Page 6 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

GOLDA

I ’ve recorded this smoothie commercial seventeen times, and the client still isn’t happy with how I say “acai.”

Acai. Ah-sigh-ee. Ah-kai. I could summon demons with this word if I tried hard enough. Maybe that’s what the marketing team wants, a cursed fruit to go with their overpriced health elixir.

My home studio feels impossibly small this early in the morning. Sound-dampening panels line the walls, professional equipment gleaming in the pre-dawn light that sneaks through the thermal blackout curtains. This space cost more than my car, but it lets me work while my kids sleep. Most days.

“Take eighteen,” I murmur, adjusting my headphones.

“Mom?”

Blythe’s voice, small and scared, cuts through my headphones. I’m already moving, muscle memory guiding me around the corner and down the hall.

She’s tangled in her sheets, hair wild around her face. “You guys were fighting again.”

My throat tightens as I gather her close, breathing in the lingering scent of her strawberry shampoo.

“Just a dream, baby.” The same one she’s had since she was four.

The one where raised voices echo through closed doors and things break in other rooms. The one where she hides in her closet counting to one hundred, hoping the silence will return before she reaches the end.

“Can I have water?”

“One small cup.” I untangle her from the sheets. “Then back to bed, okay?”

In the kitchen, my phone lights up with Evan’s name. My fingers hesitate over the screen before I swipe to read.

Can’t do this weekend. Got pulled for a special task force. You’ll take the kids.

Not a question. It’s never a question with Evan.

I set Blythe’s water down harder than I mean to. She doesn’t notice, already half-asleep against my side. My thumb hovers over the keyboard as I walk her back to bed.

Court-approved schedule requires 72 hours notice for changes.

This is notice. Department needs me.

Ah, the ‘Department needs me’ excuse. It’s Evan’s go-to, right up there with “critical stakeout” that somehow results in Instagram photos of him at a basketball game.

Back in my studio, I roll my sleeve down, covering the small constellation of tattooed tally marks in my elbow crease. My fingers linger over them as I adjust my mic, find my place in the script. “Start your morning with sunshine in a?—”

“Mom! Tyson’s hogging the bathroom again!”

“Am not! I was here first!”

I close my eyes. Count to three. “Five minutes, guys! Then switch!”

My phone buzzes again.

You’re being difficult. I’m trying to do my job.

I have plans this weekend. Studio sessions booked.

“But my hair?—”

“Looks fine, Ty. Two minutes now.”

I grab my coffee, letting the bitter warmth ground me. 6:15 AM. The morning’s slipping away faster than caffeine can fix.

Cancel them. Your work isn’t as important as mine.

Something hot and angry coils in my stomach. The same feeling I used to swallow daily, until I learned better.

“Mom! Blythe used all the hot water!”

“Did not!”

I save the script file, knowing I won’t get another clean take before school drop-off. “This house has three bathrooms. Three. And yet every morning, it’s like we only have one.”

They thunder down the stairs like a herd of elephants. I follow more slowly, thumbs moving over my phone.

I’ll see what I can do. But I need more notice next time.

In the kitchen, Tyson’s already got the cereal box out, Blythe watching him pour with the intensity of a customs inspector. “You’re doing it wrong,” she informs him. “Mom says the milk goes after.”

“Mom says a lot of things.” But he’s gentle when he passes her the box, careful not to spill. For all their bickering, they look out for each other.

My phone buzzes one last time and I don’t even bother checking what perfunctory bullshit answer he’s given me.

The morning sun slants through my kitchen window, catching on the prism I hung there last summer. Tiny rainbows dance across the breakfast dishes, across my daughter’s worried face.

I’ll have to reschedule the audiobook recording. Again. Call in favors at the studio. Again.

“Hey,” I say, making Blythe look up. “Want to hear my commercial voice?”

Her eyes light up. “The fancy one?”

I clear my throat, channeling my inner movie trailer narrator. “In a world where one little girl needs to get ready for school... in the next ten minutes... or we’ll be late... again...”

She giggles, and just like that, the morning feels manageable.

The sound booth at Westbrook Studios feels different from my home setup. More austere. Professional. The kind of place where people make real money with their voices, not just piece together a living between school pickups and custody battles.

“Page seventy-four,” Callum says through my headphones. His director’s voice is carefully neutral, which means we’re already behind schedule. “From ‘His fingers traced...’”

I clear my throat, settling into character. Diana Stanhope, shipping heiress, about to have her world rocked by a mysterious stranger on her father’s yacht. The copy in front of me is marked with my notes: breathy here, pause there, build tension.

