What's Your Sign?

by Lila Monroe

  And that’s when the elevator door opens.

  Oh, shit.

  “Just let me change my clothes really quick and we can go grab dinner,” I hear Justin saying, his footsteps echoing on the polished concrete as I look frantically around the bathroom for a place to hide. Could I flatten myself behind the door until they take off again? Lie down in the bathtub, maybe? I even look out the window, on the off chance there’s a fire escape and I can scale down twenty-seven floors—

  But no luck.

  I’m trapped.

  I’m resigned to crouching on the tile for the foreseeable future when I hear a woman’s voice: “Do you smell tomato sauce?” she asks, sounding confused. “Justin, did you make . . . lasagna?”

  “Whose purse is this?” a second male voice wants to know.

  Well. So much for stealth. I guess I can rule out a career as a super-spy. You know, after my journalism career is left in the dust in approximately ten seconds. Nine . . . eight . . .

  I gird my loins and open the bathroom door then head down the hallway. “Hey,” I say, awkwardly.

  They all turn. Justin is there, along with a slightly dorky-looking guy in hipster glasses and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. “Sorry,” I say, motioning behind me at the bathroom. “I downed a Big Gulp on the subway on the way over here; it was kind of an emergency.”

  I wince. An emergency, like I’m a kindergartener about to wet her pants during snack time. Real smooth, Natalie. Did you get that excuse from Keith the plumber?

  “No problem,” Justin says, looking at me a little strangely. He turns to the others. “This is my PA, Natalie. Natalie, this is my cousin Charlie and his girlfriend Luce.”

  I shake their hands. “Nice to meet you,” I say, trying for cheerful and nonthreatening and landing somewhere around deranged. Justin is looking at me in amusement. “Well, um,” I continue, “I guess I’ll be going. Enjoy your dinner. Not that I heard you were going out to dinner, it’s just, you know, dinnertime. Past dinnertime, even! You guys must be starving. Um, if you haven’t already eaten. So.”

  “See you Monday,” Justin says pointedly.

  “Yup!” I grab my purse off the island and frantically punch the button for the elevator.

  “Uh, Natalie?”

  “Yes?”

  Justin holds up the leaking Tupperware, garlicky red sauce dripping onto the floor like something out of a murder investigation. “I think this is yours.”

  “Thanks!” I blurt, grabbing it from him and hugging it to my chest. “Good ol’ home cooking, you know. Anyway, nice meeting you all!”

  The elevator doors thankfully slide shut, cutting short my humiliation. I’m left holding the ziti, with Justin’s parting smirk stuck in my brain.

  That’s going to stain.

  4

  Justin

  A week after taking the reins at the Gazette, I’m beginning to think that the newspaper isn’t so much a gift from the gods as a poisoned chalice. “That place will be the end of me,” I sigh, finally setting aside the spreadsheets that are giving me a headache, and a squint, too.

  “Dramatic much?” My cousin helps himself to another piece of sushi.

  “I mean it! You haven’t seen these financial projections. They all point in one direction: the dumpster.”

  I slump back in my seat. We’re in my office at the Rockford HQ, but even a takeout lunch can’t lift my spirits. “The paper is bleeding money, our systems and infrastructure are hugely outdated, and I can’t even walk down the hall to take a piss without somebody giving me the stinkeye like I’m the devil himself.”

  “Aw, poor baby,” Charlie teases. “You have to use the public bathrooms with the rest of the unwashed masses?”

  “I’m serious,” I protest. “This whole thing is a total clusterfuck.”

  “I know it is,” Charlie says cheerfully, opening a packet of soy sauce. “And dude, please believe me when I say: better you than me.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I shake my head with a smile. “Says the guy who didn’t have to spend five hours yesterday in corporate compliance meetings.”

