Filthy Headlines by Cassie Mint

Seven

Sasha

“I want to come back in.”

Simon sits opposite me in my favorite cafe, stirring an English breakfast tea with his mouth pressed in a firm line. Raindrops sprinkle his mane of dark hair, and his brown blazer sags over the back of his chair.

All around us, shoppers sip at coffees, bags clustered around their table legs, and executives page through newspapers with bored expressions.

“Now, Sasha? When you’ve just begun to make progress?”

I kick at my chair legs. “You said yourself in your article. Grant Keller is a good boss. Well, he’s a good man. There’s no dirt to find.”

Outside the cafe windows, rain blows down the street. It’s early evening, and yet it’s as dark as midnight already, the raindrops flashing in the glow of the streetlamps.

I take a deep breath. Firm my shoulders. And press my palms into the table.

“The Courier is a serious newspaper. Correct?”

Simon huffs. “Obviously.”

“And you sent me to Keller Enterprises because we thought there was something seriously wrong. Something unethical, something illegal. But I’m telling you—I’ve been there for two months now. Grant is private, yes, and he has his quirks, but there is nothing worthy of proper news.” I bite my lip, then go for the jugular. “Anything we find will be tabloid gossip.”

Simon straightens. He places his teaspoon down with a clack.

“We’re not interested in gossip.” He says it like a dirty word.

“I know.”

Simon is a good man, too.

My boss watches me intently, drumming his fingers on the table. Steam curls over the rim of his mug, and I wrap my hands around my own coffee, anchoring myself with the heat.

This whole conversation is a risk. I’m a brand new reporter, fresh out of college. There are literally thousands of new graduates like me, people who would kill to take my job. Who would dig into Grant Keller’s secrets without even a flash of guilt.

I distract myself from that thought with a sip of my drink, humming at the hot, sweet coffee as it spreads over my tongue.

“Sasha.”

Simon seems… awkward. It’s a strange look for him. Normally, he’s every bit the head editor of a major newspaper—confident and canny, all power and poise. Half the junior staff are in love with him, and the other half are too afraid to look him in the eye.

But right now, Simon’s fiddling with his spoon like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. He clears his throat and pushes the spoon away, spearing me with his gaze.

“Are you certain you are… objective about Grant Keller?”

“I… I’m sorry?”

A muscle tics in Simon’s temple. But he keeps talking, his voice sure and low, all clipped British vowels. “He’s an attractive man, by all accounts. Intelligent, successful, charming—”

I snort so loud a man three tables away looks up from his paper. “Grant Keller is not charming. Believe me.”

Not in the way Simon means, anyway. He’s not seductive; he doesn’t have slick manners or easy charm. Grant Keller is aloof.

Until he snaps in the darkened back seat of a car, anyway. Then he’s all grasping hands and heated kisses—so freaking intense that my breath catches just thinking about it.

Simon sips his tea, eyebrows drawn together, and I shift in my chair.

There’s a pulse drumming between my legs. Should not have thought about the car.

“Look.” I knit my fingers together. “I like Grant. I won’t deny it. He’s… compelling. When you get to know him. But—” I lean forward, holding Simon’s gaze “—even if I hated him, there still wouldn’t be a story here.”

“Hm.” Simon’s chair creaks as he sits back. The spots of rain on his dark blue shirt are drying, and he seems to measure his next words before saying them out loud. “You know, there is rather a pattern in this city of powerful men seducing their employees. Taking advantage of their power.”

I swallow, suddenly queasy. Grant’s nothing like that. “Not just in this city, I expect.”

Simon’s mouth quirks. “No, indeed. But that sort of behavior… that is a headline.”

He pauses. Lets his unasked question hang there between us, his face smoothed into a mask of patience. This is how he must coax his stories from his sources: by making it clear that continents could shift and empires could rise and fall, and Simon would still be sitting there, waiting for an answer.

My fingers shake as I reach for my mug. His eyes drop to them, but he says nothing.

When I find my voice, it comes out in a croak. “Grant Keller isn’t like that.”

“No?”

I shake my head. I don’t trust myself to say anything else. I won’t—I can’t—lie to my boss—but I won’t incriminate Grant in this, either.

There were two of us in the back of that car. I wanted everything he gave me and more.

“As I said, sir.” I raise my chin; pretend my cheeks aren’t bright red. “There’s no story at Keller Enterprises. And I’d like to come back in.”

Simon sighs, clearly disappointed, and my stomach sinks. I’ve worked so hard for this job. I’ve dreamed about becoming a journalist. And this assignment was a special opportunity, a chance to prove myself—

“One more week.” Simon’s tone brooks no argument. This is not a negotiation. “One more week of real investigation, and if you are still sure there’s no story… you can come back in. Leave Keller Enterprises behind. But Sasha?”

I nod, fighting the triumphant smile spreading over my face.

“You’re a reporter. Don’t forget why you’re there. Once he realizes who you are… Grant Keller certainly won’t.”

* * *

Simon’s words echo in my head all the way down the sidewalk. It’s cold out, the coldest night of the year so far, and the wind and rain blow straight through my coat and chill me to the bone.

