Love. Local. Latebreaking.: Book 1 in the newsroom romance series

by H. Laurence Lareau

  Having said that, Bailey looked down at the open MacBook sitting on the anchor desk, scrolled briefly to give Chuck’s team time to cut the studio microphones, then looked up at Art to exchange a brief, inaudible comment that brought a telegenic and equally inaudible comment from him as the credits rolled over their image.

  Jerry, Holly, and Vince, all sitting in the newsroom’s raised nerve center spun in their chairs at more or less the same speed in a weary and joyous miniature victory lap. “Mary Rose!” Jerry yelled from his slowing chair. “How much of that do we have air-checks for? Please tell me someone thought to record every minute of the last 11 days.”

  “Do you mean everything?” Mary Rose asked, earnest sincerity ringing in her voice, “from when we first went live when the water went out until now?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” he called back across the newsroom. “Didn’t we record any of that stuff?”

  “Well,” Mary Rose said, staring earnestly at her computer screen, “it looks here like we got,” and again she paused. Then she sighed and looked up at the elevated center desk. “Jerry, I don’t know how to tell you this...”

  “What?” Jerry asked, panic creeping into his voice. “Didn’t we get any of it?”

  “Only all of it, Jerry,” Mary Rose said, her impish grin twinkling up at him. “I started a special deck rolling in Master Control right when we went on the air, and the engineers chipped in to keep at least one recording rolling all the way through till now.” She paused, stood up from behind a desk, and took an exaggerated bow. “I kind of anticipated that you’d think this was important stuff to have, so I took a little initiative.”

  “Bless you, Mary Rose!” Jerry pumped two fists in the air.

  Perched at a newsroom station near the assignment desk, Bielfeldt slid into the brief pause. “We should be in Emmy contention for this work, especially if we have all of that to edit down.”

  “So, um,” Mary Rose said, disregarding the consultant completely, “can I maybe get out of the studio and into the newsroom now?”

  Jerry was caught up short with this question, and he saw that the newsroom staff had all turned to look for his response. “Well, that’s something I can talk to Larry about later today.”

  As the unusually populated newsroom heaved with a unison groan, he quickly added, “It’s more that he’d have to fill your place in the studio, of course.” He paused to let that settle in with the crowd of skeptics. Then, in a wheedling tone, he added, “Would you still do the animation work for us, even though that’s technically studio work? Nobody can do that like you can.”

  “Of course I will,” Mary Rose grinned. She turned a devilish grin around the room, then added, “Assuming the raise I’ll be getting is enough motivation to do double-duty.” The buzzing voices of reporters and photographers called, “Oh, snap!” among other appreciative sounds. Scott Winstead whispered loudly enough so that Buzz Cziesla could hear all the way across the room, “God, I wish I had her balls!”

  “Wait,” Karli interrupted. “John, were you serious about an Emmy?”

  Buzz stage-whispered back at Scott, “You can have ‘em. I want Karli’s balls!”

  Jerry grabbed Vince and Holly by the arms and steered them to listen to the exchange. Bielfeldt’s pompous tones rolled through the newsroom like kettledrums. “The stories this newsroom has reported in the last week and a half have set a new standard for this market. You’ve inspired the people of this city to pull together and bear burdens that could easily have resulted in riots and looting.

  “Your stories have been easy to understand, emotionally charged, and thoroughly memorable. All the work from the on-air talent has been seamless and excellent. And in spite of the daunting challenges of lighting and mic-ing impromptu locations as essentially full-blown news sets—in addition to covering their assignments—the field photogs have continued to capture powerful and beautiful images and sound.”

  Here Bielfeldt paused long enough to take in the entire room. His eyes stopped to hold Karli’s gaze as he resumed, saying, “Unquestionably these efforts put you in contention for an Emmy.” As he said this, an excited murmur rose among the assembled staffers.

  Unfazed by the increased noise in the room, his gaze moved to Jake, who looked up after Karli dug an elbow into his ribs. “You’re also certain to be in contention for National Press Photographers Association awards—national awards, not just regional.” Two photogs whooped and high-fived one another over their cube wall as soon as he finished that assessment.