  Charlie is my first cousin on my dad’s side, which means theoretically he should be mired in corporate muck right along with me, but he basically flipped the bird at Rockford life altogether in favor of med school. Which would have been just about acceptable if he’d been some high-flying surgeon, but nope, Charlie became a medical researcher instead, and spends his time locked away in a lab somewhere, growing smallpox, or whatever it is he does. Everyone else in our family thinks he’s some kind of crazy science geek, but the truth is that spending my days peering at bacteria through a microscope doesn’t sound half-bad right about now. At least bacteria don’t rely on you to keep their entire news organization afloat and save everyone’s jobs in the process.

  “What am I going to do?” I ask, staring at the stacks of paperwork that I’ve been hoping might hold the answer to how I can turn the ship around. Spoiler alert: they don’t.

  “You know,” Charlie says, as if he’s reading my mind—and he might be; we grew up as close as brothers, suffering through a million stuffy Rockford functions together and standing firm under the weight of parental disappointment. “There’s no reason you have to deal with this. You could quit, do something else instead.”

  “Like what?” I shake my head. “I don’t have your brains, buddy.”

  He grins. “We all know that. I’m just saying you don’t have to be at your dad’s beck and call for the rest of your life, either.”

  “Easy for you to say.” I give a rueful smile. The truth is, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy some of the perks of being a Rockford. And I actually like the family business, to boot. I have all kinds of ideas for the corporation, if and when I ever get a say in how things are run—green initiatives, employee buy-in, even a startup incubator. The only thing standing in my way is—

  “Uncle Ashland!” Charlie says suddenly, sitting up a little straighter as my father appears in the doorway in a staid blue suit. “How are you this fine afternoon?”

  “Charlie,” my father says, nodding curtly. “Justin.”

  “Hey, Dad.” I crumple up my napkin, suddenly losing my appetite. I should have known my father would be able to sense any dissent in the ranks all the way from his corner office. Never mind chanting “Beetlejuice” three times in a row. If you want the great Ashland Rockford on your doorstep, just think “altruism” and watch him show up to stamp down any non-profitable plans. “What’s up?” I ask, bracing myself for another lecture.

  “Whoa, would you look at the time?” Charlie makes a big show of looking at his empty wrist. “I can hear the germs calling my name all the way from here. See you around, cuz. Uncle Ashland.” He shoves a fistful of edamame into his jeans pocket before making a beeline for the door.

  Once he’s gone, my father fixes me with a stern glare. “I wanted to check in with you about your progress on the Gazette acquisition,” he tells me, his posture as straight as a wartime general’s. “Where are we on layoffs so far?”

  “About that,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I think I may have come up with a plan that eliminates the need to fire anyone altogether.”

  “What?” My father’s slate eyes narrow. “That’s not the plan, Justin. If you recall, we discussed—”

  “We didn’t discuss anything, really,” I remind him, hating how unsure I sound. After all, I’ve spent the last two weeks going over the Gazette’s accounts with a fine-tooth comb. My ideas are solid. It’s just a matter of convincing my dad. “And I know your preference was to cut personnel and go strictly online within thirty days, but—”

  “It was more than my preference, son.” His already-thin lips all but disappear. “It’s the plan of action agreed on by the Executive Board of the Rockford Corporation and assigned to you to carry out. You were the one who requested this project, although God knows why.” He shakes his head. “Newspapers are a dying business. I know I don’t have to
tell you that.”

  “I know, Dad,” I say, trying not to sound like a surly teenager. “But there’s a different solution here, I’m sure. The circulation numbers aren’t terrible. And the content is great. There are some really talented people on staff. Just give me a couple more weeks to figure something out, and I’ll have a new action plan for you—one the Board will approve.”

  My father just sighs. “I have a meeting,” he says with a swift glance at his Rolex, “but as far as I’m concerned, this line of inquiry is officially closed. You’ve got your marching orders, Justin. And get yourself a pair of decent shoes while you’re at it, will you?” He nods with his chin at my beloved Converse. “You’re not a child, for God’s sake. You certainly can’t expect anyone to respect you when you clearly don’t respect yourself.”

