Off the Record: A Sweet Office Romantic Comedy (The Nashville Romantics Book 1)
Off the Record: Chapter 2

Did Hudson Owens just full-name call me out in front of the entire office? He’s still watching me expectantly, his bright blue eyes blinking. A subtle lift of one dark eyebrow is all it takes for me to crash down to earth, and I replace myself nodding profusely. “Yes, sir.”

“Great.” He turns his attention back to the group. “Please take the morning to prepare your quarter’s projects for discussion. I look forward to getting to know all of you better.”

His tone has a magical element that somehow conveys the meeting is over. Without being explicitly told to, we all rise, dispersing to our various parts of the office. Simone clutches my arm tightly, steering me from the room toward our grouping of desks, her smile forced. “What was that?”

I catch Leo’s questioning gaze as we pass him but look away. “No idea. Am I about to get fired?”

Simone yanks me to a stop, her brown eyes wide. “No. Don’t think that way. Going first gives you an edge. Use it.”

An edge of what? Hudson will be choosing who remains and who leaves during his tenure here. I suppose I still have time to prove myself. After my last article about how to catch good live music downtown kind of tanked, though, I have reason to be worried.

“Besides,” Simone mutters. “The man has a reputation.”

“Multiple reputations,” I remind her. He’s not just a ladies’ man. I heard once that the first thing he did when he was hired as editor-in-chief of the Tribune was fire a fifth of the staff writers. No one is safe.

She nods. “His receptionist’s desk is like a revolving door. He dates them and drops them so fast. Maybe he wants to add you to his list of conq⁠—”

“Don’t say it. I’m so far beneath his notice, it’s laughable.”

She puts up both hands in surrender. “Fine, but keep your guard up. He wants you to go first for a reason, and it’s not seniority.”

“Right, it’s firing me,” I say, repeating the most reasonable explanation. I’m the lowest columnist on the food chain. The newest addition. Besides, the man might be a player, but I’m not his type. I’ve seen images of his dates on social media. He likes tall, gorgeous models. Not average, frizzy-haired writer nerds.

I gather my computer and head straight for Ben’s—no, Hudson’s—office. He’s already waiting behind the desk, looking at his computer screen. His eyes flick up when I enter and linger on my face for a beat before rising to my hair.

My cheeks warm, remembering the image that looked back at me when I tried to fix my hair in my rearview mirror. There’s no other way to tame this poofy mess. My hair isn’t curly, or even wavy. It’s a few inches past my shoulders and mostly straight, but the slightest amount of stress sweat or humidity and it puffs up like a haggard bear. I should just shave my head. But I have a feeling it would make me look more 2007 Britney and less Cara Delevingne chic. Biting back every instinct to smooth down my wayward frizz, I paste a smile on my lips and move into the office.

“Will you close the door?” he asks, eyes running over the screen of his computer again.

“Of course.” I shut the door, catching Leo’s watchful suspicion across the room through the big glass window. I promptly spin around to replace Hudson’s blue gaze fastened on me, making my breath hitch. The weight of his full attention is heavy. It isn’t freely given, so when you have it, you have all of him.

It’s a little heady, to be honest. I can see why his secretaries keep falling for him.

“Please be seated.”

Okay, I’m staring again. He flusters me, though, which is fair, since he gets to choose whether I keep my job. I worked so hard to reach the point where I could write for The Nashville Rhythm. I’m not going to give it up without a solid fight.

I just need to make him see the value of my column.

I take the seat across from him and open my computer. I half expect him to mention the tire or his ruined pants, but he says nothing, so I take initiative and start my campaign to prove my worth. “I’ve been working on a list of potential concepts centered around the upcoming holidays. Good, family-friendly haunted houses, where to donate time or resources for Thanksgiving charities, how to replace the best Santa experiences⁠—”

“Is there such a thing?”

“As a good Santa experience? Yes. Probably.” I wouldn’t actually know. As one of six kids, my parents tended to make our own experiences at home. Everything became too expensive when you had to multiply it by six.

“How do you intend to choose which ones are the best? Testing Santas?”