Don’t forget why you’re there… Grant Keller certainly won’t.

Who am I kidding, daydreaming about the billionaire? I’ve been ridiculous since the dinner last night—practically floating up to the ceiling every time I think of him. Ever since Grant touched me in the darkness, my nerves have been sparking under my skin. Every sense is heightened; every small thing makes me smile. I dreamed of him all through the night, tossing and restless in my bed, and couldn’t help beaming every time he walked past my desk today, his gray eyes hungry when they raked over me, crinkling into a smile.

But Simon’s reminder brings me crashing back down to earth.

Once Grant knows I’m a reporter, he’ll never forgive me.

My fingers are numb as I pull out my phone. This is the worst kind of masochism, but if I only have one more week with him… I want to hear his voice.

“Yes?”

The blunt answer makes me blink. For a sickly moment, I think I’m busted already, and I won’t get that week at all. But then Grant sighs, the sound rattling down the phone, and keeps talking.

“What do you want, Sasha? I’m a busy man.”

Okay.

Not busted, then.

Just pining over a jerk.

“Nothing,” I rasp when I finally find my voice. “I just… wanted to talk to you. But it’s not important. I’ll see you tomorrow—”

“Wait.” Another sigh. Grant could fill a whole symphony with his different sighs, and they always seem to be directed at me. “Don’t go. Sorry. I’m just… in a bad mood.”

My heels scrape against the sidewalk. I chew on the inside of my cheek, skirting around a glassy puddle. “Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.” His tone is so sharp, I wince.

“Alright. Suit yourself.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Walking home.”

“Alone?”

His pointed question makes me blink. “Yes.”

There’s another pause, and I frown at the cars rumbling past along the street. They’re dark, their paint glinting under the streetlamps, and raindrops swirl through their headlights.

“Grant?”

“Sorry, yeah.” He sounds lighter suddenly. Happier. “You know, you can take my car home. Any time you like. Just take it.”

“I am perfectly capable of walking home.”

“Humor me.”

I screw one eye shut and force the words out. “Only if you’re in there with me.”

My heart thumps so hard, I can hear it above the wind. But when Grant’s voice drops lower, velvet and intimate in my ear, I know I’m not alone in this. Thank god.

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Me too.”

“I’d like to do it again. Really commit it to memory.”

I huff a laugh, even as heat spreads over my cheeks. “When’s your next business dinner?”

“Never, hopefully. But there’s a gala on Thursday I can’t avoid. Go with me?”

I pull out my keys as I round the corner onto my street, hurrying towards the front steps of my building. “I only have that one cocktail dress.”

His chuckle makes my toes curl in my shoes. “Excellent. That dress and I have unfinished business.”

There are so many moments when I should really hang up the call. When I reach my front stoop; when I close the door to my apartment behind me; when I wander into the kitchen and open the refrigerator, stomach growling.

But I find myself juggling the phone from hand to hand as I let myself in, squeezing it between my cheek and shoulder as I climb the stairs; then finally putting Grant on speaker and placing it on the kitchen counter top.

He must know I’m home. Must hear that the street sounds have been replaced by a boiling coffee maker and a microwave. But he makes no move to hang up, and neither do I.

It’s nice, chatting to him here. Like he’s in my home too, warming the quiet, empty rooms with his rich baritone, and that image makes my chest pinch.

“Where do you live?” I ask at one point, fishing a fork out of a drawer. “What’s your place like? Wait, let me guess. A big fancy townhouse. No—a penthouse apartment with bare brick walls and a balcony looking out over the city.”

Grant sounds pained. “I hate that you guessed that right.”

I punch the air, leftover pasta twined around my fork. “Knew it. You’re not half as mysterious as you think you are.”

“What about you? A shabby chic studio with a hot plate and string lights on the walls?”

I blink around my tiny living space. “I hate you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Grant…” The fork hovers over my bowl. My stomach is too snarled up to eat, and I need to know. “Why do you hate the press so much?”

Thissigh is new. One I haven’t heard before. It sounds dredged from the bottom of his soul. But he answers me, the tiredness clear in each word.

“A petty grudge, I suppose. When I was fifteen, my parents got divorced—they were prominent figures, you know? A businessman and an actress. So the press splashed it over the papers for months, made it all so much harder than it already was, and my mother…”

I wait, heart in my throat, until he speaks again.

“She became ill from the stress. And she’s never really recovered.”

“I’m so sorry.” My whisper is too quiet, and I repeat it louder for the phone. “That’s—that’s awful, Grant.”

It is, too. But it’s not the type of reporter I want to be—it’s not who anyone at The Courier is. But I can’t say those things now. Maybe I’ll never get a chance.

I push my bowl of leftovers away, stomach tight.

“I, um. I’d better go. It’s getting late.”

“So it is.”

“Goodnight, Grant.”

“Sleep well, Sasha Jones. Think of me.”

No fear,I think as I tap my screen, ending the call. Grant Keller has haunted my dreams since my first week in this job.

And I know, deep in my soul, that he’ll still be in my dreams long after I’ve left.