Page 1 of All That Glitters

Chapter one

The Pitch

Marigold Belmore

I wish I could say the urge to punch someone was rare for me, but it’s not. It is, however, much rarer when Jameson Sinclair isn’t in my vicinity.

“Fantastic article, Sinclair,” our editor in chief, Charlie, says. He grabs one of Jameson’s hulking shoulders with a friendly smile. “It’ll be on the cover next week.”

“Thanks,” Jameson replies in his usual gruff tone. He doesn’t even look up from his laptop.

I roll my eyes. Charlie pats Jameson’s shoulder once more before heading to his office on the other side of the room.

“The least you could do is look him in the eye when he compliments you,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back in my swivel chair.

The Thrasher is one of the best school papers in the Southeast. As such, it’s got a state-of-the-art newsroom. There are desks everywhere, each one boasting an expensive computer monitor and tons of organization. Everyone has a place to call their own, to decorate how they see fit. There are a few tables for collaboration purposes too, and a smart board to write ideas on. When I first got here last semester, I remember being enamored by the room and the idea that my desk would be next to great reporters and editors. That feeling wore off as soon as Charlie sat me across from Jameson.

The Traitor looks up slowly from his laptop. Brooding scowl firmly in place, he replies, “Charlie doesn’t like me because I simper over throwaway compliments. He likes me because I do good work. Work that I’m doing right now. Or rather, was, before you interrupted me.”

“There’s a line between diligence and insolence.”

“I’ll let you know when I find it.”

A frustrated growl rises in my throat. One that I squash as soon as a gaggle of other writers enter the room. Jameson likes to arrive early for pitch meetings. So I do my best to arrive before him. When I beat him, the satisfaction outweighs the knowledge that I’ll have to share an empty newsroom with him for longer than necessary. When I don’t … I get a touch grouchy. As to be expected, considering I’ve vowed to see him as little as possible.

“You look like you need coffee,” Paisley, my friend and desk neighbor to the right, says as she approaches. She places a paper cup down on my desk.

“You are a queen.” I grab the warm cup. “People should erect statues in your honor. Designate a building on campus to you. In fact, they should change the name of the university—”

She cuts me off, tapping the lid of the travel cup. “Drink. You sound delirious.”

Likely because I’m running off of caffeine and the breakfast sandwich my roommate Jasmine threw at me before I left for classes this morning. Sleep has been elusive as of late. Not sure that more coffee will help, but it’s not as though I can curl up under my desk and take a nap.

I pick up the latte and take a long drink. It’s a touch stronger than usual.

“Triple shot?” I ask Paisley.

She hops up on the corner of her desk, making her long checkered skirt swish. Her signature cowgirl boots peek out of the bottom. Paisley was born and raised in New Jersey, but you wouldn’t know it if she didn’t tell you. The woman wears boots on the daily, uses y’all in every conversation, and loves horses more than people. She makes me look like a Northerner, even though I’ve lived here in Georgia my whole life.

“In honor of the time you texted me at.” She takes a sip of her iced matcha. “Why were you up at the ridiculous hour of three in the morning?”

I feel Jameson’s gaze on me. I wish I was able to turn off that ability. When we were friends, it was a comfort. A connection between us that I cherished. I could feel his stare, look up from whatever I was working on, and share a look that only we’d know the meaning of. Now, post-betrayal, it feels like a cruel gift. I cut my gaze to him; he looks back down at his laptop.

“I thought my text explained why,” I say before reaching for the journal I keep on my person at all times.

Our meeting should start soon, and I wrote my best pitches in the tiny leather notebook yesterday during my Algebra class. Whoever decided English majors needed to take math and science better hope they never meet me. I’ve got some words for them. And maybe one of those punches I daydream about.

“All you sent was a Shakespeare quote.” Paisley’s tone is wry. She pulls her phone out of the pocket of her oversized denim jacket. “I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.”

I’m smiling behind my coffee cup when I feel it again. Jameson. I glance in his direction. He quickly averts his gaze. His lips are turned up just barely at the edges. My heart aches like a bruise someone prodded. He knows. He always understood my references. I turn my attention back to Paisley, trying to ignore the pain.

“I was finishing my biology project,” I tell her.

Realization lights her blue eyes. “That was due today. So your text was about procrastinating!” She snaps her fingers. “One day I’ll get it right without having to ask.”

I give her a small smile. Paisley is a fantastic editor. She can take the worst article and spin it into gold. Her red pen is ruthless, but never wrong. However, she is not one for classical literature. Her love of words begins and ends with journalism.

A sharp clap yanks my attention toward the other side of the room. Charlie smiles at everyone.