blinked blankly. “But Mr. Morgan isn’t Man of the Year, he was Sexiest Man—”
“No, no. This just happened. The magazine doesn’t hit the stands until tomorrow but it was announced on the noon news broadcast today. The media are everywhere. They’re swarming upstairs—” Tiffany broke off, eyes widening. “You didn’t know? Where’ve you been?”
Winnie’s throat dried. “Out to lunch.”
“Well, honey, you better check in because your Morgan Grady is Man of the Year.”
The express elevator to the seventy-eighth floor always left Winnie’s stomach at her feet, and today was worse than ever.
Stepping off the elevator, she walked into a frenzied sea of reporters and carefully picked her way through the crowd to the reception desk. The young receptionist at the front desk, flagged Winnie down. “Thank God you’re here,” the receptionist choked. “They won’t go away and they just keep arriving and I don’t know what to do.”
“They’re here for Mr. Grady?”
“Yes. It’s about the Man of the Year award. The phones keep ringing—” She was interrupted by the telephone and her face crumpled as she sat down again to take the call.
Winnie sized up the crowd. Tiffany was right. It was bedlam in here. Every reporter from every paper and TV station must have a representative in the reception area.
Poor Mr. Grady.
The receptionist hung up the phone. “So what do I do, Winnie? How do I get rid of them?”
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