tell me.”
“My source says it’s New York.” Her boss sighed. “No worries, Iz, we’ll get him here. He can’t avoid us forever.”
We? She frowned. “Are you going to let me work on this?”
There was silence on the other end of the line. “So I wasn’t going to tell you until you got back, given that you get yourself all worked up about stuff like this, but since the timing’s changed I better let you know now. Catherine Willouby is retiring. The network execs have been impressed with your work of late and they want you to try out to replace her.”
Her breath caught in her lungs, her stomach doing a loop-to-loop. She took an unsteady step backward. Catherine Willouby, NYC-TV’s much-loved matriarch and weekend anchor, was retiring? And they wanted her, a lowly community reporter with a handful of years of experience to audition to replace her?
“But I’m two decades younger than her,” she sputtered. “Don’t they want someone with more experience?” And wasn’t she an idiot for even mentioning that fact?
“We’re getting killed with the younger demographic,” James said flatly. “They think you can bring in some of that age group, plus you already have a great relationship with the community.”
Her head spun. She wiped a clammy palm against her skirt. She should be over the moon that they thought that highly of her. But her stomach was too busy tying itself up in knots. “So what does this have to do with the Constantinou story?”
“The execs think your weak spot is a lack of hard news experience...something your competition has tons of. So I’m going to hand you this story and you’re going to knock it out of the park.”
Oh. She swallowed hard. Pressed her phone tighter against her ear and rocked back on her heels. The Constantinou story was going to make headlines across the country. Was she ready for this?
“You still there?” James demanded.
“Yes,” she responded, her voice coming out a high-pitched squeak. She closed her eyes. “Yes,” she repeated firmly.
“Stop freaking out,” he admonished. “It’s an interview—that’s all. You might not get any further than that.”
An interview in the biggest media market in the world, likely in front of a panel of stiff-suited network execs who would analyze her down to her panty hose brand...
The knot in her stomach grew bigger. “When?”
“Ten a.m. tomorrow, here at the station.”
Tomorrow? She shot a glance at an arriving elevator. “James, I—”
“I gotta go, Iz. I’ve emailed you some prep questions. Rehearse them inside out and you’ll be fine. Ten a.m. Don’t be late.”
The line went dead. She stood there dumbfounded. What had just happened?
The tall, dark-haired hunk picked up his bag and moved toward the empty elevator. A quick scan of the lobby told her they were the only two left. She tossed her phone in her purse and made herself follow. Except five feet from the doors, her feet glued to the spot and refused to move. She stood there staring at the empty metal cube, her pulse rate skyrocketing. The hunk pushed his hand courteously against the door as it started to close, impatience playing around the edges of his mouth. “You coming?”
She nodded, momentarily distracted by the New York accent mixed with the sexy faint flavoring of something foreign. Greek, maybe?
Move, she told herself, managing a couple of tentative steps toward the terrifying little box. But the closer she got, the harder it was to drag oxygen into her constricted lungs. She came to a skittering halt a foot away.
His gaze narrowed on her face. “You okay?”
She inclined her head. “Slight fear of elevators.”
His brow furrowed. “Millions of people travel in them every day...they’re unbelievably safe.”
“It’s the unbelievable part I worry about,” she muttered, staying where she was.
He rolled his eyes. “How do you get to work every day?”
“I take the stairs.”
His mouth tightened. “Look, I have to get to the airport. You can take this one or the next...your choice.”
She swallowed. “Me too...have to get to the airport, I mean.”
He gave her a steady look, visibly controlling his impatience. “Get on, then.”
A vision of her and her sister curled up in a dark elevator yelling for help flashed through her head. Like it always did when she had to make herself do this. She remembered the utter silence of the heavy metal box as they’d sat there shivering against the wall for hours, their knees drawn up to their chins, terrified it was going to drop. Her absolute conviction that nobody was ever going to find them and they were going to spend the night in the cold, silent darkness.
He let out an oath. “I have to go.”
She stared at him blankly as he jabbed his finger against the button, his words bouncing off the terror freezing her brain. The heavy metal doors started to close.
She could not miss that flight.
Dragging in a deep breath, she dived forward, shoving her bag between the closing doors, then throwing her body through after it. Adonis cursed, jamming his hand into the opening. “What the hell?” he ground out as she landed against the back of the elevator, palms pressed to the metal to steady herself. “What kind of a stupid maneuver was that?”
She jumped as the doors slammed shut. “I have a job interview tomorrow...I can’t miss my flight.”
“So you thought that getting there in multiple pieces was a better idea?” He shook his head and looked at her as though she was a crazy person.
“Slight fear of elevators...remember?” She wrapped her fingers around the smooth metal bar that surrounded the elevator and held on for dear life.
He lifted a brow. “Slight fear?”
She nodded, leaning back against the bar in as casual a pose as she could manage with her shaking knees threatening to topple her. “Don’t mind me. I’m good.”
He didn’t look convinced, but transferred his attention to the television screen running a ticker recap of the day’s news. A couple of minutes tops, she told herself. Then she’d be back on solid ground and on her way to the airport.
The elevator moved smoothly downward, whizzing through the floors. She started to think she was a little crazy. This wasn’t so bad... She took a couple of deep, steadying breaths and relaxed her fingers around the bar. She could do this, she repeated like a mantra in her head, glancing up at the numbers as they lit up. Just thirty-four more floors...
A couple of businessmen immersed in a politically incorrect joke joined them on the thirty-third floor, their deep voices booming in the echoing confines of the elevator. By the time they got off on the thirty-second floor, Izzie was smiling. Perhaps not socially
