Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“Why don’t they make fobs bigger so I can find them easier?” I groan.
“Hey, Gianna,” Francine says, popping into the room. Her hair, the color of ripe cherries—golden with a hint of blush—shines beneath the LED lights. “Am I interrupting something? You look so serious.”
I huff a breath. “Why do I buy bags this size when I know damn good and well that I’m going to be pissed off the first time I actually have to use it?”
“I don’t know, but that bag is super cute.”
“It is, isn’t it?” I hold it by the handles and dangle it in the air. “It came with a gaggle of charms that I promptly removed and gave to a friend because I can’t handle the jingling all the time. I felt like a cat wearing a bell.”
Francine laughs. “Well, we know that you don’t need a bell to announce your arrival.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, laughing, too.
“Chaos—the good kind, but chaos nonetheless—both precedes and follows you.”
Memories flood my brain of my arrival this morning. My bag and keys were in my left hand, and a latte was nestled carefully in the crook of my left elbow. My right palm held a little orange kitten that I found next to a trash bin in the office parking lot.
Then I stepped inside the building, and all hell broke loose. The kitten went spastic and leaped from my hands like a circus performer. Its claws, which felt more like talons, dug through the sleeves of my shirt and kissed my skin. Super Kitty ripped around the lobby, knocking over plants and a jar of candy off Juni’s reception desk. Finally, in a heroic effort by my now-favorite intern, the kitten was captured in a dramatic scene that included a piece of ham, a bit of blood, and more than a little urine on the shirt of the intern … who will probably never speak to me again.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I say with a shrug.
“So let’s talk about today’s episode. How did you feel about it?”
She’s leading me somewhere. I can hear it in her tone.
“I feel great about it,” I say, sussing her out. “Unless there’s a reason that I shouldn’t …”
Her lips press together in a firm line before she shakes her head. “You killed it, Gianna. Our live metrics far exceeded our expectations and nearly broke Canoodle’s one-day record. With these numbers, I don’t see how you won’t get the Thursday evening slot.”
The Thursday evening slot? My jaw smashes against the floor. No freaking way. “Seriously?”
“Oh my gosh, yes.” Her affable smile, the one that helps seal any deal she’s after, shines on me as she enters the room. “There was a meeting this morning with Spaulding and the other Canoodle executives, and your name was brought up repeatedly.”
I rise to meet Francine eye to eye … and so I don’t fall out of my chair.
The Thursday evening slot is currently held by a true crime podcast that’s ending next month, and every podcaster at Canoodle is frothing at the mouth for the opportunity to fill it. Not only is it prime listening time but it also attracts the most sponsorships and has the greatest potential for organic growth.
Scoring that slot is akin to swiping right on a guy who also matches with you—and isn’t a creep.
I’ve imagined owning that hour, but never truly considered that I would be in the running for it. Sure, I’ve had dreams of making this into a forever type of gig, and I’ve had delusions of becoming a household name. Never having to go back to serving customers at The Swill because I’m financially set, doing something I absolutely love? Yes, please! But that hour will surely go to someone with more experience and a heftier brand … right?
“I don’t know what to say,” I say, brows raised and mouth still agape. “I mean, I know my numbers are great. But Gianna Knows Things has only been a thing for six months. We’re still growing.”
“You’re growing right into the Thursday slot if I have anything to do with it.”
“Do you really think I have a chance? You’re not just hyping me up to make me feel good?” Bubbles of excitement begin bursting inside me, and a giggle passes my lips. “If you are, I love that you’d do that for me, but help me balance my expectations, please.”
Her fingertip trails the edge of the table. “I’d say it’s between you and Drake Bennett, and that man is a power in his own right.”
I hum, hoping it hides the smirk tickling the corners of my lips. “I can handle Drake Bennett, Francine. That’s not a problem.”
“That sounds like a challenge I’d be more than happy to accept,” someone, distinctly not Francine, says from the doorway.
I lift my gaze over Francine’s shoulder as a ribbon of fire licks through my veins and feast my eyes on the man leaning casually against the doorframe.