Page 13 of The Midnight Frequency

This hallway was becoming a bit too crowded for my liking.

“I’ve been looking everywhere! I thought that human lingering around with the camera might have stolen it.”

“Which human with a camera?” Maggie asked.

“Perhaps the same one who is secretly filming the fae in the waiting room,” I supplied.

“Great. Just what today needed. Wait… aren’t you supposed to be on in like three minutes?” She cast a worried look at the two-sided clock hanging at the opening of the hallway.

“Yes. Excuse me.”

I needed to get away from Maggie and all her cinnamon sugar and blushing. As well as her friend whose eyes seemed to notice entirely too much.

“Make sure to send me that dry-cleaning bill!” Maggie called as I strode away.

I moved into the studio with two minutes to spare, thanks to my long stride, super speed, and determination to escape from the women in the hallway.

“Was about to send out a smoke signal,” Jack, my producer, said as I pulled out my chair.

“I got sidelined by that… assistant.” If my tone sounded aggravated, I hoped Jack would assume it was from the inconvenience of the encounter, not the stirring of something too close to attraction for comfort.

“What assistant?” Jack asked. His shaggy head tilted to the side as he watched me with a confused expression.

The one that smelled like Christmas cookies.

“Margaret something-or-other.”

“Maggie? Do you mean Maggie?”

“Yes. That was her name. Maggie.” A name as sweet as her scent.

“Maggie isn’t an assistant. She’s the studio manager.”

I glanced over to look at him through the glass separating the studio from the booth, searching for any signs of humor. Like he was screwing with me. Even though I knew the guy was too easygoing to do something like tease someone. The man was too pleasant even for me to dislike. Though he did have that awful dog smell that only I seemed to notice.

“Studio manager.”

“Yeah. Essentially, your boss.”

“I have no boss. I’m on contract.”

“No, you are on air,” he said, waving to the clock.

For the first time since starting in broadcasting, I fumbled over the words of my opening speech.

I could lay the blame on the run-in, my burnt chest, my wet shirt, my late arrival at the studio.

But I knew the truth.

It was all that cinnamon sugar and honey.

“Who do we have on the line?” I asked, recovering from the fumble.

“We have Gemma on line one. She’s struggling because she can’t find any human—or paranormal—man who lives up to the standards set by her book boyfriends.”

Oh, for the love of darkness.

Exhaling sharply, I pulled the mic closer and started to speak.