Off the Record: A Sweet Office Romantic Comedy (The Nashville Romantics Book 1)
Off the Record: Chapter 4

Leo is standing by the elevators when I arrive at work the next morning, holding two takeout cups. His dark waves are styled into submission and his soulful eyes bent like a puppy’s when he takes me in, all sympathy and sweetness.

Gag.

I hike my bag higher on my shoulder and walk past him, doing my best not to inhale. His scent is one of the things that drew me to him originally. Cloudy and masculine but not too overbearing.

Shoot, I got a whiff. He still smells like the Italian Riviera on a warm summer day. Or, rather, what I imagine that would smell like.

Walk faster.

“Paise,” he calls, making me stop. “I got you a drink.”

When I glance back at him, he’s holding up the second coffee cup, dipping his head to the side just a smidge. He knows my order. I can practically taste the caramel macchiato from here. My pride wars with my taste buds, but my craving finally wins out. “Thanks,” I say, reaching for it.

He gives it up, but his eyes stick on me. “Can we talk for a minute?”

I tilt the cup to the side, analyzing it. “Shoot, I didn’t see the strings at first, but look, there they are.”

“I won’t force you into a conversation,” he says dryly.

That’s the beauty of strings, isn’t it? No forcing required. I’m guilted into it.

“We didn’t get a chance to talk yesterday,” Leo continues. “I want to clear the air so things aren’t weird in the office.”

Andrea’s desk and her overactive ears are too close for comfort, but Leo’s right. If we clear the air, maybe he’ll leave me alone. “Fine,” I whisper. “Kitchen.”

He nods, following me down the long hallway to the staff break room, which always smells like stale coffee. We only have a fridge, microwave, table, and an assortment of mismatched chairs. I think they were trying to be artsy, but it looks cobbled together. I put the cup down and fold my arms over my chest.

“When I left, things were still strained between us. I know I hurt you, Paise. What can I do to ease this transition?”

Leave, for one. I don’t say that. Unfortunately, we’re in different departments, so there’s a chance we’ll both end up staying on when the cuts come through. “Space,” I finally concede. “We won’t be friends. The best you can do is your job and let me do mine.”

He’s frowning. “Proper healing⁠—”

“Cut the crap, Leo.” I take a breath and try to replace patience. “You don’t get a say in what kind of healing I need.”

His gaze turns condescending. “There’s no need for anger right now. I’m trying to help you move on. It can’t be easy⁠—”

“Paisley?” a man says from the doorway. We both turn to replace Hudson leaning there, his placid expression running over us. A blush steals up my cheeks, warming my skin. How much had he heard? “Are you ready for our meeting?”

What meeting? I’d planned on emailing him my rough draft.

He holds my gaze, his striking blue eyes not straying from my face. Wait…is he trying to give me an out?

“Another one?” Leo says around a forced smile. “Careful or it might seem like Paisley’s getting preferential treatme…” His words trail off.

Hudson stares at him without a lick of amusement. His eyes flick to me. “Ready?”

“Yes,” I croak, reaching for my coffee.

He steps back, gesturing for me to precede him. We walk back toward the main office and through the desks. Simone catches my eye, raising her brows, but I give her a little shake. I’ll have to explain later.

Although I’m still not sure what’s happening. When I reach Hudson’s office, I step out of the way. “We don’t actually have to meet.”

“I want to see that article,” he says, opening the door for me.

Or maybe he wasn’t trying to save me after all. Again—what is happening here?

“It’s really rough.” I had taken some time this morning to work through what I could do to make Carolina Blues the focus of the piece in tandem with the bar, but it still doesn’t feel quite right. It definitely isn’t ready for my boss to look at.

“That won’t scare me off.” He sits in his chair, watching me lower myself into the seat opposite his desk. “I’d rather make sure we’re moving in the right direction from the beginning than waste your time writing things we’re going to scrap anyway.”

And if we scrap too many things, my job goes in the dumpster with my rejected articles. He doesn’t need to say that for me to understand. “I’ll email it to you now.” I open my computer on my lap and replace the article. I have his email because he’s been sending the office memos since yesterday, though that doesn’t explain how he’d found my phone number. We don’t have an office database. “Do you often text your writers in the middle of the night?”

