Off the Record: A Sweet Office Romantic Comedy (The Nashville Romantics Book 1)
Off the Record: Chapter 1

If I’d wanted to be an emotional punching bag, I never would’ve left my last job as a freelance writer for Music City Monthly. There, my daily abuse came in the form of red strikes through my sentences. No one is as brutally honest as an editor scorned, hiding behind his computer screen and commenting in all caps about incorrect grammar and preposition lists with the odd tirade about how there are no good women left in this city. That bitter moron tended to get handsy at holiday parties and had a penchant for telling me to leave my girly prose at the door and write the grit America needs today.

At least he never cheated on me.

Now, facing a workday where I’d have to see the actual cheater, I almost wish I’d never left that abusive job. Almost.

I’d only been with my new paper, The Nashville Rhythm, for a month when Leo Davis, our resident photographer and travel columnist, romanced me into a swift, head-over-heels and throw-all-caution-to-the-wind relationship. Six months later, in his true reckless fashion, I found Leo in the broom closet with Kyla from the advertising department.

I should have known such a careless man couldn’t be trusted.

It was a stroke of luck that immediately took him on a two-month hiatus from the office, photographing and reporting on the East Coast national parks within easy travel distance of Nashville.

Now that blissful break is over. Leo is coming back. Like, today. The daily torture of seeing my ex and his new girlfriend together—yes, it’s still Kyla from advertising—will commence. Like I said: emotional punching bag.

In true Paisley McConkie fashion, nothing is going my way. My deodorant ran out this morning after only servicing one armpit, my roommate finished the last of my Cheerios, and my tire popped on the freeway off-ramp. Which is where I am now, kneeling on the side of I-65 in cream slacks while cars fly past me to get to work.

To make matters worse, my phone is dead. So much for just charging it when I get to work.

I throw all my weight into the wrench to get the final blasted lug nut off. The stupid thing isn’t budging. I sit back on my heels—my pants are utterly ruined, so I no longer need to try to salvage them—and drop my head back. It’s not defeat, okay? And it’s definitely not me giving up.

I’m just tired.

Puffing up my cheeks like they’re holding two big marshmallows, I rub my eyes and let out a frustrated groan-yell. This tire is not going to best me. Not today of all days. I imagine Leo’s face on the lug nut and prepare to give it a firm push when a man speaks behind me.

“Do you need help? It’s Paisley, right?”

I’m so startled I squeal, chucking the wrench at my assailant.

“Whoa!” He dodges the flying tool, and his arms shoot up. “It’s just me.”

I catch sight of him and stare. Just me: my boss, Hudson Owens. On the side of the road. Dodging my lug wrench.

No, that’s inaccurate. He’s my boss’s boss. Mostly only sighted from afar because his office is so many floors above mine. His time is spent exclusively with execs from our parent media mogul’s various publications or doing things rich men tend to do, like golf or eat caviar on a yacht.

I can’t believe he remembers my name. We met in a meeting last month about the future of the news columns in The Nashville Rhythm and the impending cuts to staff. He’d joined us for a few minutes, driving home how our readership was down and everyone’s jobs were on the chopping block. All the columnists had been asked to be there. I wasn’t special.

Utter mortification seeps into my cheeks. I’m sure my skin could melt ice cubes despite the frosty October weather. What is he doing here?

“Mr. Owens,” I say, getting to my feet. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The roar of a truck passing swallows the tail end of his words. He looks from me to the tire, then shrugs out of his blue designer suit coat. He leans down to pick up the lug wrench, and the tool looks a lot smaller in his hands than it did in mine.

Hudson Owens isn’t anything like my first editor. For one, he’s not an editor anymore now that he’s risen a few floors in the building to the executive level. He used to manage The Nashville Tribune, the most elite of the publications owned by our parent media company. The Tribune is endgame for me, but I need a few years with this paper before they’ll look at my resume or discuss me taking that leap. Ben told me as much when he hired me on. It won’t happen at all if I’m one of the columnists cut from the Rhythm.

I don’t know why Hudson would give up the best job in the company to work at the executive level, but to each his own. Technically it was a promotion.

Two, Hudson is one of Nashville’s hottest bachelors. He’s probably a vampire, because there’s no other explanation for how he can spend all those hours in the office and the society pages and the gym and have any time left over to sleep. Something’s gotta give, and with this guy, I’m guessing it’s the latter.

Vampires don’t sleep.

“May I help?” he repeats, like he didn’t see me give up and wail like a lonely fox while he was parking and sneaking up on me. Cars keep whooshing past us on the off-ramp, and I can’t quite compute what’s going on here. Can Hudson even change a tire? Don’t people like him pay grunts to do menial things like this? They have a guy for everything.

Furthermore, why did he pull over to help?

Dark eyebrows slash higher on his forehead, informing me I’m taking too long to respond. But he’s an alien life force. I know a lot about this guy, but nothing about him at the same time. Again, why is he here?

