Page 3 of The Last Key (Baker Girls #2)

CHAPTER ONE

KENNEDY

Monday

“You just hired three new people last month and now you’re laying me off? I’ve been here for nine months,” I fruitlessly argue with my department head, who I can’t stand.

From day one, he’s been a disgusting misogynist, frequently pitting women in the office against each other like there’s no role for women in journalism.

Fuck this guy. Except for the fact I thought I finally hit career status.

Instead of working freelance jobs or for tiny papers or websites—where I got laid off a few months after getting hired—I’d finally made it to one of the bigger online news sites.

Long hours and shitty pay got me here, and I thought I was on the right track, not on track for another layoff.

Even though this isn’t a layoff. It’s an underhanded way of pushing me out for someone he likes better.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Baker, but it’s not just about the length of time you’ve worked here. It’s also about overall performance?— ”

“Was there a problem with my performance? All my review meetings with my editor have been positive.”

My editor, who is my immediate boss, has been extremely supportive of my career.

He does his best to give me interesting pieces covering dramatic TV series, movies, and books.

Rather than recapping the stories, I dove deep into how they played into the viewers’ or readers’ emotions and the meat of the storyline, all while connecting with my readers.

My editor said our likes and comments on the articles about those shows had grown since I’d taken over.

He said I had a way of reaching people and drawing them into the depth of a story, and would try to get me more human interest stories—my personal preference and where I think I shine.

I’ve been told for years I have a natural way of connecting with people, and it translates into my writing.

But this jackass doesn’t care.

Mr. Hunt looks at me shrewdly. “Frankly, it comes down to your professionalism, Ms. Baker.”

Ah yes. Over the nine months I’ve worked here, he’s harped on me several times for not looking “professional” enough.

I wear dress leggings, flats or heels, and dressy tops that cover up everything.

That’s the real problem. I don’t wear low-cut shirts or skirts that hug my ass.

He wants the women who work for him to dress the way he wants.

I’m ashamed to say that after several comments about the length of my hair and how “ratty” it looked—despite it always being styled and often tucked back in a bun—I cut my hair into a bob.

The approving and incredibly demeaning look he gave me when I walked into the office after that made me want to vomit.

I wouldn’t have stuck around in this job if he were my immediate boss or someone I had to deal with on a daily basis. Or if it hadn’t felt like I was settling into my career. I know I’ve done good work here, and I know this is bullshit.

So, I do what any good journalist would do. I pull out my notepad .

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Writing down some notes.” I look up at him innocently. “How can I improve if I don’t take note of the problem?”

He clears his throat. “I see.”

“So, you’ve noted my performance is fine, correct?”

“Yes. Well, generally speaking, your reviews from your editor have been—fine.”

“Great. And you said the length of time I’ve worked here doesn’t play a role?”

“Well, it’s a factor, but not the determining one.”

“Okay.” I look up at him. “And what would you say was the biggest issue with my professionalism?”

He pulls at his shirt collar. “Well, it’s not…” He huffs loudly. “Your outward appearance doesn’t meet the standards set by this department.”

I make a point of repeating every word back as I write it down. Then I look at him with sincerity. Well, fake sincerity, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Thank you for the chance to work here. I learned a lot.”

“Of course. No hard feelings. The economy is just,” he flits his hand back and forth in the air.

“Sure.”

I turn to leave and he calls after me. “Don’t forget to leave your badge with HR.”

Oh, I’ll leave plenty with HR.

When I walk back to my desk to collect my things, I’m feeling confident, until I feel the heat of my colleagues’ gazes burning into me.

Okay, no matter how ridiculous this all is, it’s still embarrassing to be forced to pack up the five whole things I have at my desk while everyone stares. Three pictures. One with my parents, one with Hallie and Frannie, and one with Devon. A pack of my favorite pens and a package of notepads.

After throwing them all into my large purse, I make my way toward the elevator with my head held high. I’m almost home free when my boss waves me into his office.

“I’m so sorry about this, Kennedy. For whatever it’s worth, I fought for you. You have talent plenty of people on staff would kill for. If you need any references or anything related to this job, please let me know. I’m happy to sing your praises.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” I say softly, my skin burning with embarrassment and anger. I just want to get out of here. And chat with HR.

“Oh, here,” he says, grabbing a gift card off his desk and shoving it in my hand. “I know it’s not much, but…” He runs a hand through his hair like he realizes how stupid it is.

“Thanks. Take care,” I say before scurrying out of the office and down the hall.

Once I’m safely in the elevator, I look down at the card he gave me. Ten bucks for the coffee place down the street.

Phenomenal.

The doors open to the first floor, and I stride out, focused on reclaiming my confidence. I pull out my notepad and remember the look on Mr. Hunt’s face as I took those notes. He knows what he did. What he doesn’t realize is I’m scrappy and don’t go down without a fight.

Walking into HR, I wait until one of the reps is available to talk, then I hand over my badge, the notes I took, and file a complaint against Mr. Hunt.

Maybe it’ll look bad to them, but I’ve got to give it a shot.

At the very least, it might lay the groundwork if someone else files a complaint in the future.

Once I’ve finished, I walk out of HR, out of the building, and go straight to the nearby coffee shop to spend my pathetic gift card.

“Damn, girl. You’re badass,” Ryan Hardison—who we all call Hardy—says, waggling his thick black eyebrows at me and raising a glass in my honor.

“I’ll second that,” my cousin and roommate Hallie says, the liquid in her glass sloshing a bit.

“Seriously. You want a job with the Bandits?” Hardy asks. “I’ve got connections.” Hardy is a wide receiver for the New York Bandits—currently the top team in New York and ranked third in the NFL.

Yes, I’m friends with a professional football player.