“8pm is the middle of the night?”

“You know what I mean. How did you even get my number?”

“HR,” he says easily.

I look up. “That’s not a HIPAA violation?”

“It might be an HR violation, but since it was strictly used for work purposes, I think I’m safe.”

Is that how he fills his social calendar? Access to HR and someone willing to give him whatever he wants? No, that’s stupid. One look at his face proves how willing most people are to give him what he wants. Heck, I’m not innocent. One snap of his fingers and I’m sending a crap article before it’s ready.

The email must come through, because Hudson drops his eyes to his computer and scans it. He betrays nothing as he reads, which makes me rest my computer on his desk so I can grip my armrests impatiently.

“If people are bothering you in the office, HR can step in. They’re good for things like that,” he says, never taking his gaze from the screen.

“People like you?” I joke, trying to deflect.

His blue eyes pin me in place. “I’d like to think helping your career isn’t a bother, but maybe I’m misreading the situation.”

I don’t want to lose his help. “I won’t turn you in.”

“But you could turn in Leo.”

So he isn’t going to let it drop. How much to tell him? He doesn’t actually want our sordid history. I don’t see him being an Andrea, eager for the tea. He probably really thought Leo was bothering me in the kitchen.

Well, he was, but not in the way Hudson imagines. “We used to date,” I tell him. “He’s been out of the office for a few months, so it’s been a minute since we’ve talked.”

Hudson looks at me. “You were exhibiting body language equivalent to that of a cornered animal. It didn’t look like a good situation to an outsider.”

Again, I’m the meerkat. I don’t know how to feel about the fact that he noticed. None of his attention really makes much sense at all. “I’m not in danger emotionally, mentally, or physically, if that’s what you mean.”

“You’re certain?”

“Leo’s harmless.” Physically, at least. The emotional pain he dealt out is receding as well.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Thank you.”

“If you do need an assist, my office is open anytime.”

An assist? Like a way to get away from Leo? “You’re saying I can claim a bogus meeting whenever I want to escape my ex?”

His mouth flickers in a faint smile. “Bogus? We planned to chat this morning.”

“I didn’t realize you meant first thing.” Or in person, but I leave that out.

Hudson rubs the back of his neck, looking at me like he wants to say something. “This is good,” he says, gesturing to the computer screen. Conversational whiplash, much? “But it’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

“It’s not polished yet.”

“Still, I can see where you’re going with it, and I think…” He looks away, working his jaw like he’s searching for the right words. “I don’t think the band is the right angle here.”

Oh. My. Gosh. What does this man want from me? I have the sneaking suspicion I don’t have all the facts. An interest piece like the one about Carnton, without the historical references but about the people—but not this particular band. My head is swimming.

I’m willing to meet on his level, but I need more guidance. “What exactly do you want to get out of this article?”

“Readers,” he says. “I think you have the ability to bring in fresh eyes and recurring readership if we can get you on the right subject. The problem is none of this is really hitting right. Can you scrap it and try again?”

My stomach leaps at the praise, then falls hard again. If I can’t replace a way to prove I can do exactly what Hudson thinks I can, then what happens? I’m job hunting? Carrie has a good job as a nurse, but she can’t float the rent for both of us. I need to do my part, too, and I don’t want to do it beside my lecherous old boss at Music City Monthly again.

“I’ll try,” I tell him.

“Good.” He’s watching me, picking up the BIC pen on his desk and spinning it again. “How’s the tire?”

“Dead and replaced.” I hesitate briefly before asking, “How’s the new job?”

The pen stops spinning. I really don’t get why he doesn’t use more expensive pens. “More of a challenge than I expected.”

Well, I hadn’t anticipated that kind of honesty. Although I didn’t know what to expect, really. We aren’t friends. He just looks like he could use one.

“Running the paper is fine. I’ve done it before,” he says like it’s nothing, yet I happened to know it gave Ben ulcers. “But the admin side, using the consultants to whittle down the staff and try to make the best decisions for moving forward…I don’t like any of that. I thought the challenge would be interesting, then I got here and remembered that real people are behind all the numbers.”

“With real lives and rent to pay and tires to replace,” I add, but my brain is spinning on consultants.

“Exactly.” He sits up. “Not my favorite part of the gig.”