  Jerry leaned even further forward, over the assignment desk’s mounds of papers and clutter. “John, we need to talk about entry deadlines and what to submit and so on. Can we meet about that over dinner?” Here he turned to Vince and Holly, who both nodded to the implied request that they also attend.

  “Of course,” Bielfeldt replied, his self-satisfaction enhanced even more than usual by the news director’s evident need for his expertise. “And I think it would be very helpful if Karli were to meet with us.”

  Jake raised a surprised single eyebrow at Karli, who had suddenly become very still and whose cheeks were coloring quickly. He whispered to her statue-still profile, “Did you pay him or something?”

  “Well, uh, sure, John, if that’s what you think,” Jerry said. He turned to Vince, who gave his questioning look an easygoing shrug and to Holly, whose face broke into a rare tooth-exposing smile.

  “Another woman at the table would be most welcome,” she said, glancing across the room at Karli. “Don’t you think so, Jerry?

  “Well, yeah, of course,” Jerry replied, his tone going from questioning to declaring. “Of course.”

  “That’s settled then,” Bielfeldt rumbled. “The restaurant at the Savery, then? 6:45?”

  As the consultant faded from the newsroom, Sophia Refai stormed up to the assignment desk, the papers in her hand carefully fluttered to make the most noise and draw the most attention possible. “Jerry,” she said, loudly enough to ring through the entire newsroom, “Don’t you think one of your female anchors should be in the meeting, rather than just a general assignment reporter?”

  An obviously flustered Jerry looked to Vince for support, only to find him tucking a phone between his shoulder and ear as he leaned to dial. Holly was no better, a pencil clamped between her teeth as she pounded away at her keyboard.

  “Well, Sophia—” Jerry began.

  “If it’s to be one of the female anchors,” Bailey’s voice carried from the hall to the studio, “I’d suggest it be the one with the most seniority.”

  Jerry’s face fairly shone with hope. “I really think, Sophia,” he started, “that Bailey has a point. But of course we should all stay looped in—”

  “Fine,” Sophia interrupted. “I think it’s been too long since I talked to my agent.”

  She turned and stormed back out of the newsroom, tossing her fluttery papers into the recycling bin on the way out.

  “Any time, Jerry,” Bailey said with a twinkling grin.

  “Yes, thanks much to you,” Jerry replied, emphasizing the last word as he looked at the backs of Vince’s and Holly’s heads.

  “Think of it,” he went on, tilting his chair back and waving his hands toward the ceiling as though arranging a giant newspaper headline. “Three NewsFirst Wins an Emmy.” And as his hands spread to display the imaginary words, his chair tipped too far back and dumped him on his back.

  “You owe me Karli’s balls plus five bucks,” Buzz said to Scott, walking over with his hand held out. “I knew that chair would flip him before the year was out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Coda Lounge, Savery Hotel

  Des Moines, Iowa

  Tuesday, April 22

  Jake snared a chair, plunked his beer down, and sat at the table where Buzz Cziesla, Scott Winstead, and Charlie Teros all were fishing dollar bills from their wallets.

  “That had better be a random dollar, Charlie,” Scott said sternly.

  “Of
course it is!” Charlie cried in defensive tones. “I changed a twenty at the bar when I came in.”

  “Grab a buck, Jake,” Buzz said. “We’re going to beat Charlie at liar’s poker tonight—now that he isn’t filling his wallet with great serial numbers the day before.”

  Charlie glared at Buzz, not able to deny the accusation, but not pleased at the public shaming. “Two pair; nines over sevens,” he said coldly.

  Seeing that the game was already more serious than fun, Jake took a smiling sip from his beer. “I’m out, guys, unless you’re okay with a spectator.”

  “That’s fine,” Scott replied. Then, turning to Charlie, he said, “Three eights.”

  Buzz countered with, “Full house. Three eights and two fives.”

  And so the game went on, with Jake peeking at all the serial numbers and keeping his face completely neutral so as not to spoil the game. After he had figured on a probable winner, he asked the table in general, “Have you guys heard anything about Bielfeldt’s dinner with the gang?”

