I splurge on a taxi. It's an extravagant cost, taking me all the way to the city, but I spend the entire ride pretending this is normal for me. I'll arrive and talk to interesting journalists who are my peers and not my superiors.
War reporters. Political correspondents. Pulitzer-prize winners.
"This is where you're heading?" the driver asks me as he pulls up outside the venue. "Looks fancy."
"Yeah, that's me," I say. "I think."
I feel like an imposter, walking up the steps to the security guard. Any moment now they're going to stop me. Toss me out. Remind me where I live and what my salary is and how much student debt I have.
But the attendant only flashes me a wide smile when I show my e-vite.
"Welcome, Mrs. Booker. You'll find a coat check to your left and refreshments further inside."
My heels echo across the marble floor of the grand entrance. You're not in Kansas anymore, I think, and I've never even been to Kansas. Two men in tuxedos pass me, engrossed in conversation. In the center of the room is a string quartet and a harp player.
I've never seen an actual harp player.
A waiter stops by my side. He has an arm behind his back and extends a tray my way. "A drink, miss?"
"Yes, thank you."
I accept the glass of champagne and wonder how I got lucky enough to attend the Reporters' Ball as a newly hired junior reporter. All around me are people whose work I've read hundreds of times. I see Dean Allen, a journalist who once guest-lectured at my university. He's laughing with a colleague.
And I'm at the same party as him.
It's a pinch-me moment. An I-can't-believe-I'm-here moment. It's an-
Carter Kingsley is here too.
I spot him by the bar. He's taller than the men around him, his dark auburn hair looking almost black in the dim lighting. All I can see is his profile, but I would make him out anywhere.
My friend-turned-asshole-boss-turned-tentative-friend-again.
He's in a tuxedo, the fabric clinging to him like a well-tailored second skin. It's impossible to see him like this and reconcile the man I'd texted with for weeks, that I'd shared dry jokes and commentary and nonsense with.
He doesn't fit into a neat box in my head.
"First Reporters'?"
I jump, and the woman to my left gives me a quick smile. "Sorry. Bad habit of mine. I'm Juliette."
"Audrey," I say.
We shake hands and I learn she's with the Chronicler . A few years older than me, perhaps, and chatty. Turns out she's also a killer at working a room. I lose sight of Carter somewhere amongst all the mingling, and soon forget about him, too. There are too many names to remember and people to meet.
By the time I make it over to the bar for another drink, I have a parched throat and a smile on my face. I'll need a month to digest the conversations I've had here tonight. A year. A decade.
"You look like you're enjoying yourself," a man says, amused flirtation in his voice. He has glasses and is holding on to a glass of red wine. He smiles at me.
And I'm instantly nervous.
It hits me right in the gut, the same way it does with first dates, and my breathing grows shallow. "I am," I say. "Absolutely."
He shifts closer. "Haven't seen you around before. Where do you work?"
"The Globe ," I say. He's cute enough. Very smiley. About my height, and probably similar in age. Clearly an option, which is why my insides feel like they're on fire, and not in a comfortable way.
Exposure therapy, I repeat. Exposure therapy.
"Wow. Impressive," he says, shifting closer again. "Here alone?"
"Mhm, yes. Having a blast, though. There are incredible people here."
"They sure think so themselves, too," he says beneath his breath. Then he laughs and fits his arm next to mine on the bar top. "You look new. Not from New York?"
"I'm from upstate."
He laughs again, like I've told a joke. "Well, I know all the best spots in the city. Why don't I show you around one day? I think a connection at the Globe would be excellent. Doesn't hurt that you're easy on the eyes, either," he says with a wink.
I lean back. Everything about his charm is backwards. "Where do you work?"
"The Quintessential ," he says, naming an online-only publication. It's renowned for posting articles without citations or facts and not caring at all. "Tell me something. Why is a girl like you here alone?"
I grip my glass tighter. "I think I'm going to do a sweep of the floor now."
"So soon? Why don't we-"
"There you are," a familiar voice says from behind me. It's smooth and cultured, but there's no mistaking the masculine edge beneath it. "I'm sorry I was late, baby."
Carter puts a hand on my shoulder and I catch the scent of him, cologne and aftershave and something that's clean like soap.
Creepy-guy's eyes drift between us. "You two are a couple?"
"Yes," I say, leaning into Carter's side. "Going on three years."
He puts his empty glass on the bar with a sharp twang. "Shoot," he says, all graceful subtlety, and stalks off.
Carter takes his hand away and turns to me. "You looked cornered."
"A bit, yeah. Thanks."
"Saving you from awkward situations with men seems to be my forte." He raises an eyebrow. "Didn't know you'd be here tonight, kid."
"Me neither, until about two hours ago. Booker had a ticket she couldn't use, so she very kindly gave it to me."
"Very kind indeed," he says. "Enjoying yourself?"
"Yes. I can't believe who's here. I spoke to Eugenia Lee earlier. You know, the woman who reported from-"