Page 7 of Sugar (Gilded #1)

Pucker Up, Turkey

MADDIE

S hit, I’m gonna be late.

My previous class was all the way across campus, and every single student seemed to have decided it was the perfect day to linger in walkways.

Or at the drinking fountain.

I narrowed my eyes at the line in front of me like I could use my mind to force everyone out of my way.

I could always bypass the water, but I’d learned that lesson early on.

If I didn’t come to pitch meetings for my college newspaper with a full bottle and a protein bar, I would be forced to suffer.

The one time I’d left to get a drink, I’d missed out on a dream assignment. Joel—my editor-in-chief—had known the story was basically tailor-made for me, but that hadn’t matter. I was gone, so he’d given it to someone else. He was ruthless like that.

There was no loyalty. No waiting. No handouts. Everything was a fight.

It was good training for the competitive and cutthroat world of journalism outside of the college setting.

It still sucked, though.

I was about to ditch my quest for water and accept the inevitable dehydration migraine when the line picked up speed. Once it was my turn, I turned my glare to the stream of water like I could make that go faster, too.

“Madeline.”

That gravelly voice.

It’d been three weeks since I’d heard it in Greer’s kitchen, but I recognized it immediately.

My head whipped up, sure I was imagining things. That dehydration had already kicked in, and I was hallucinating.

“I thought that was you,” Easton Wells said.

Like we were old friends.

Like it was no biggie for him to approach me.

Like it made any sense that he was at Coastal in the first place.

Completely thrown by his presence, that last part was what I focused on. My manners went out the window as I rudely blurted, “What are you doing here?”

He wasn’t fazed. His handsome face was the same blank as it’d been the night we met—with the exception of the hint of a smile and the maddening smirk he’d given when he’d caught me staring.

He jerked his head back to gesture behind him.

“I’m being dragged on a tour to show all the areas that could use improvements. ”

My brows lowered. “Why?”

“I believe this is their version of taking me to dinner before they ask me to put out.”

That wasn’t the why I’d been asking. I wanted to know why he was there and getting the tour to begin with, but it seemed like that was the only answer I was getting.

“You should at least hold out for a molasses cookie from the café. They’re the best.” I leaned around to see which student ambassador was leading the tour. Only it wasn’t one.

It was Dean Anderson.

A handful of sharply dressed people I didn’t recognize stood near him, trying and failing to hide their impatience.

I get that he’s a hotshot, but this is surprising.

Uncaring that they were waiting, Easton undid the button on his suit coat and slid his hands into his pockets. “How’re the first few weeks of classes going?”

“Good, thank you.” I was relieved I managed the automatic response since my brain was stuck on how good he looked when he did that.

I was equally relieved that I was able to tear my gaze away before my giant cup overflowed, and I made a mess of myself.

I screwed the lid back on, giving the task more focus than it called for as I tried to figure out what was happening.

“Your friends, too?”

He must not have heard from Doug yet.

The pieces clicked together, and I realized he was networking. Or fishing for information again. Either way.

I had nothing to tell him that would help, so I went with a simple, “Good all around.”

His mouth tipped up a trace amount. Or maybe he had a twitch. I wasn’t sure, and his expression gave away nothing. “I?—”

His words were cut off by a loudly bellowed, “Any day now, Mads!”

Despite the scene he’d just made to get my attention, when I glared down the hall at my editor-in-chief, his focus wasn’t on me.

His wide eyes were aimed at the man by my side.

Even from a distance, I could see the red blush travel across Joel’s face as he leaned out of the open doorway.

His already flustered expression turned to outright panic when he did a double take at the clustered group.

Like something from a cartoon, his feet seemed to move at warp speed as he scrambled out into the hallway, making a beeline to them. “Dean Anderson.”

“Do people call you Mads?” Easton asked.

“Only my friends,” I bit out with a scowl, watching as Joel kissed ass.

“Noted, Madeline .”

Realizing how my tone and words came across, my gaze shot up.

He really is tall. At least an entire foot taller than me.

And good looking.

And…

What was I saying?

He didn’t look offended, but I still rushed to explain. “I hate when Joel calls me Mads since we are not friends. He’s a tyrant and a dictator. But you can call me Mads.”