  “Huh?” asked Charlie looking up from his dollar with a furrowed brow.

  “Not a peep,” said Buzz. “But what’s to hear? They were just talking about deadlines and stuff, right?”

  “I thought they might be looking at specific stories and live segments to submit,” Jake said. “And I was wondering if they were going to use any of my stuff.”

  “You chowderhead!” Scott folded his dollar to hide everything but the serial number. “You consistently shoot the best stories in the house, and you’re wondering if they’ll use your stuff?” He sighed and turned to Chuck. “Five nines.” Then back to Jake: “They’re going to use your stuff. The real question is whether or not they’ll even look at anyone’s else’s stuff.”

  Charlie threw his dollar on the table in disgust. Buzz and Scott cheered and high-fived one another.

  “Okay, guys,” Jake said, not wanting to leave Charlie to the sports team’s tender mercies. “I’m in.” He pulled out his wallet and shuffled out a one.

  ***

  Across the room, Karli sat at the bar with Jerry, Holly, Vince, and Bailey. Jerry was handing a credit card to the bartender. “We’ve already blown a big hole in this at the restaurant tonight. Since I’m going to have to answer all of Norwich’s questions about expenses, I may as well get some mileage out of the answers, right? So let’s run a tab and see how much we can hold.”

  Karli watched the bartender give a sympathetic smile to the plight of a manager defending an expense account and then move immediately into taking orders. As he turned to begin making their drinks, Jerry’s full face came into view as he leaned forward and practically onto the bar. “So what do we think of Bielfeldt’s sunny optimism? Are we really going to win an Emmy, or is he blowing smoke up our asses so he can negotiate a better consulting arrangement?”

  Not knowing anything at all about his consulting fees, Karli decided to sit back and listen rather than joining right in. The normally quiet Holly surprised her by being the first to speak up. “If he isn’t sincere, he should be a trial lawyer or a politician. He sounded like a true believer tonight. Vince, you can sniff out a spin,” she went on, turning toward the veteran assignment editor. “What did you think?”

  “He was telling it straight,” Vince rasped. “And I don’t think I can disagree with him. I watched as much of all the stations’ coverage as I could, and the others couldn’t touch us.”

  “We didn’t just beat them overall, we beat them in every category,” Bailey chimed in. “Reporting, photography, location sets, community outreach—you name it, we had no effective competition from anyone.”

  “Don’t leave out the anchor work,” Karli said loyally. “And I agree. The other stations got really cheap about overtime and mostly kept to their regular shifts. We all worked like soldiers, and it really showed in how much content we delivered and in how good it was.”

  Jerry drank deeply from his glass and swiveled his chair to face the others. “I was so hoping I wasn’t being delusional just because I’ve never been in sniffing range of an Emmy before.”

  He gestured to the bartender for another round. “Thanks to all of you for your clear eyes and great effort.”

  As he went on about his hopes for a big award, Karli tried to recall how many drinks she’d had that evening. At least two glasses of wine with dinner—probably three. And now an Amaretto stone sour under her belt and another on the way. No wonder she was feeling a little warm and fuzzy.

  As her eyes focused again on her surroundings, she saw Jake, Buzz, Scott, and Charlie all coming up to the bar with empty glasses in their hands. Jake’s smiling profile was as handsome as she’d ever seen it, with a couple days of unshaven bristle on his jaw and outlining his toothy smile. As she lowered her gaze to the fresh drink that appeared in front of her, her eyes traveled down his form to the noticeable bulge in the front of his Levi’s. Surprised that she was so suddenly fixated on that bulge, Karli felt her cheeks flush hot. Turning toward the bar, she sipped from her drink and took a deep breath.

  Breathing didn’t help. It just gave her a tingly feeling between her legs as she recalled trying to control her breath the last time he had been down there. The usually cool Coda Lounge suddenly felt hot, and Karli wondered if she was visibly sweating.

  She looked back over toward the men, and noticed how straight and strong Jake stood in his crisp, heavy cotton dress shirt—would a photog wear Brooks Brothers, really? she wondered. The cuffs were folded neatly back over his tan forearms, and the hand that held his glass was both strong and capable of great delicacy, both with his equipment and with...well, MY equipment, Karli smirked naughtily to herself.

