The Christmas Proposal - Miley Maine Page 0,63

stiff office chair. I blinked at my surroundings. White walls. White rug. White desk, all in a shiny highrise building. I was a junior staff writer at one of the most prestigious fashion magazines in America, headquarters in Chicago.

Great job? Right?

No. Not really. It fucking sucked.

After an hour of writing about the newest floral prints from a hot new designer, boredom had sunk in. I should be thrilled, I was well-aware. I’d gotten to interview that hot new celebrity designer, in person, in a swanky rooftop bar.

Against my better judgment, I got up from my desk and went to my friend's desk. I leaned over and whispered, “I wish I were writing about something interesting.”

Her eyes widened. “They’ll fire you if they hear you say that. I don’t care who your father is.” She bit her lip. “They’re probably recording you right now.”

“I know. I’m ungrateful.” The sad thing was, I didn’t care if they heard me. I didn’t care if I got fired. I also didn’t care if my father got mad that I lost the job he’d handed to me on a silver platter.

“You may not need the paycheck, but I do,” she hissed.

Fair enough. I hadn’t wanted this job. My goal from day one of college was to be an investigative reporter. Actually, my desire started before that. I’d gone on many fact-finding missions in high school, and even gotten myself into trouble with the administration at my private school.

I wanted to tell the truth.

A lot of people didn’t like that, especially not in the gilded world I came from.

I sighed. “I thought I’d be doing real reporting by now.”

She rolled her eyes at me and went back to her keyboard. “That’s what we all thought we’d be doing.”

I got closer to her ear. “You know there’s a gambling ring in Chicago.”

She snapped her gum. “People have been saying that for decades. I think it’s an urban legend.”

“I doubt it. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

“It sounds really boring,” she said.

Boring? How was writing about a crime ring boring?

I couldn't take much more of the monotony. I knew I was being obnoxious, and taking my lifestyle for granted, but I didn’t care anymore. I wanted more. I wanted to write about something that mattered. And fashion did matter -- but not to me.

I pulled open the link on my phone. I’d been looking for other jobs. And tomorrow I had an interview with an online publication that only printed news-worthy stories.

On the last day of June, I found out I got the job.

I stared at the phone. My new boss had called me.

Fucking finally. I was going to have the chance to do something interesting, something that might make a difference.

But I had to keep it to myself. My dad finding out about my new job was the last thing I needed. Yes, I was twenty-four, but I still lived with my parents. They had convinced me to stay through college, arguing that I’d have a much easier time studying in my comfortable space. Dorm rooms were gross, they’d claimed.

They’d been right about that, but the University of Chicago was strict, and I had to live on campus for the first two years.

Then when I was a junior in college, my mother passed away from a sudden illness. After her death, I’d felt too guilty to leave my father living alone.

So I was now an adult, sneaking around and concealing what I was about to do.

For the new job, I’d had to interview using my real name, but my boss had agreed to let me use a fake name with the rest of the staff. And assuming I ever got a story published, my pseudonym would be the one used in print.

I had pitched my new boss the idea of writing a story about the gambling ring.

He peered at me over his glasses. “You think you can actually get some details.”

“I do.”

“You’re not the first person to pitch this story. Or even the twentieth. It never goes anywhere,” he said. “Never.”

Shit. I had to think quickly. “What if I work on the gambling ring in my free time? And work on another story during work hours?”

“What story?”

“I want to cover the challenge of finding housing for recovering drug addicts.”

It was an issue I had no personal experience with, but my college roommate had. She’d busted her ass to make it to college on a full scholarship.

But she spent half her time trying to manage her family back home