Didn’t he leave being an editor-in-chief solely for an admin job in the executive offices? Isn’t that what Chief of Marketing is? If admin isn’t his favorite part of the job, what does he like about it? His blue eyes trail over me, drawing me in. I can’t take the weight of his attention anymore, so I pick up my computer, sling my bag over my arm, and rise. I reach for my coffee, searching for the words to communicate how much of an asset I can be.

“Send me your rough ideas, Paisley, and I’ll send back notes. I think a little brainstorming will help us hit on the right notion.”

I nod. Now that I think about it, why is he helping me so much? It doesn’t seem like he has a whole lot to gain here. He has to make difficult cuts, and I’m not doing what he needs. Seems easier to just let me go. “Are you doing this for everyone?”

“I’m not really at liberty to divulge the nature of anyone else’s place within the company at present,” he says carefully. “I am doing what I think is best for the paper.”

That’s fair. He must have a reason, whatever it is. I’m not going to look my gift horse in the mouth anymore. Nodding, I glance at the window behind him to the puffy clouds gathering over Nashville.

There’s a knock at the door behind me, and I turn to leave, giving Kyla and her perfect, luscious blonde hair the room. She sends me an irritatingly bright smile, which I ignore. She is sleek Office Barbie, and I’m feeling more like a Bratz doll that a child has taken a hairbrush to after a swim in the bathtub. I can hear the animation in her voice as I walk to my desk. It grates like nails on a chalkboard. She’s so pompous toward me, thinking she’s won, but she’s the one who ended up with cheating scum. How does she not realize that if Leo will do something like that once, it’s possible he’ll do it again?

Simone shoots wide eyes at me when I pass her desk. “What was that about?”

I’m tempted to tell her the truth—Hudson saw Leo cornering me and felt I needed an excuse to escape. She’ll read into that, so I go with the other truth. “New direction. I have to replace something else to write about.”

She cringes. Her advice column is totally safe and a major draw for readership, so I’m not worried about her place in the company and neither is she. I wish I had something equally interesting in mind, but again, my brain is a blank slab of nothingness.

“What are you going to focus on?” she asks.

I put my things down and open my computer, groaning. “No idea.”

The rest of the work week passes like Groundhog Day: utter repetition. I come up with an interesting idea, write out the bare bones, send it to Hudson, and get shot down. By the time Friday rolls around, I’m so far away from two finished articles, I should start packing up my desk now.

Sun up to sun down, I’ve done nothing but work, brainstorm, return to the drawing board. Because of my nightly trips to my favorite dinner place, Hattie B’s, I know so much about the woman behind the counter, I could do an article on her. Really, people should be more patient with the person at the register. It’s not her fault the kitchen forgot your coleslaw.

By noon, I’ve scrapped six more ideas, and despite Hudson’s dismissal of Civil War pieces, I’m ready to do a deep dive on the Battle of Franklin and turn it in anyway.

ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

I pull up a private Slack and send Simone a message.

Besides, Stan is a great writer. He’d been up for company awards multiple years in a row. I hear the sound of Simone’s wheels as she pushes her chair across the floor to reach me. “Nothing?”

“He keeps shooting them down,” I whisper. “The band at Whiskey Sage, the docent from the Hall of Fame, Jerry’s uncle who used to be Kenny Chesney’s agent. Nothing’s good enough for Hudson.”

“Maybe you’re thinking too big.” Her brown eyes widen. “Maybe you should go micro, not macro.”

“Small?”

“Yes. Write what interests you, and it’ll bleed through the page.”

It might be worth a shot, but again, my brain is soup. I have no ideas. I’ve filled my head with so much research this week I actually feel my reaction times slowing.

“Stop overthinking, Paisley,” she says. “Just write.”

“The only story in my head right now is about the woman who’s rung me up at Hattie B’s all week.”

“Then write that.”

I puff up my cheeks and blow out a breath. Nashville Hot Chicken is an institution all its own. That’s not a completely insane idea, right? It’s pretty dang micro.

“Okay, I’ll try.”

She gives a nod of approval and rolls away. I open a new document, clear my head, and put my hands on the keyboard. Nothing else has worked, so this is a last-ditch effort at retaining my job.

Here goes nothing.