“It’s stuck,” I say, stepping back to give him room. “But you shouldn’t kneel⁠—”

Too late.

Hudson doesn’t look the least worried about his designer suit pants on the cold gravel, despite the fact that they probably cost more than I make in a month. He fits the wrench onto the lug nut, then gives a solid push that clearly strains the muscles in his arms.

Pop. It’s loose.

That was too easy. If this is a life advertisement to motivate me to use the employee gym, it’s working.

Not that I’ll see Hudson Owens there. The man probably has a gold-plated gym in his penthouse. He comes from Tennessee media royalty. Like, his great-grandfather started the business back in the thirties, and they’ve passed the company down one generation at a time, building wealth as they went like a money-snowball.

He proceeds to remove the tire, his bright blue eyes glancing at me over his shoulder. “You have a spare?”

I jump to action, pulling my spare from the trunk and rolling it toward him. My little Honda Accord isn’t as elegant as the sleek sports car Hudson parked behind me, but this baby is reliable and isn’t usually the cause of my sticky situations.

Knock on wood.

Hudson eyes the spare warily before fitting it on and tightening the lug nuts. I take the flat tire and heave it into the trunk. Workout for today: complete. No gym membership necessary.

“I can take it from here,” I say cheerily, though I don’t think my skin has stopped burning hot and bright red since Hudson arrived.

He hesitates, making me think he’s going to ignore me, but he sends me a nod and gets to his feet. The morning sunlight makes his eyes look bluer than Old Hickory Lake.

“Thanks.” What an inadequate word. What I really mean to say is, You’ve saved me from being stranded here, and now I can never look you in the eye again because I’m the reason your suit pants are trashed. Also, can I get a raise, because you don’t pay your writers enough? And if you could fire my cheating ex-boyfriend scum while you’re at it so I don’t have to sit at the desk across from him, that would be fab.

“Don’t worry about it.” He shoots me the smile that lands him in the social media tabloids on one bombshell’s arm or another, then pulls his coat from the hood and ambles back to his car.

I crouch and start to crank down the jack when my feet slip, making me land hard on my butt.

Hudson’s looking right at me when I peer his way over my shoulder, so yes, he did see that from the front seat of his car. Great. Super dignified. This is so much worse than the time my dad’s tire blew and we pulled over in the rain while he instructed me to change it step by step. I might have been cold and wet then, but at least I’d retained my pride. It was hard not to feel a little puffed up when your dad was beaming at you the way mine had.

No one is beaming now.

I finish up and jump in my car, plugging my phone in for the last bit of my drive. Hudson pulls onto the road before I follow him at a slower clip. There’s no time to take my car into the tire shop before work, but it can sit in the parking garage for the day.

My plan is to be at my desk and deep in edits, with a concentrated brow and noise-canceling headphones on, before Leo arrives so I’m not sucked into a welcome back conversation.

If he comes within arm’s reach, I might be tempted to cause bodily harm. It’s not enough to cheat on me in the office for who knows how long—he also sent little notes to Kyla in his email updates to the entire office while he was gone. I’m not sure why he feels the need to flaunt the relationship, or why he didn’t break up with me when he started seeing her.

Dirtbag.

Andrea is sitting at the front desk when I arrive on our floor. Her black hair is styled in a perfect blunt bob, and her eyes widen as they run over me.

“That bad?” I ask, cringing. Guess my rear-view mirror wasn’t enough to accurately assess the damage to my hair. It feels windblown, but I thought I’d tamed the frizzy brown mess. I smooth down my navy blouse and ignore my grease-stained slacks.

“Leo’s here,” she stage-whispers.

So much for setting up camp and loading my canons before the opposition arrives.

“Thanks for the heads up,” I say.

“Wait.”

I don’t have time or space in my brain for more office gossip, but Andrea’s expression makes me pause, lifting my eyebrows to urge her to continue.

“Ben’s not coming in today. Or any other day.”

Our boss? Cryptic. “What happened?”

She settles forward on her desk. “He got into a bar fight last night, but it was the second arrest this year, so they fired him. Not good for the image.” She air-quotes that final word, leaning back to emphasize how unfair she replaces it that we have to cater our outside conduct to something befitting a public image. Like bar fights should be totally okay in this honky-tonk-filled town.

It makes me wish I’d told anyone in management about Leo and Kyla’s closet tryst. I only told my friend Simone, so it’s my fault he still works here. I should have told Andrea instead, but I didn’t want everyone to know.

“Who’s taking his place?” I ask.

Andrea’s smile widens. “That’s the best part. You know how y’all’s columns are on the chopping block? Corporate doesn’t want just anyone doing damage control while they figure out the next step for the magazine.”

Which implies it’s someone on staff. Someone capable and smart, who knows a good story and has an eye for a solid layout. The job screams my name, but I haven’t even been here a whole year yet, so I’m not deluding myself.

My phone buzzes with a Slack notification from our team, and I swipe it open.

