Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,35

are a lot of practice conversations in the mirror.

It’s finally Monday and today is the day. I walk into the station with a new hop to my step. Time to seize the cupcake. I think I’m finally getting it now. Plus, workplace romances are sexy. Well, maybe not so much with Brady. That was more just fun with a side of boring. But with Henry, it would be sexy. And since I’m familiar with this station—much more than Henry is—I know all the dark corners and closed-off rooms we could make out in. So many possibilities.

I make my way to my desk, putting my purse in the bottom drawer of my useless filing cabinet. Normally after this I’d do makeup, but today I made sure my makeup was perfect before I left my apartment, and I drove here with full air-conditioning on my face so it wouldn’t melt off in this July heat. I took extra precautions with my hair and wore my cranberry-red suit jacket and matching skirt that hugs me in all the right places.

I’m feeling confident and very comfortable in my own skin today—which isn’t my norm. Usually there’s a lot of self-doubt and worry that something won’t look good on camera. My lipstick, my hair, my hips. But today I’m not settling for kale; I’m seizing the cupcake. I’m taking it by the sprinkles and making that cupcake mine.

Normally after my makeup and hair are done, I look at my email and see what people have to say about my previous broadcast. But I don’t want to see that today. I don’t want all that negative energy surrounding me right now. I certainly don’t need Grace Is Amazing ruining my mojo.

I get up from my desk, try not to run into Jerry as I move through the station, and make my way to Henry’s office, hoping he’s alone so I can talk with him. I’ll let him know that this is going to happen—him and me—and then the games shall begin.

I go to knock on his door but then stop myself, feeling butterflies dance in my stomach. I’m a woman on a mission, but apparently my body has decided now is the time to send me signals of anxiety, and my mind starts shooting out little messages of doubt. All my practiced mirror chats are forgotten as I stand at Henry’s door. I’m a tiny nervous kitten, waiting on a giant bulldog. But Henry’s not a bulldog. At least, he’s never been one to me. So why am I so afraid?

Through the door, I hear muffled laughter, and one of the voices is definitely a woman. I get a little closer, nearly putting my ear on the door, but all I can hear are low, muffled tones—which I’m assuming are Henry’s—and intermittent higher-pitched ones.

And then I hear it. The unmistakable witchy laugh of Moriarty. It gets louder as if she’s now projecting it through the door. And just as I realize why her voice is getting so loud, the door opens, and I nearly fall through from having my ear pasted to it. Both Henry and Moriarty are standing there, Henry’s hand on the door as he holds it open for Moriarty. I catch Henry’s big smile—the one I find so appealing, with full dimple happening—fall from his face as he sees me.

Was I caught eavesdropping? Yes, I was. Am I going to admit to it? Nope.

“Well, hello there, Quinn,” Moriarty says when she sees me. Her lips are done up flawlessly in a deep shade of red. She purses them at me.

“Mor—Stacey,” I say, dipping my chin in acknowledgment.

She turns back to Henry before stepping out the door of his office. “Thanks for the chat. I’m really looking forward to working with you.” She smiles a bright smile at him and then, turning toward me with her back to him, that smile changes to something a lot more sinister.

I probably should warn Henry that although she sounds all bubbly and perfect right now, she’s essentially the spawn of Satan and he should be on his guard at all times. Any moment, her horns can come out.

I give her my best closed-mouth, I-don’t-like-you-much smile and then turn my attentions toward Henry as Moriarty makes her way out of the room and down the hall, her hips swishing back and forth likes she’s Beyoncé.

News flash: she’s not.

“What can I do for you, Quinn?” Henry says, no lightness to his voice. No tinge of the man I had