Page 30 of Lovetown, USA

Brian looks over at Trey.

“Actually, this last part is for you,” Trey says. “He’s gonna teach us how to make petit fours. I know those are your favorite.”

I stare at him, my mind slow to figure out the implications. Finally, I realize.

“You read that. In my articles.”

“Of course,” he says like it’s obvious. “I told you, I’ve read your work. And I remember things.”

“Aww, shit. Mans is applying pressure,” Brian teases. “Somethin’ in this Lovetown water, I’m tellin’ you.”

That’s when I glance at Brian’s left hand. Married. Of course.

I’m still bewildered when the lesson starts, and I find myself elbow deep in cake flour, raspberry jam and other fillings, and enough fondant to cover the roof of this building.

Later, while cutting the petit fours into neat squares, Trey hums softly, some tune I don’t recognize. I can’t stop watching him. Ogling him. Wondering where his head is at. Wondering the same of my own.

After we box up all of the goodies, Trey puts half a dozen petit fours in a small white box and sets it next to my bag.

On the way back to the hotel, I gaze at him again. I know he has to see me in his peripheral, but I’m not ashamed that I’m staring. The man is doing something to me, something that terrifies me.

He’s making me believe there are good men again.

He parks in the garage. “I’m gonna walk you in, but I can’t stay. I have an early day tomorrow.”

“Same.” I stare down at the small white box in my lap. “So if you read all my work, you know my real name.”

“I knew before then,” he says. “It’s on your medical chart.”

I slap a hand against my forehead, making him laugh. “I don’t know why that never occurred to me.”

“It’s all good, Danielle.”

I roll my eyes. “I had to change it. For my career. Long story.”

He nods. “Whenever you’re ready to tell me. Or not.” He brushes his thumb across my cheek. “It’s just a label, anyway. It doesn’t have shit to do with who you are.”

When I smile, he smiles in return. “I really did miss you,” he says.

“I missed you, too.” I set the box on the dashboard and turn to look at him. “What were you doing in Houston?”

He exhales heavily. “Experiencing the consequences of my actions.”

I lift an eyebrow.

“I had to go to court. I’m being tried for assault on my ex-wife’s best friend slash affair partner.”

“Oh. Damn.”

“Yeah. The judge keeps asking me if I want me to plead out, but with that comes the possibility of losing my license, and I’ll be damned if I let that shit happen. So, I’m fighting.”

“Him pressing charges sounds lowkey bitchmade.”

“Nah, that’s highkey,” he says, his nostrils flaring. “Lane, when I caught that nigga in my house, I blacked. It is what it is. And I’d do that shit again. In every lifetime.”

“I see that,” I laugh. “But, it’s not funny. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs.

“Aren’t you taking a risk, though? What if they find you guilty?”

“Yeah. It’s a risk. My ex is willing to testify for me. So is my son, but I’m really hoping it doesn’t come to that. I don’t wanna put him through it.”

I nod. “So I’m not the only one with baggage.”

“About that.” He turns slightly to face me. “What’s the deal?”

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “Basically…I abused my position at The Beacon ,” I admit. “I wrote a very scathing article about my ex after he left me at the altar. I think the kids call it crashing out.”

He frowns. “How’d you get them to print it?”

I don’t wanna go back there. Just the thought of it makes me want to burst into tears. But I tell him, sparing no detail, trying not to break down. In my mind’s eye, I can still see it happening like it was ten minutes ago.

The newsroom hums with the usual chaos as keyboards clatter, phones ring, and someone curses at the Keurig. Nobody notices me, and that’s exactly what I want.

On my screen sits the safe version of my article.

It’s polished to a shine, so much so, my editor signed off immediately with a thumbs-up and a smile.

It’s the article that tells the story of a “rising entrepreneur with a bright future.” A man as admired in his community as he is in the tech world. Reginald Savoy.

But there’s another article.

It’s minimized in the corner of my desktop.

It’s the real one. The one with the truth, or the truth as I choose to tell it.

Every words is an arrow aimed straight for Reginald’s heart.

It’s exactly what he deserves for leaving me standing at the altar in a white dress, surrounded by flowers and pitying eyes while he vanished into thin air.

Okay, that’s dramatic. We never got to the altar. In reality, he called it off the night before, which is almost just as bad.

“Five minutes until upload,” the copy chief calls. He doesn’t look at me. Nobody ever looks at anybody when the deadline clock is ticking.

I click.

The approved draft disappears. My version slides into place. The cursor hovers over the “replace file” button, and my pulse booms so hard in my ears, it almost drowns out the newsroom chatter.

Replace file?

Don’t mind if I do.

The upload bar inches forward like it knows the weight of what I’m doing. Ten percent. Thirty. Fifty. I’m halfway there. I wipe my slick palms on my thighs, my leg jittering under the desk.

“Two minutes!” someone yells.

I lean back in my chair and force my face into a neutral expression. Inside, I’m shaking. My dress was returned, the vows never spoken, but Reginald is gonna hear me loud and clear with this.

There. Upload complete.

The big screens refresh, and there it is: his smiling photo under a glowing headline. On the surface, it looks like the puff piece I pitched. It’s what everyone expects. But tucked inside, past the opening paragraph, are my words. They’re merciless, exposing every skeleton he thought he buried.

Across the room, the copy chief frowns at his phone. “Wait…is this…what the fuck?”

Then all hell breaks loose.