Several, actually. Only because my cousin Frannie had the hilariously good fortune to sit next to their quarterback, Mark Abbott, on a plane a few months back.

She was panicking, he calmed her down, she had no idea who he was, they ended up at the same resort, and well, now we’re all sitting together in his swanky condo.

Though Frannie lives upstate in the small, idyllic town of Ida now, she and Mark are down here for the weekend.

“Woo, working the Bandits press room and cleaning up all your messes. Sounds fun,” I say, chomping on some General Tso’s.

“Hey, we’re not all troublemakers,” Brian Ackley, a massive lineman who looks menacing but is actually a big cuddly marshmallow, says.

“I second that,” Mark says, sitting down next to Frannie and pulling her close. They’re annoyingly adorable together. “Plus the pay is incredible.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I say, throwing back the rest of my drink and slurping down some lo mein.

I’m open to a new path, I’m just not sure that’s the right one.

Smash a window.

The words have been ringing in my brain all day. That’s what Devon always tells me I need to do.

My mother—forever a hardass optimist—tells me to pull myself up by the bootstraps and move on to the next thing. It’s always the last key that opens the door, she loves to say—a.k.a. keep trying and don’t give up. Easy for her to say. I can’t even find my keys most days.

Devon, on the other hand, would tell me I need to blaze my own trail.

I thought I fucking was this time. Maybe I’ve been treading down the same worn path I have been for years.

Maybe I do need to jump in the weeds and make my own path, but the problem is, I don’t even know which direction I want that path to go.

I need a break. And to clear my head. I need my best friend.

Looking around the room, I’m grateful to the crazy people sitting on the floor around a coffee table with me, but I miss Devon.

Frannie and Hallie know me better than almost anyone.

They know when I need tough love and they know when to hand me a pint of ice cream.

But since the moment I met him, no one has calmed me down like Devon does.

Somehow, he knows exactly what I need. A hug, pizza, getting the anger out, crying, whatever I need, he’s there.

My friendship with him was the best thing that came out of moving to Brighton.

After high school, we moved to Chicago together for college, then he moved back to New York with me for a couple of years.

He was working as a model at the time and was living with our friend, Justin, who we met in Chicago and is also a model.

I was living with Frannie and Hallie. The five of us had the best times together, but then Justin moved back down to Georgia where he’s from.

Frannie moved up to Ida. Then Devon moved back to Brighton when his dad was diagnosed with MS. Since then, we only see each other a couple of times a year, usually for joint vacations.

I haven’t even been back to Brighton since graduation.

That all changes next week, though. In ten days, I’m headed back for my ten-year high school reunion.

I don’t want to wait ten days.

And why the hell should I? It’s not like I’m going to find a new job in that time. Two weeks with my best friend instead of four days? Hell yes.

That’s it. Decision made .

Without another thought, I grab my phone off the table in front of me, open my travel app, and book a redeye to San Francisco tonight.

“Oh, she’s got that look in her eye,” Frannie says.

I set my phone down and look at her. “What look?”

“The watch out world look,” Hallie says, amused. “What were you doing just now?”

I shrug and smile. “Booking a flight to San Fran. Tonight.”

“Ooh, gonna go see the hot bestie early?” Hardy asks.

“Aw, you think he’s hot? I’ll be sure to tell him that Ryan Hardison has a hard-on for him.”

“Hey now, I didn’t say that. Not like he’s on my list.”

“I’d assume not, since you’re straight,” I say.

“Excuse me, I can appreciate a hot man. For your information, I have Henry Cavil on that list. But only if he’s in his Geralt costume.” Hardy shivers. “Mm.”

“This has taken a turn,” Mark says in bewilderment.

“Right. Back to the point. Are you finally going to jump Devon’s bones?” Hallie asks, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. She categorically loathes love for herself, but for everyone else, she’s ready to plan a wedding.

“Or even mention how you feel about him?” Frannie asks innocently.

Hard no.

I don’t bother saying we’re just friends because I know it’ll achieve nothing.

They all know I have feelings for Devon, but I put them away a long time ago.

As soon as I realized every girl in school wanted him and he could have whoever he wanted, I put him in the friendzone, unwilling to risk a rejection from him that could destroy our friendship.

It’s too important to me, and it has been since the beginning.

It was the right decision. Nothing has ever happened between us.

I went on to successfully date and hook up with other guys.

Maybe not successfully since I’ve been single for more than a year, but dating other people was never an issue, and we were able to bring boyfriends and girlfriends around each other without any jealousy.

Outward jealousy, at least. I’ve always been a little jealous of the girls he dates, but I get over it by leaning into our friendship.

When we’re together, it’s easy to focus on that.

It’s harder when we’re apart. I’m single. My mind wanders. To Devon.

Have I fantasized what it would be like to be with him?

Yes.

But have I touched myself dreaming of his lean muscular chest rolling over mine?

Also yes.

What can I say? A girl has needs. And as long as I don’t think about those things when I’m around him, I’ll be fine.

“I’m not telling him anything because there’s nothing to tell. We’re friends. And that’s all I need us to be.”

“But you want more,” Hallie presses.

Sighing, I open my mouth to respond, but Brian speaks first.

“Let it go. How many of you have ever had feelings for someone close to you?” Everyone looks around, but no one says anything.

“Exactly my point,” he continues. “It’s not easy to risk everything with a friend and possibly lose an important relationship.

Give her shit about whatever else you want, but let this go. ”

“Thanks,” I say softly.

He nods as he tips his beer bottle back and takes a drink.

Hardy is looking at Brian out of the corner of his eye, like he’s trying to figure out who Brian’s talking about. He’s never mentioned anyone, but he seems sad about it.

I get it.

Which is why I’m not stepping close to that line.

I’m going to Brighton, but I’m staying in the friendzone.

Some windows you just can’t smash.