  “Sure, Dad.” The tone in his voice makes it clear that he doesn’t respect me, either. “I’ll get right on that.”

  Once he’s gone, I grab the stack of spreadsheets one more time. Sure, I haven’t seen an answer lurking in the small print just yet, but I meant what I said—I think I can turn things around at the paper.

  I only I hope I’m right.

  Later that afternoon, I finally drag myself away from reports and head over to the Gazette offices to see things for myself. The bullpen is bustling when I arrive, the sound of fingertips on computer keys and the coffeepot burbling away in the breakroom. I love the energy here, and to be honest, I would rather be set up in the conference room, but there’s one particular reason I’ve been keeping my distance.

  A petite, dark-haired reason, who’s currently doing battle with a vending machine.

  Natalie Martinelli, the bane of my existence.

  OK, I’m exaggerating, but only a little.

  Technically, I shouldn’t even be keeping her on. I have an assistant over at Rockford HQ. Hell, I have three of them. Any one of them could come over with me to handle this stuff—and not be a potential HR disaster waiting to happen. But when Natalie had made that impassioned stand for her job, and stared at me with such stubborn determination, I caved. She cares about this place, anyone can see, and with the future of the paper in the balance, I can use all the passion I can get.

  Just not, you know, focused in my direction.

  I pause, watching Natalie scowl and hammer at the glass. She’s wearing skinny black pants and a creamy ivory sweater, a delicate gold pendant nestled into the pale hollow of her neck. I let my gaze slide over her ass for a fraction of a second before coming back to myself: slow your roll, Rockford.

  Yes, Natalie is beautiful—and smart, and funny, and ballsy as all hell.

  Yes, that moment in the elevator was beyond hot.

  But she’s also my employee—for as long as I can manage to stall layoffs, at least. Which means she’s one hundred percent off limits.

  I turn my back and head to my office, shutting myself in and busying myself answering emails and going over financial paperwork. I’m finally nearing inbox zero when there’s a knock on the door. “Thought you could probably use a pick-me-up,” Natalie reports, setting a Starbucks cup on my desk.

  “Oh my God, you’re a hero,” I say, surprised by the gesture. I wouldn’t blame her if she was already totally fed up with being my assistant, since the truth is I’ve been sending her on every ridiculous errand I can think of in an attempt to keep her the hell away from me. It’s not fair to her, I know, but she’s a distraction—a smooth-skinned, sharp-tongued, perfectly curvy distraction—and I can’t afford any of those right now with so much on the line. “Thank you.”

  Natalie blinks. “So, you do know the word.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she mutters. Her gaze slides to the stacks of paper I have piled around the room. “Need me to help file any of that?”

  “I wish, but nope. I still need them . . . around. In case,” I add.

  She grins. “My philosophy with my clothes and the bedroom floor.”

  I smile back . . . and then immediately think of her clothes, on my bedroom floor. Her, naked in my bed, picking up right where we left off in that elevator . . .

  Focus.

  I grab my to-do list. “Hey, would you mind checking on the astrology column for tomorrow’s edition?” I ask her, relieved to have an actual work query to toss in her direction. “It’s past deadline.”

  “Pearl’s column?” Natalie frowns. “That’s not like her. She’s usually good with deadlines. I’ll see what’s going on.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her, forcing my gaze back to my computer.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not right now.” I frown at the screen until she leaves the office, then I exhale in a long breath. A newspaper on the brink of collapse, and a walking temptation strolling around right in front of me?

  Those bacteria are looking pretty good right about now.

  * * *

  I spend the rest of the day in wall-to-wall meetings with the top editorial and advertising staff, trying to reassure everyone that I’ve got everything under control—even though it doesn’t feel that way to me. By the end of the day, I can’t help but wonder if my dad was right: I’m in over my head in a big way. I was sick of standing around watching the Rockford Corporation swoop in and dismantle company after company, and I really thought I could make a difference here, but it’s obvious everyone thinks I’m nothing but a trust fund kid playing dress up as a CEO.