His lips tipped, and it was definitely a kind of, sort of, maybe smile. “Even if everyone who works for me thinks I’m a tyrant and a dictator?”

I pretended to mull it over before offering an apologetic smile. “Maybe we should stick to Maddie then.”

“Does that mean we’re not friends?” His expression was blank, but there was a surprising hint of playfulness in his question.

I didn’t get the chance to respond before Joel suddenly approached—which was good since I had no clue what to say. He offered a hand that Easton accepted in a firm shake. “Joel McHenry, editor-in-chief of The Coastal Chronicle.”

I barely knew Easton myself, but for whatever reason, I felt pressed to make the introduction. “This is Easton Wells.”

“I know,” Joel said. I waited for him to either grill Easton or kiss his ass, but neither happened. Like his greeting to the dean, he kept it brief. “I’m a big fan of your bench.” He looked at me. “We have a meeting to get to, Mads.”

I’m gonna hit him with my water bottle.

Wait, what bench? Like a bench ad?

Somehow, I didn’t see Easton as the kind of lawyer who would need to take out ad space like that.

I forced a tight smile up at him. “Enjoy the rest of your tour. Don’t forget to get a cookie.”

I started to follow Joel when a hand wrapped around my wrist. Choking down a gasp, I looked back.

Easton didn’t drop his hold. He also didn’t speak.

“Uhh…” It was all I could muster with his long fingers still wrapped around my wrist.

It did the job, and he tilted his head. “I left a few business cards at the Moore’s.”

“I, uhh, grabbed one,” I admitted softly.

“Good,” he said back, just as softly. He released my wrist, though the sensitive skin felt warm from his touch. “Enjoy your meeting, Maddie .”

I gave a jerking nod before rushing to catch up with my editor.

“The key,” Joel launched in like I’d asked for the insight, “is to keep things short. You get your face in front of them so they recognize you, but you don’t stick around long enough to annoy them.”

Any chance you’ll follow that mindset with me?

I wasn’t stupid enough to ask it out loud. I would be relegated to covering nothing but campus construction and traffic route changes.

Joel didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he didn’t care—that I didn’t respond. He kept talking. “If you carry yourself like you have a place at their table, they’ll eventually set one for you. How do you know Easton Wells?”

He came to silly girls’ movie night, and I’ve thought about how hot he is a million times since.

And I’ve thought about his hand on my back a million and ten times.

His hand around my wrist will be my new obsession.

“Through a friend’s dad,” I said. “How do you?—”

“Good. That’ll come in handy.”

“Handy for…?” My question trailed off as we entered the newsroom, and he hightailed it to his desk. The smartboard behind it was already loaded to the planning chart only he could make sense of.

He turned to face the waiting students, and a shark’s smile spread across his face. His voice held the same gleeful mischief when he greeted, “Fresh blood.”

Thank God I packed two protein bars.

There were no rules or regulations regarding who could contribute to the paper with an article, photo, or story idea.

Unlike a lot of school papers, Coastal paid students per article.

Not much, but enough to keep me in brunches and attract a lot of crap submissions from people out to make a quick buck.

Joel said it was to keep things competitive and fresh.

But we all knew the truth.

Newspapers were a dying medium in colleges—probably the world, but I didn’t want to think about that.

I was in too deep. Eyeing the finish line, and with no backup plan to land safely on. I had no time for that existential crisis about my chosen career.

I would adapt, just like The Coastal Chronicle had. The entire process of producing the biweekly paper had drastically changed, even over the few years that I’d been there.

Nothing was printed. It was a waste of paper that ended up in garbage cans, strewn across the courtyard, or left where they had been stacked until someone took pity and tossed the whole load in the recycling.

News stories were assembled online in a unique way that gave the feel of a paper, but with the ability to click and zoom on what interested the reader.

All ten or so of them.

It wasn’t just our team who struggled with engagement.

The broadcast journalism majors lacked viewership like we lacked readership.

I wasn’t even sure the student body was aware there was a nightly news broadcast. When we reported on the same stories, we linked their coverage in ours.

It helped bolster the numbers all the way to a couple dozen.

