Hot Off The Press

by Abby Knox

  Hot Off The Press

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2020 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Proofread by Red Pen Princess

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  Created with Vellum

  This book is dedicated to Florida oranges. Far superior to any other. Fight me.

  Hot Off The Press

  Overworked, seasoned sports writer Beast has little patience to spare for training a new hot-shot reporter he's never met, especially when he's on deadline with a blizzard approaching. When she finally bursts through the door, bringing with her a boatload of Florida sunshine, he is suddenly in danger of forgetting to worry about the coming storm.

  Avery has her reasons for moving from balmy Florida to work at a small newspaper in the middle of the icy Heartland in January, but she's going to have to bring her A game to win the trust of the grouchy, underpaid staff. After working late into the night, the road between the office and her hotel is impassable, which puts her in an awkward position with her new coworker. Luckily, he has a couch she can sleep on, an extra toothbrush, a spare shirt for her to wear, and plenty of body heat to share.

  Get ready to cuddle up and keep warm with these two brand-new coworkers while the blizzard of the century literally blows the doors off!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  Chapter One

  Beast

  Where is she?

  Avery, our new fancy-pants reporter, was supposed to be here gathering quotes from the high school football coaches by now.

  Skimming over this morning’s memo from Perry, our publisher, in my email, I confirm her expected arrival time. He’d said his new hire would be here by nine so I could give her the rundown on all the high school game stats we need to compile before deadline. At this point, I’ll be lucky to give her copy a decent read-through before press time.

  I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of having someone under me whose sports writing is untested to my knowledge, but with the way this company chews up and spits out writers, I’ll take a monkey with a typewriter.

  The managing editor, Reese, who’s loudly typing out his football stats into our database like a madman, has a forehead vein looking like it’s out to pop out of his pink skin. He reminds me of the color of one of those hairless cats, but not nearly as cute.

  “Hey, Reese, has the new girl called saying she’s running late?”

  Reese purses his lips and says with an air of being put-upon, “I don’t know any more than you do, friendo. She was Perry’s special little snowflake hire—some chipper Katie Couric wannabe he met at national awards night—not mine.”

  Something tells me Reese isn’t taking too kindly to having no input on this personnel decision, and he’s taking it out on everyone else because he’s a worn-down middle manager who won’t stand up to Perry.

  The politics of this office, I swear.

  Never mind that this paper’s subscription readership has been circling the drain for decades, yet somehow Perry still runs the place like it’s 1955, mandating that reporters put in 50-hour work weeks, even on salary. He just last year offered a 401k plan and tried to pass it off as a raise for everyone. That whole business raised my hackles and still does. I don’t know how payrolls and contributions work, but I’ve had the sense that something ain’t right for a while now.

  I mosey back to my sparsely decorated work space, lean against my desk and stare at the wall, the line of plaques from Nationals glinting at me in the fluorescent lights. Perry does whatever he wants and the rest of us eat shit because, well, it’s the best paper in the state in our circulation division, and that gets all of us staffers awards.

  The back door whines in protest to being pulled open. Then my ears pick up the sounds of boots stomping, a shivery blowing out of breath, and a female voice talking to herself about investing in warmer clothes. “Forgot to add blizzards right under tornadoes on my con list for relocating to Podunk City on the Plains. Least I’ll look cute in some L.L. Bean gear.”

  Oh god. Princess Snowflake is here.

  I lean against my desk and cross my arms, waiting for the lady to grace us with her presence. When she finally emerges from the rear vestibule, I get ready to give her a speech about being on time.

  “You’re late,” I say.

  But I don’t get much further than that.

  A tall, bubbly woman wearing an old-fashioned trench coat, thigh-high leather boots, and an oversized scarf that might as well be a throw blanket barrels into the newsroom, carrying a large wooden crate full of oranges. Her presence fills up the place with light and color and sound before she’s even introduced herself.

  “Hey! Hi! You must by my new boss!” Because I was raised right, I take the crate of oranges first, mentally noting to ask questions about it later. I plop it on my desk, sardonically looking forward to cleaning up wood shavings and packing material later.

  The woman offers no apology for being late. Like she didn’t even hear me. Instead, she thrusts out her hand and I take it in mine. Her hand is freezing but her skin is soft. My eyes travel from her bright, expectant eyes to her multicolored scarf, to the large leather portfolio that hangs at her side by a cross-body strap. She brought everything with her tonight but the kitchen sink, I guess.

  “I’m Avery Jacobs. Nice to meet you, boss. I’ve heard great things about you and I’m excited to be working with you. I’m sure Perry told you, I have zero experience writing football. As you know from my clips, I’ve been writing about the arts and human interest pieces for so long I don’t know if I can even tell you what an RBI or relief pitcher is. But don’t worry! I’m a fast learner, I talk fast, I write fast, and I think you and I are going to have so much fun together.”