“His fingers traced the curve of her shoulder, igniting sparks beneath her sun-kissed skin.” My voice drops an octave, honey-warm and promising.

“She knew she shouldn’t trust him, this dark-eyed stranger who’d appeared on her father’s yacht like a storm on the horizon.

But as his lips found the pulse point at her throat?—”

I falter, just for a moment. The last time someone kissed my neck was three years ago, back when Evan and I still pretended we could fix things.

“Cut,” Callum sighs. “Lost the energy there, Golda. Let’s take it from ‘she knew.’”

In the booth, I roll my shoulders, shake out the tension.

“She knew she shouldn’t trust him?—”

My phone vibrates against the music stand. The school’s phone number.

“Cut.” Callum doesn’t sigh this time, but his silence speaks volumes.

“I’m sorry, I have to?—”

“Ten minutes,” he says, already turning to his assistant. “Tell Ivan we’re running late for his session.”

In the break room, I press my phone to my ear. “Is everything?—”

“Tyson’s fine,” the school secretary says quickly, and my heart rate slows. “But we had an incident during gym class. He got into an altercation with another student.”

My son, who cries at ASPCA commercials and rescues spiders from the bathtub. “What kind of altercation?”

“The other boy was making comments about... family situations. Tyson reacted physically.”

“Thank you for letting me know.”

Back in the booth, Callum’s already packing up his notes. “We’ll have to reschedule.”

“I can finish the chapter,” I say, even though we both know I can’t. Not with the right energy, not with the right focus. Not when my son needs me. “Maybe push Ivan back?—”

“This is a professional studio, Golda.” His voice is gentle, which somehow makes it worse. “We work on schedule. We deliver on time.”

In the doorway, Jenna from the morning shift is watching with poorly concealed interest. She does breakfast cereal commercials and children’s audiobooks, her voice bright and bouncy as a rubber ball.

Last week in this same break room, she told me all about her Hinge adventures while I pretended to understand modern dating.

“You should try it,” she’d said, scrolling through profiles. “Get back out there. How long has it been?”

I’d smiled, noncommittal. Didn’t tell her that the thought of strange hands on my body makes my skin crawl. That trust isn’t something you can swipe right on.

Now she catches my eye, mouthing: Everything okay?

I give her my commercial smile, the one that sells smoothies and sunshine. “Just kid stuff. You know how it is.”

She doesn’t, actually. Her greatest commitment is to her goldfish.

“I’ll have my agent call about rescheduling,” I tell Callum, already gathering my things. “We can finish this week, if?—”

“We’re booked through Friday.” He won’t look at me now. “And the client needs the final audio by Monday.”

The implicit message is clear: they’ll find someone else. Someone more reliable. Someone without complications.

I should fight harder. Should remind him that I’ve never missed a deadline, that my reviews are solid, that I can do this job better than half the voices he books.

Instead, I say, “I understand.”

In the elevator, I catch my reflection in the polished doors.

I look put together: clean lines, subtle makeup, the kind of woman who belongs in this building.

You’d never know I woke up at 5 AM to record smoothie pronouncements, or that I spent twenty minutes this morning hunting for Blythe’s other shoe.

My phone buzzes again. Evan.

Heard from school. Handle it. Can’t take calls during task force.

Three years ago, that message would have sent me spiraling. Now it just settles into my chest, another weight placed onto the pile of guilt trips and manipulation tactics.

The elevator doors open onto the lobby, all marble and morning light. A young woman in studio makeup brushes past me, script in hand, whole life ahead of her.

“Hold the door!” Jenna calls, clicking across the lobby in her impossible heels. “Golda, wait!”

I do, because that’s what professionals do. Because maybe someday I’ll need her to hold a door for me.

“Drinks tonight?” she asks, slightly breathless. “That new place on Seventh? Could be fun, could be terrible, but either way there’s wine.”

For a moment, I let myself imagine it. Being carefree enough for impromptu drinks. Having stories to share that don’t revolve around custody schedules and school incidents.

“Can’t tonight,” I say, and watch her face fall. “But maybe next week? If I can find a sitter?”

The offer surprises us both. Jenna recovers first, her smile genuine. “Thursday works. I’ll text you. We can commiserate over nightmare clients and picky directors.”

“And acai pronunciation.”

“God, is that still happening? Just tell them it’s ah-sah-ee and move on with your life.”

Something close to friendship flickers between us.