  As she watched him talk and laugh with the director and sportscasters, she realized that his eyes and creative genius had helped her to do the best work of her career—work that had found her at dinner with the news team’s leadership, who accepted her in their group just like she’d always belonged there.

  Not only is he smart and excellent at what he does, she thought, he has become my best friend. As disarming as his humility could be, there was no disguising the swagger he brought to his work and his off-duty life. He’s comfortable in his own skin, she thought.

  She looked unabashedly at him now, not caring who saw her deep interest. His lips were full and wet with beer, and she remembered the last time she had felt them on her breasts. Feeling the memory, she also felt herself stiffen with the memory and wondered briefly if her arousal were visible.

  Peeking down at her chest, she decided that they weren’t too obvious. But seeing herself roused to just the memory of his kisses, she found suddenly that she was thinking about how his hands had moved over her, and she noticed that she had become wet and even hotter and more tingly.

  Karli watched the men all return to their table and start playing with their money. I can’t believe I didn’t even like him at first. Not only is he incredibly hot—and yeah, I could see that right away—he is, like, the perfect guy. He has put up with my standards and even respects me for being a crazy perfectionist. He’s totally patient with me and willing to stick with me while I grind out the last bit of a story. Even more, he is the best fit I’ve ever known. We seem to balance each other temperamentally—we challenge each other in the best ways.

  Loud cheers and cries of disgust drew Karli’s attention to Jake’s table, where the men were throwing dollar bills at one another. What in the world are they doing? Karli wondered. As the shouting died down, Karli saw Jake turn to look at her. His melting brown eyes caught hers tightly and let her know that he is in full agreement that it’s time to leave the bar.

  Bailey’s voice cut through the pounding of Karli’s heartbeat. “Are you about ready to head out, Karli?” she asked. When Karli turned toward her, she saw Bailey’s significant eyebrow raised inquiringly. “It’s been a pretty long day already.”

  Karli nodded. “I’ve been replaying the last nine months, Bailey, and I can’t believe how much more han
dsome he’s gotten. Every bit more I get to know him, the more I’ve seen it.” She turned to look Bailey right in the eyes, and the buzz of the alcohol running through her head washed away the filter between her brain and her mouth. “He’s so much like home. He holds me, he keeps me safe, he is patient with my weirdness, and he understands me. Plus, his cologne smells amazing.”

  “Sounds like he’s Mr. Right?” Bailey’s voice lifted to indicate the question.

  “He really could be,” Karli said slowly, considering the answer. “But he’s going to have to just be a very precious Mr. Right Now. I cannot afford to get sucked into the Des Moines gravity well. The plan is to get to a really major market, and this flood coverage should be enough.”

  “You really like him, don’t you?”

  “Too much, Bailey. He’s in my head all the time.”

  “Too much? What does that mean?” Bailey asked.

  “He’s the kind of guy I could give up my dreams for. And that’s too much.”

  Bailey took a slow sip from her drink, giving Karli a considering look. Then her eyes shifted somewhere behind Karli, who turned to see what had drawn Bailey’s attention. Just as she turned to look over her shoulder, the smell of Jake’s cologne reached her nose. She inhaled it deeply, feeling her eyelashes flutter as the scent reached the instinctual parts of her brain. The ones that build even more of the tension and wetness Karli was feeling between her legs.

  “Hey, Bailey,” Jake said, and Karli felt his warm hand on her shoulder. Without waiting for Bailey’s response, Jake turned and asked Karli if it wasn’t time to leave. She looked into his eyes and realized they had seen right through her, over and over again. Even knowing everything about her, he still cared for her. As she replied, “Okay,” and grabbed her bag, she felt a nearly overwhelming feeling of love and loss. Jake was so wonderful, yet she couldn’t keep him. She knew he wouldn’t leave his work, his studio, his amazing carriage house, his charities, his mother. He was as entwined with Des Moines as her father was—though in a significantly different way—with Charleston.