  For a second I wonder if she’s standing there talking to me from an alternate universe, one in which this office is, in fact, fun. I glance around and nobody has moved; all the other reporters are busy typing, squinting at their screens, or interviewing coaches in subdued tones on the phone. Nobody’s laughing or even smiling. Then I catch her smile and it’s bright and real and full of hope. Her smile lights up the space around her, like she’s so full of goodness she’s created a cushion of sunshine that makes her immune to her drab surroundings.

  Oh god, I think. This poor, sweet girl with the Panhandle accent has no clue what’s about to happen to her. She’s entering the belly of an antiquated, slightly chauvinist beast.

  Still, I find myself wanting to be a part of that energy of hers. I haven’t felt that kind of positivity and zeal in a long time, but as
much as I want to absorb all I can, I have to let go of her hand at some point or she might think I’m trying to make a move on her.

  “Beast,” I say, not bothering to correct her that I’m not technically her boss. I don’t have any more words, because her dancing brown eyes and quick words and pure bright energy have dried my vocal cords right up. I am a sapling tree bending in the sudden storm of Avery Jacobs.

  “Beast, huh? Well, I promise to be a good girl if you promise not to eat me!” The way she says it is so innocent yet it flips a switch. Honestly, the switch was in mid-flip as soon as I laid eyes on her. Now the switch is all the way up. Other things also move in an upward direction as she waits for me to acknowledge her little joke, starting with an emerging story inside my jeans. I open my mouth to respond, but I’m not quick enough for this shimmering, fast-talking sprite who stares at me expectantly.

  Avery’s face falls slightly. “I shouldn’t joke about your name. I’m buzzing from all that snow outside, I haven’t been in the snow since I was little and it just got me all excited.”

  I shake my head and try to smile. My smile feels weird and not enough to match hers. Everything about her face as she watches me has a touch of sweetness, wildness, wide-openness. Not a speck of ulterior motivation.

  Finally, I respond, “If I got offended that easily I wouldn’t be working in the newspaper business.”

  She nods in understanding. When her hand finally slips out of mine and she steps back, everything feels pale and cold and gray again. The distance between is only inches, but in those inches that separate us, I’m standing at the edge of a great, frozen, hopeless void. She is made of a warmth I didn’t know I was missing.

  But she couldn’t possibly be interested in me. I’m a big, slow-moving, slow-speaking ox trying to talk to a flittering, sparkling hummingbird. She probably thinks I’m as dull as—well, as dull as this whole town can be in the dead of winter.

  Remember what you’re doing here, Beast? You have a shit ton of work to do. She’s here to work, not wait around for you to figure out how to flirt with her.

  I say, “Well, we’ve got a lot of work to do so, let me show you to your desk…”

  “Great! Can’t wait!” she interjects, spinning on her heels and headed away from me before I can continue. “But first, point me to the break room. And bring those oranges; I had them shipped ahead of me to the hotel. Straight from the farm. They. Are. Amazing. Well, come on! Coffee, then worky!”

  Chapter Two

  Avery

  “You are sort of late, though, so why don’t I show you to your desk first and then…”

  I find the break room on my own despite Beast trying to redirect me. He can try all he wants. The smell of burnt brew guides me like a homing device. What can I say? I grew up around grizzled old reporters who fueled all-nighters with stale coffee, cigarettes, and bourbon.

  Beast, like those old geezers, has an interesting, gravelly voice. The difference is, it also sounds like he’s got a deviated septum from one too many rough tackles on the field. Yeah, I was pulling his leg when I pretended not to know the difference between baseball and football. Are you kidding? My hometown is in Florida. Football is literally the only activity my Gramps ever did besides eat, sleep, and breathe the newspaper biz.

  Beast’s voice is already appealing to me, though it’s clear he is a man of few words. I can already tell I’m going to have a ton of fun working with that guy. While I can be a lot to take, I gravitate to quieter, more thoughtful people. And I can tell he’s my kind of people. Gramps’s kind of people.

  The name Beast, though…feels sort of like…a mean thing to call someone.

  I sip the coffee and confirm it is burnt. Whether in the South or out here in the flat lands of middle America, one thing is the same: newspaper offices have shitty coffee. And I love it.

  I make a mental note to ask if Beast is as old-school as I am and keeps a fifth of bourbon in his bottom desk drawer.

  The sound of the wooden crate of oranges being hefted onto the break room table makes me swing around, ready for some get-to-know-you chatter. I swing a little too briskly, and my bag bounces off of Beast’s midsection. I hadn’t realized he was standing so close to me.