Meeting in the conference room at 9 sharp.

It’s already nine, so this must be the reminder to come now.

The way Andrea is looking at me, I start to fear her answer, a slow churn rolling my stomach. “Who’s the new boss? Don’t say Leo.”

“He doesn’t have the power to decide who stays and who goes.” Andrea shakes her head. “It’s even better.”

“Paisley!” My closest office friend, Simone, hisses my name, grabbing both of my arms and tugging me away from Andrea’s desk. Her short hair is combed in a perfect pixie, her wide brown eyes running up and down my dishevelment. “What happened to you?”

“Flat tire.”

Simone cringes. “Come on. We’re meeting now.”

I glance back at Andrea, but she’s scowling at her computer. There is one person she won’t gossip in front of, and it’s only because Simone routinely sets up after-work drinks and forgets to invite Andrea. I happen to know there’s no forgetting involved—Simone doesn’t trust her.

Clearly, with good reason. The woman would gossip to her desk pothos if it had ears.

“We’re getting a new boss,” Simone whispers, arm through mine as we push through the glass doors into our open office. I drop my things on my desk and plug in my phone, relieved Leo isn’t in here.

“Bar fight?” I whisper. “Seriously? Ben’s like forty.”

“I’m guessing he’ll be in anger management for a while, and they aren’t going to take him back. Shame on the company and all that.” Simone twists her fingers through the air, then her gaze hardens on me. “How are you, really?”

I don’t have a chance to respond to that, though, because I can sense the evil lurking behind me, eyes on my neck. “He’s behind me, isn’t he?”

Simone doesn’t have to look to know. “What’s the plan?”

“Nothing.” I straighten my shoulders and open my bag, pulling out my tablet. “I’m going to be cordial. We have to work together, so we’ll work together.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but we need to get to the conference room. Most of the office is already there.

“Paise,” Leo starts behind me, his familiar voice running over my skin and making me want to hurl. Shouldn’t he be in the conference room with everyone else?

“Welcome back,” I toss over my shoulder before scurrying away. I can’t do this. I don’t want to look at his soulful Italian eyes and melt while covered in mud and tire grease. He doesn’t deserve my melting.

Mostly everyone is gathered when Simone and I arrive, so we’re forced to snag seats at the back of the room behind a row of people. Leo walks in shortly after us, but I avert my gaze, only to see Kyla waving at him and patting the seat she saved near the front of the long table. She flips her blonde hair over her shoulder, her eyes flicking to me and away again. Ugh. I wish I hadn’t been caught looking at her. She’ll think I still want Leo.

Maybe a bar fight isn’t such a bad way to go out. It beats watching these two fawn over each other like attention-starved teenagers.

“I’m not at liberty to share details,” Dalton says at the front of the room, gathering everyone’s attention without preamble. He’s the head of formatting and has a penchant for theatrics. The fact that he’s leading this meeting proves how untethered we are. “By now I’m sure you’ve all heard Ben isn’t coming back. We’re in a crucial stage in our three-tiered project to revitalize The Nashville Rhythm, so there’s no time for dilly-dallying.”

“Sorry I’m late,” a familiar deep voice says near the door. “Had some trouble on the road this morning.”

A wave of awareness slices up my spine. That voice. He’s here. A blush steals over my hot cheeks. I thought I’d have time to recuperate some of my dignity before having to face the guy again.

“No matter,” Dalton continues. “Meet your new interim boss, ladies and gents. Our esteemed leader, Hudson Owens, is taking a break from Marketing Chief duties and will be taking over the Rhythm for the time being.”

Hudson steps to the front of the room, flashing his brilliant smile. He must have changed out of his muddy pants because he’s sporting a fresh, clean suit. You’d never know he was kneeling on the side of the road a half-hour ago, dealing with my ratty old tire, by looking at him now.

Dalton continues. “If you previously reported to Ben, you’ll now report to Owens.” He turns to Hudson. “You want to say a few words?”

Hudson doesn’t speak right away. He’s scanning the crowd like he wants to make eye contact with every single one of us. Naturally, I sink lower in my chair.

“It’s no secret I’ve been on the review committee working to analyze this paper,” he says.

Which is fancy for choosing whom to fire and whom to keep.

He stands at the head of the room with an easy expression, handsome and comfortable being in control. “While I’m in this interim position, keeping the Rhythm running smoothly is my priority. I’ll be conducting a series of interviews today while I get my bearings. Please have your notes ready to discuss all projects for the remaining quarter.”

“I’m prepared,” Leo says. Two minutes back and he’s the same old butt-kisser he was before.

“Great.” Hudson keeps scanning the faces until he snags on mine. Our eyes lock, and I can’t tell if he’s about to exact revenge for ruining his pants or is dying for a coffee to bring his response time up to speed, because he hovers a beat too long.

“Why is he staring?” Simone hisses.

“Paisley McConkie?” Hudson calls, making every face in the room look my way. “I’d like to start with you.”