overwhelmed me, but I mastered my face to get my surprise under control and managed to play it cool. “What do you write?”
That was the wrong tack to take with him. He straightened up and pressed his lips together briefly. “I hope you’ll figure that out soon enough.”
Nervous words spilled out. “I’m getting up to speed.”
If he had been any other writer, I might have casually mentioned I’d read all his reviews, and it would have been mostly true. I’d done my homework before coming to work here. I wanted to know the names of all the staff writers and freelancers. But I hadn’t needed to research Gabriel Sanchez. I had a guilty obsession with his reviews because he’d become increasingly hostile to the bands I loved most. Particularly Walking Disaster.
Ever since the magazine had hired Jo, Gabe seemed to go out of his way to pan anyone remotely connected with her. I secretly doubted the magazine cared enough to make such elaborate plans, but try telling fans their opinions amount to ridiculous conspiracy theory.
He retrieved a mug from the pantry and slid it over, taking the opportunity to edge closer to me. “How are you enjoying it here?”
“Fine.” I added a packet of sugar to my mug then stepped around him to give him free access to the machine. “There’s so much to do. The work is interesting so far.”
“And what work is that?”
“I’m the new social media manager.”
He dropped a French Roast packet into the machine and punched the start button. “So, you schedule the tweets for all the current articles?”
I stirred my own coffee. “That and I’ll be helping writers like yourself make sure links to your articles automatically post elsewhere.”
He crossed his arms and his tailored shirt creased ever so slightly. He came across as some old European effete—both effeminate and masculine all at once. He was lithe and radiated grace and charm. “Maybe you could tweet the review of Walking Disaster’s latest album I put up earlier this week?”
“Oh! I was just setting that up.” It wasn’t exactly true, but I really wanted to talk to him about it and couldn’t think of a better way to recover from failing to admit I’d heard of him.
“Thanks.”
“No problem. It’s literally my job.”
“And did you read it?” His brow rose, as though he anticipated my praise.
“I may have scanned it.” I narrowed one eye and lied. “Looked like a well-argued review.”
He sneered. “Several crazy fans disagree.”
“Oh?” I studied the floor tiles to hide any expression that might give me away.
“But you liked it?”
“I mean, I can’t speak to your opinion on the album, but the writing was quite good.” There. Honest, yet hopefully misleading.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
His coffee finished belching out, and he poured in some creamer.
I awkwardly lurched for something to say to break the weird tension. “So, you really didn’t like that album, huh?”
“Like or dislike? That’s a simplistic way to look at it. Reviews are more nuanced than that.”
I bit my tongue. “Mmm-hmm.”
“It’s a question of expectations. The band has made solid, if derivative, efforts in the past, but this new album goes in a direction that doesn’t offer anything new.”
“I see.”
“You do?”
“So, you think the value of rock music is what it brings in originality.”
“Well, no, that’s not what I mean exactly.”
“Oh, I must have misunderstood you, then.” Even though I sort of agreed with him, I never got tired of arguing about music.
“What I mean is that they’ve diverged from the sound that made them really stand out in the market.”
“Ah. So, you don’t like that they’ve done something new.”
He shifted with an exasperated sigh. “You’re twisting my words.”
“Am I?” I tilted my head at him as though I really didn’t understand. “You want them to stay in their lane while creating something groundbreaking at the same time.”
His eyes disappeared briefly into his palms. “You are purposely misrepresenting my words.”
At that moment, Ajit entered the kitchen. He stopped when he saw us, apologized, and turned on his heel. I saw the scene from his point of view. Gabe held his hands up in frustration, and I was horrified to discover my finger pointing at him in righteous indignation.
I laughed to diffuse the situation. “I didn’t mean to get into an argument.”
“Indeed.” He licked his lips. Why did someone so arrogant have such pretty lips? “We are getting off to a bad start.”
“I’m sorry. Shall we start over?” I held out my hand. “My name’s Layla.”