  And maybe they’re right.

  “I’ve got the horoscope column,” Natalie announces that evening, knocking on my

  door just as I’m starting to get ready to leave.

  “Thanks a lot,” I tell her, offering her a tired smile.

  “Twice in one day, lucky me,” she replies.

  I give her a quizzical look.

  “It’s nothing,” she says, looking away. “Just that you . . . could express your gratitude a little more often. Not just to me, but the rest of the staff,” she adds hurriedly. “It might help, is all.”

  I feel a stab of guilt. Clearly, I’ve been spending way too much time around my dad, because taking people for granted has been his modus operandi for years. I just never wanted it to be mine.

  “Sorry,” I tell her, meaning it. “There’s so much to get done, I can be kind of . . . brusque sometimes.”

  “I would go with ‘rude’ and ‘demanding,’ but OK.” Natalie smiles at me.

  “I’ll do better,” I promise. “Thank you.”

  “Yes, boss. Is there anything else I can do?” she asks. “You look beat.”

  “No, thanks.” I shake my head. “You can knock off early if you want. I know you’ve been busting your—well. Anyway.” I clear my throat. “You can go.”

  Natalie smiles. “Thanks,” she says, then makes no move to leave. “Can I ask you

  something?” she begins, hovering in the doorway. “Are the rumors true? About the layoffs, I mean.”

  I sink back down into my chair. “I hope not,” I say with a sigh. “I’m doing everything I possibly can to minimize the damage, I can tell you that much.”

  “But?” she prompts.

  “But . . .” I pause, reluctant. “At the end of the day, the numbers need to add up. I’m trying to make it work,” I add. “I’m fighting for you all, believe me. I just can’t make any promises.”

  Natalie looks like she wants to say something, but instead she just nods. “Fair enough,” she says lightly. “Have a good night.”

  Once she’s gone I stare out the window for a moment, my brain fuzzy with exhaustion.

  Then I look down at tomorrow’s horoscope column, my eyes instinctively scanning the list until I find the entry for Aries: The hard road has the most rewards, Aries. Stay the course and rewards await.

  Huh.

  I scan the words one more time, then look out at the newsroom. I could use a little celestial guidance right about now. I remember mornings spent reading Pearl’s column at my grandmother’s kitchen table while she drank strong coffe
e and ate homemade blueberry muffins—homemade by her live-in chef, Reynaldo, that is. Let’s not get crazy. My grandmother was warm and awesome, but she was still a Rockford.

  Still, for someone from a family as buttoned up as ours, she always put an awful lot of faith in her horoscope.

  Maybe I should take a lesson from that.

  5

  Natalie

  The next day, I sit hunched in my cubicle, my dad’s vintage Yankees cap pulled low over my eyes like some Hollywood celebrity trying to lie low in a sea of rabid super-fans. I haven’t left my desk all morning, even though there’s a freshly baked batch of Lori’s cinnamon sugar scones in the breakroom and I have to pee so bad I think my bladder might burst. I feel like I’m waiting for the executioner’s axe to come crashing down directly on my neck. I didn’t sleep at all last night, lying in bed staring up at the ceiling and imagining all the ways I’m about to be fired.

  And I’m definitely about to get fired.

  Because that astrology column I handed off to Justin yesterday afternoon, easy-breezy, no trouble at all?

  It’s one hundred percent fake.

  To be fair, it wasn’t entirely my fault. I spent the better part of the day searching high and low for Pearl, leaving her voicemail after increasingly desperate voicemail before finally gritting my teeth and writing the damn thing myself as an insurance policy. It was actually kind of fun—totally different from my normal reporting—but even then, I didn’t think there was any way I’d actually have to turn it in. Pearl was definitely going to turn up any minute with a finished column, right?