little brothers and younger sister weresuch a pain in the ass on that trip, but I took care of them, as always, and it ended up being a lot of fun.
Then I toss in my two pairs of backup glasses, a half-empty bottle of emergency Advil, and three lipsticks in various states of usage. It’s amazing how little evidence there is of four years spent in this place. No awards, no recognition.
Outside the station, I immediately dial Jonah—I have to warn him before Donny blindsides him with this story, before Eli’s face is splashed across the evening news without consent or context.
The call goes straight to voicemail. Of course it does. It’s 4:48 in the morning, and Jonah Holt probably has my number silenced after our Christmas mess.
I call again. “Jonah, it’s Zoe. Call me ASAP. It’s an emergency.” I call again and again.
By the fifth call, I’m practically shouting at my phone. “Jonah Holt, I swear to God, if you don’t pick up—”
It cuts me off.Nice.
It’s a good thing I don’t feel anything close to wanting to crawl in bed and cry right now because I don’t have that luxury. I jump in my Jeep, box tossed in the back seat, and as I drive, I keep checking my rearview mirror to make sure I’m not being followed. I don’t think I am, but it’s still dark, and my paranoia is dialed up to eleven.
I have to talk to Jonah, and I hope to hell he’s at his Dickens house because I’m on my way there to warn him. Hebetterstill be there—he has to be. After what happened with Eli last night, he wouldn’t have driven back to Boise.
Right?
I park half on the curb in front of Jonah’s house, probably violating several homeowner association rules in the process, and sprint to the front door. His place is gorgeous—one of those modern designs with massive windows and a roof deck that probably cost more than my entire apartment building, which is half commercial real-estate because Sparkling Suds is on the main floor. I’m relieved to see his SUV parked in the garage. At least I don’t have to hunt him down in Boise.
Of course the house is dark at this hour, but this is an emergency.
I pound on the door like I’m the furious ex-girlfriend. “Jonah! Wake up! It’s Zoe!”
Nothing.
I pound again, harder this time. My fist is going to be bruised tomorrow, but that’s a problem for Future Zoe. Present Zoe has bigger issues.
“JONAH HOLT, OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR I’LL—”
The door swings open mid-threat, and I fall forward into what can only be described as the eighth wonder of the world: Jonah Holt’s bare chest.
Oh. My. God.
He’s standing there in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs that leave very little to the imagination, his auburn hair sticking up in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but somehow absolutely is. Sleep lines crease one side of his face, and his blue eyes narrow in confusion and annoyance.
I fight off a gasp. And I absolutely keep my eyes from roaming to his junk. Do not look down, do NOT look down. It’s a mantra I repeat silently as I take in his bare chest—which, wow, hockey really does wonders for a guy’s physique. Each muscle is so clearly defined it’s like someone carved him outof marble and then brought him to life just to torture me specifically.
“Zoe? What the hell?” His voice is rough with sleep, and it does things to my insides that I refuse to acknowledge.
I force my eyes to stay on his face, which is like trying not to look at a car crash: against basic human nature. “We need to talk,” I manage, my voice higher than usual. “Right now.”