I clear my throat. Was that a joke, or is he hinting that I’m already being shoved out by pointing out the ridiculous nature of my idea? “I meant on a practical level. Where to avoid the lines or get affordable pictures.”

Hudson nods, leaning back in his chair, his blue eyes still fastened on me with penetrating endurance. “I looked through the numbers for your last few columns.”

Great. This meeting is him trimming the fat after all. Time to prove he needs me to keep things from getting too dry in the roasting pan that is this office.

Bad analogy? I’m under duress right now.

Heart hammering, I lean forward and put my computer on the edge of the desk, spinning it to face him. “Those aren’t my only ideas. I can also form a guide to the best produce self-picking options, do a bit on porch decorating on a budget, a series of recipes for autumn-themed entertaining⁠—”

“I’m not firing you, Ms. McConkie.”

Oh. My desperation is bleeding through. I sit back. “You looked at my numbers.”

“Your clicks aren’t high enough.” He spins a BIC pen on his desk, watching me. “It’s no secret we need to revamp the place, give it a fresh edge. You were in the meeting last month to discuss the future of our columns.”

I was, and it scared me then as much as it does now. Lowest on the food chain, remember? I’m the meerkat. He’s the lion.

Kyla’s a hyena.

“People are evolving,” he continues. “They aren’t the same now as they were ten years ago, so the themes of ten years ago won’t cut it anymore. We need fresh voices to match our new direction.”

Fresh. He considers me outdated? Me? I don’t even own a pair of skinny jeans anymore—half of my closet is wide-legged trousers. “Family traditions don’t change much, though, and that’s my job, to give families a monthly guide.” I’m literally the column moms go to in order to replace seasonal tips and tricks. How am I meant to evolve that?

Hudson pulls something up on his screen. “Your best performing article since joining us was about Carnton. What do you think grabbed readers’ attention?”

About a civil war plantation house? “Probably the bloodstains they still have on the floor.”

His mouth quirks into a little smile, making my stomach flip. “Maybe.” He watches me, like if we sit in silence long enough, the answer will come.

Okay, fine. I think back on that article and how different it is from most of the other pieces I’ve put out in the last eight months. First off, it wasn’t a guide at all. It was about a local historical gem and the fantastic employee who took me on the tour. She was old, spunky, and didn’t shy away from the difficult parts of the property’s history. I didn’t write all the details about walking through the cemetery or the various outbuildings, but I’d tried to paint a picture of the gorgeous house and the family that lived in it, interspersed with Maggie’s fascinating tidbits. The woman has been working at Carnton for over twenty years. She’s a veritable expert.

“History?” I ask. “Maybe readers want to know more about the past lives in our rich history.”

“Maybe,” he concedes. “But I don’t think that’s it. When I read that article, it stood out to me as well. A touch above the rest.”

A blush steals up my neck. Hudson Owens has been reading my work? It’s ideal for him to do that if he’s going to be whittling down our department, but I still can’t believe it. He seems too swanky to bother himself with The Ten Best Ways to Beat the Summer Heat in Downtown Nashville.

Internally, I do my best not to cringe.

It also feels like one of those leading the witness situations here. Hudson already has the answer, and he wants me to say it for him. But he also has twenty other people to interview.

“There are two other civil war properties related to Carnton. If you’d like, I can do a series, visiting each⁠—”

“It’s not the civil war history that set that article apart, Ms. McConkie.”

“You can just call me Paisley,” I tell him. He’d said it this morning on the side of the road, after all. “Ms. McConkie” makes me feel like I’m getting in trouble with my high school English teacher for chatting too much with a friend.

“Paisley,” he says, moving his lips around the word like he’s born to it. Sheesh, it’s getting warm in here. “You’re a good writer, but TripAdvisor already exists. Anyone can Google the ten best Santas in town. I want us to offer something different. Something that will draw people in, not just keep their attention once they’re already reading.”

Draws them in? That has to be something ultra interesting. A serial. Something with consistency. Do we even have enough history in the area to support more than a year’s worth of articles?

“The aspect I loved about your Carnton article,” he continues, “is the profile you did on the employee.”

“Maggie.” I remember her well. “She was a fount of information.”