Otherwise, students preferred to get their news in bite-sized chunks from videos that showed up while they scrolled cringe sketches and ads for dropshipped shit no one needed.

Joel pointed at an unfamiliar guy who leaned against the communal table near Abby, one of the layout designers. “You here for the paper, or did you just follow Abby in?”

“Both?” the guy said with a shrug and a flirty smile her way.

She wasn’t impressed.

“He has a good story idea.” She nudged him and lowered her voice. “This is the part of the pitch meeting where you pitch.”

“Oh, right.” The guy pushed his hair back. “The new trend in sports…”

At just that word, Joel scowled even as he stood straighter.

Sports offered the least amount of journalistic creativity but garnered the most readership.

Everyone watched, read, and obsessed about stories that were usually simple recaps.

Limits were rarely pushed. Groundbreaking investigations seldom took place. There was no fire to play with.

It might’ve been his least favorite section, but Joel knew the analytics. If the topic was something even vaguely interesting, it would be chosen.

That grudging acceptance my editor had shown in that single second grew to something electric when the guy continued talking. “Is online betting. You can place a wager on anything. I won a grand on an event in Turkey last month.”

“Like you bet on the bird or the food?” some guy I didn’t know asked.

An awkward chuckle petered out when it became obvious he wasn’t joking.

“First of all, please tell me you know the animal is the food,” Joel demanded as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Of course.” The guy waved his hand and forced a laugh, but it was too late.

We’d all seen the genuine surprise.

“Leave.” Joel pointed to the door. “Go find a map and study it.”

“Why a map?”

“Holy shit. Just get out.”

Lost and confused, the guy grabbed his stuff and left.

Joel pointed at the one doing the pitch. “You. What’s your name?”

He puffed up and glanced at Abby. “People call me Doc.”

“Yeah, I’m not calling you that,” Joel said. “Sports betting. What’s the hook?”

At the blank stare, Abby whispered, “The point of your article that’ll make people want to read it.”

“Oh, right,” the guy said. “Well, Coastal is trying to ban it.”

Mischief glittered in Joel’s anticipatory gaze. “Oh really?”

“Well, they haven’t said anything, but sites and apps are glitching on the school Wi-Fi. Things aren’t loading. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“No. It can’t. This is good. Do you have any writing experience?”

He shook his head.

“Investigation experience?”

He shook his head again. “But I want to try. I understand how the apps and sites work since I use them. That knowledge will be important.”

“True. I’ll pair you with an experienced contributor, you can tag team it.” Joel scanned the room.

I wanted the story.

I would sell my soul for it.

More than that, I deserved it. I was the best investigator in that room. I floated under the radar—underestimated, yet stubborn as hell.

Joel called me the biggest pain in the ass no one knew they had, and he wasn’t wrong.

When his gaze hesitated on me, I thought I had it. But then he moved on and pointed to the far side of the room to our main sportswriter. “Marc, work this with what’s-his-name.”

“Got it.”

Fucking misogyny.

I have enough sports knowledge to get me through, but Marc sure as hell doesn’t have the investigative experience to get him anywhere, dammit.

I knew better than to voice my outrage or make the unfounded—albeit likely—accusation. If I did, I would end up out in the hall with Turkey guy.

The meeting continued, the smart board filled with scrawls of assigned stories or possible filler.

My name wasn’t next to any of them. He wouldn’t even call on me to hear my ideas, and I knew the meeting was about wrapped.

I’d just about given up when Joel suddenly said, “Mads.”

About damn time.

Letting the nickname usage go, I launched into my pitch. “I read?—”

“We need a profile.”

Feel good stories had their place. I didn’t mind the fluffy ones about rescued puppies or some random baby saying something cute. My issue was with the manufactured crap. The people who were clearly only doing the good deed so they could go viral and get clout.

It made me jaded.

But even those stories were better than pucker-up pieces. And that was exactly what profiles were. Glowing articles that kissed ass.

First, I don’t get the betting story, and now I’m stuck with this suck-fest?

This meeting is going from bad to worse.

“Who?” I asked, resigned to my lackluster fate despite the far better ideas I had.

“Easton Wells.”

Never mind.

Maybe profile pieces aren’t so bad, after all.