  He makes no noise at the impact but winces, closes his eyes, and releases a long, heavy sigh of a very tired man who has dealt with random employees hitting him in the midsection with their bags every day for a century.

  “I am late. Thanks for your patience,” I chirp, lifting my mug of coffee in salute. “The weather out there is bracing, isn’t it?”

  He peers down at me and I can’t read his face. I smile in return. He should try smiling like before. He has an understated, awkward smile. It looks like a kid who’s deeply uncomfortable under the gaze of an official school photographer and it makes me want to hug him.

  “I don’t…go outside. Much.”

  As I study him, his large brown eyes study me back. Overall, nice features.

  If I were to act unprofessionally, I would say, well, here’s a big-ass bearded hunk of ex-football meat that I do not dislike.

  Too bad he’s grumpy as shit and I’ve already annoyed him.

  “Why not? Don’t you love the snow?”

  “I don’t mind it. It does not affect me one way or another.”

  Just then the police scanner squawks: “Highway 51 impassable outside city limits. Patrol of the area is called in for tonight. Emergency responders only.”

  I sip my coffee and look at him meaningfully. “It’s about to affect you. Big blizzard on the way, haven’t you heard? The wind was really kicking up when I drove into town. Want me to take that story, and you punt with what you already have for sports, boss?”

  His wide forehead furrows. He opens his mouth to speak but then another, whinier voice that reminds me a little of Templeton from Charlotte’s Web interrupts us. “Well, actually, I’m your boss. Reese. Reese Baxter.”

  “Great! Then you’re the guy I need to talk to about a raise,” I say with a wink, but something serious lies behind it.

  Reese looks flummoxed. “Perry gave us all raises last year.”

  “What?” Beast interjects. “No, he didn’t. He gave us the option of 401k plans and tried to pass it off as a raise.”

  Reese’s face looks like Beast has betrayed some kind of corporate secret.

  “Buddy from the financial advisor place next door came over and explained the whole thing,” Reese says through clenched teeth.

  Now, I must chime in. Trying to keep my tone breezy, I say, “That’s interesting. But surely any financial advisor worth his salt would not agree to couch that as a raise. My experience has been that my Gr—I mean, my former boss always gave people a cost of living raise every year.”

  Reese folds his arms across his stomach defensively. “You must come from a pretty wealthy community down in Florida, I guess. Doesn’t work that way here.”

  My gaze volleys between Beast’s open, bemused countenance and Reese’s pinched, discomfited mug.

  “It’s not a wealthy community by any stretch,” I say calmly. It’s true. The town I came from was not, in itself, affluent. These Yankees don’t know anything about me, or my family, though. Which is another story. A story that nobody needs to know about. Yet.

  “Welp,” I say, raising my chipped coffee mug in a gesture of cheers. “Here’s to new adventures.”

  Beast looks slightly amused. Reese isn’t the least bit moved by my Southern charms and the extra dollop of drawl I added for good measure.

  Time to get to work, I suppose.

  I take a risk by playfully nudging Beast’s shoulder with my closed fist. Yep, that’s my move when I’m curious how jacked someone’s arms are. “Well, then, if I’m writing sports tonight, then you’re the boss of me tonight, right, Beast? Put me in, Coach. I’m ready to play.”

  Reese goes on with a speech about the chain of command. I give Beast a grin. He doesn’t exactly return it, but still, his eyes give a clue of s
light interest.

  “That song is about baseball,” he whispers.

  Reese makes a lot of noise as he shoves a piece of paper in between me and Beast, muttering something about tax forms for me to fill out. When he finally walks away, Beast is still staring at me.

  “What song?” I ask.

  Another long and exasperated but still slightly amused sigh. “All right, Tiger. Let’s put you in. Follow me.”

  I watch his backside move as he tromps back into the newsroom.

  I don’t hate watching him walk in front of me. And the way he says “Tiger” does things to my body. Nice, inappropriate things.

  Ah well. I’m probably just bored by rural America while overstimulated by the terrible coffee. It’s going to be an interesting night.

  Chapter Three

  Beast

  Her face is unreadable when I show her the football stats spreadsheet. She nods furiously, but there’s no way she’s getting all of this.

  Well, she can take her time, because I don’t mind at all inhaling her scent while she stands behind me, her body leaning over me to peer at the screen in front of us.

  What is that smell? Focus, Beast. Focus.

  “So you can see here, you sign in to the doc and then input all the individual players’ stats here, and their names over here…”

  Is it lemon? No, that’s not right. Something about her is bringing up a memory of a citrusy cheesecake at my grandma’s house on Christmas Day.