“She was interesting. The way you framed it, her story was as engaging as the history of the house.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I just did,” he says with a note of finality.

My attention jerks up. I do my best to read him, but I’m having trouble getting through the smolder that seems to be part of his resting expression. The man hides his thoughts behind a brick wall. For someone who seems to go through women like cartons of milk, he hasn’t really exhibited much flirting. This guy is all business, so I’m going to meet him where he’s at. “I can write more articles like that one.”

“Great. I’d like two profiles drawn up by the end of the week.”

Two? In four days? I don’t even have an idea for one.

“This is an experiment; I won’t try to pretend otherwise. That being said, I’d like to see you succeed. If it’s done well, I think this segment has the potential to do great things. Feel free to run ideas by me as you go. Shoot me an email if you get stuck, and I can workshop angles with you. Whatever you need, I’m at your disposal.”

My gaze drops to his hand still spinning the pen on the desk. It implies restless, nervous energy, but he seems cool, relaxed, unbothered. I’m the one freaking out, since I got a direct invitation to workshop my articles with Hudson Owens.

“Right now, they’re considering cutting two columnists,” he says quietly. “I really like your voice, Paisley. I’d like to keep you on.”

Give me a reason to keep you on, his eyes seem to say. The words are there between us, but I’m not sure if I’m reading between the lines or inventing them entirely. He likes my voice, though. He said so himself.

I have to remind myself he means my writing voice, but I still search for some strain of flirtation in his declaration. He doesn’t know me. I’m actively choosing not to replace any of this flattering, because no decisions have been made yet.

But there’s a chance. He told me as much. Rising, I take my computer from his desk and tuck it under my arm. “Thank you, Mr. Owens. I’ll be sure to get you those articles by Friday.”

“I hope to hear from you before that,” he says, watching me. A hint of a smile curves the edges of his lips. “I think if you’re going to insist I call you Paisley, you should probably call me Hudson.”

Well, lookie here. I’ve found that flirtatious streak he’s famous for. “Of course, sir.” I move toward the door.

“How’s your tire?” he asks.

“Hopefully not deflating as we speak,” I toss back over my shoulder.

He rocks in his chair, watching me. “Should I send my guy to the garage to look? I wouldn’t want you to be stranded here.”

I knew he had a guy. It’s a surprisingly thoughtful gesture. “I’ll be alright.” One of six kids, remember? I’m capable, independent, and terrible at accepting help from attractive new bosses. My hand hits the doorknob when he speaks again.

“I look forward to working with you, Paisley.”

All I can do is nod. When I slip out and make it back to my desk, I’m not quite breathing right. The way his gaze lingered on me made a warm fuzziness bloom through my body that’s still present, even after I’ve left his office and started to work on my list of possible article candidates. I can walk myself through the logic here, how flirtation means nothing from someone like him, but that doesn’t make the feelings go away.

Simone rolls her chair closer, leaning in. “What happened?”

“My column just changed.”

Her look of relief isn’t promising. Did she think I was going to be fired? I guess no one is safe, yet. “To what?”

“Honestly, I’m not quite sure. Human interest pieces, I guess.”

“You should start with our new boss.”

He’s standing in the doorway of his office, hands in his pockets and speaking to Andrea, the receptionist he inherited with this interim job. She giggles, twirling her impossibly short hair around a finger. How long would she last?

What would an article on Hudson look like? How to Drop an Office Relationship with Minimal Fallout. The answer is pretty short: be the boss. “I have a feeling that’s not the sort of human interest he has in mind,” I say.

She shrugs, pushing away from my desk to roll back to her own. “I don’t know. He’s pretty interesting.”

I shoot her a look, and she grins back.

When I turn back to face my computer, Leo is watching me. I give him a brief, friendly smile and stare at the blank screen again, wishing he would leave for another trip. I’m hit with a new pang every time I make eye contact with him, like I forget he’s around until—bam—there he is, right in my face.

A private chat pops up on my screen.

I glance back at the blank screen, the flashing cursor mocking me, and inhale. Four days to write two rough drafts on interesting Nashville people. How hard can it be?