As someone who works in PR, the relationship between journos and PR's is always something that's kinda intrigued me. Hence, this story, where Beca (a journalist) and Chloe (a PR graduate) meet on the bustling streets of London.

I've been dying to write something about this pairing for fucking forever, so I've been writing this first chapter over the past couple of weeks on my morning commute into work (which is not an easy thing to do when you're sat next to nosy passengers who try to read whatever it is you're doing over your shoulder, believe me). This will be a multi-chapter fic (how long it'll be I'm not entirely sure of yet), so please do bear with me whilst I'm updating/adding chapters - I'll try my best to get stuff done asap!

Disclaimer, as always: I [sadly] don't own the Pitch Perfect characters, though the content within this fic is 100% mine.

Happy reading!


Chloe is sugar. Sweet and satisfying, and completely addictive.

She's a cappuccino sprinkled with cocoa powder; bitter espresso diluted with frothed milk and saturated with sugar. She's darling and cheerful, and oh-so obliviously so, twenty-four-seven; a super-charged, red-headed bundle of energy running on a seemingly never-ending sugar high.

Beca is the complete opposite. She's the coarse coffee grounds drowning in scalding water; dark and broody and bitter.

She's highly strung and temperamental, and even worse so if she doesn't drink at least three shots of the strongest, highest caffeine content coffee she can find. And where Chloe is open and inviting, Beca is awkward and grumpy and closed off, with an absolute hatred of anyone who heaps spoonful's of sugar into their coffee (because sugar in coffee is for pussies).

And London, the vibrant megalopolis of people, ideas and frenetic energy, with a swirling flurry of burning heat and perfect timing, is the catalyst that brings them together.


"Can I have, uh... A..."

The line had moved a lot quicker than she thought it would, and the red-headed woman wasn't expecting to be served so quickly.

She stumbles over her words, her mind scrambling to come up with a drink that she actually wants whilst her eyes scan the chalkboard of offers behind the barista. She can't make her mind up between a latte and a cappuccino, and she can't really believe she's getting all flustered between choosing between foamed or steamed milk, but it's her first day at her new job and it's really important she gets her day off to a good start.

The barista rolls his eyes at her pauses, and the suit waiting in line behind her sighs loudly and obnoxiously. It's 8:30am on a Monday morning and half of London appears to want their coffee right here, right now before the working day begins; neither of them have time for her hesitations.

"I'll just have a latte, thanks." She adds in a small smile, to apologise for taking so long and because this barista looks as though he could seriously do with some light in his life, but her smile probably just comes across as naive to the ever-judgemental barista.

The suit behind her mutters something along the lines of "finally", and drops in another over-exaggerated sigh, just so that Chloe is fully aware of how important he is and how he needs to be elsewhere right now.

She pays for her drink in change (and apparently this is another no-no, as the barista's eyes once again roll towards the ceiling in an over exaggerated and downright rude manner, because clearly counting out six fifty pence pieces is just too time consuming during the rush hour) and thirty seconds later a steaming paper cup of caffeinated milk is hurriedly placed on the counter in front of her before the barista turns to serve the impatient suit-clad Londoner waiting in line.

Chloe graciously picks up the cup and rakes her eyes across the gritty, coffee-stained counter, fully aware that she should be moving along now before she's holding up the line any longer. Not spotting what she needs, she clears her throat and pipes up again.

"Hey, sorry, um... Do you have any sugar?"

She can feel an angry exhalation of air brush against her neck from the businessman behind her, a "fuckin' tourists" emerging angrily from under his breath, but she refuses to let this man get to her. The middle aged barista looks as though he'd much rather strangle Chloe than answer to her request, but nevertheless he points a finger at a condiment station situated a couple of feet away from the serving counter, and Chloe thanks him politely, plastering a charming smile on her face before turning to the pissed off commuter behind her.

Really, it's a pity that he's got such a shitty attitude, because this man is drop dead gorgeous, with a strong set jaw and a fitted suit that happens to show off how much he works out. And maybe if he wasn't such an ass to her, Chloe would probably be blushing and apologising, but instead she offers up her biggest, cringiest smile at the young man.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry about that" she drawls, over-emphasising her accent and elongating the vowels even further in a way that she knows will annoy the man even more.

He scowls at her, tensing his jaw and taking several deep breaths in a manner that only makes Chloe shake her head at his immaturity before she turns and heads towards the condiment station knowing that she's successfully irritated him even further.

At the condiment station, she hums as she stirs two sugars into her coffee, swirling the wooden stirrer through her drink before she selects a plastic lid and pops it in place on top of her cup. Her smile fades slightly before she finally takes a long-awaited sip, the overly-sweetened milky drink flooding her taste buds and instantly working its magic on her jittery first-day nerves.

She reaffixes a smirk as the handsome stranger passes her with his coffee in hand (and a not so handsome scowl painted on his face as he spots Chloe). She ignores the way his face lights up once he spots another young woman in the coffee shop and she misses the cheerful "morning boss" he exclaims to the brunette who is waiting in line for her coffee. She instead focuses her attention on chewing at the inside of her lip, a nervous habit she's only recently picked up since moving to London.

And really she's surprised she's actually nervous, because Chloe Beale has never been nervous about anything in her life before. She's fearless, boisterous, won't-take-no-for-an-answer Chloe Beale, and nerves just aren't her thing at all. Hell, she's even performed in front of thousands onstage in New York with her collegiate acapella group, so she doesn't really understand why she's so nervous about a silly first day at a new job.

She's been dreaming about this city, and this job, for years; this is what she's been waiting for. This is the result of countless evenings spent hunched over a computer and textbook in the library, her bloodstream saturated with Red Bull. The countless assignments, exams, the whole 'leaving her friends and family in Georgia and moving to a quiet seaside town in England to complete a three-year degree' ordeal… This is what she's been working towards for most of her life. And she's excited, because she's finally getting exactly what she's wanted, but god, Chloe Beal is actually nervous for the first time in her life.


Beca's alarm goes off at seven, but she's already been up for a good fifteen minutes before it, so she leaves it to whine it's alarmingly irritating tone in the bedroom whilst she towel-dries her brunette locks in the kitchen, fully naked, eyeing up the coffee machine as she does so.

The fucking thing was supposed to have her coffee ready by the time she's exited the shower, the wonderfully rich scent of strong Italian slow-roast supposed to be permeating every square inch of her apartment, but this morning there's nothing. The brunette grumbles to herself as she thumbs the on/off button a couple of times before she slaps the top of the machine. Still nothing. She hasn't got the time for this on a Monday fucking morning, and she mentally curses the inventor of the Keurig and their blatant inability to make a coffee machine that's up to the task of catering for Beca Mitchell's excessive coffee consumption habits.

She briefly considers going coffee-less until she reaches work, but she needs her morning fix right now god fucking damn it, and that means she needs to leave now if she has any hopes of buying a coffee before 9am in London.

With that, she storms to the bedroom, and she's almost surprised at how sluggish she is at this time in the morning without her usual triple shot of slow roast pumping its way through her body. Her alarm is still squawking its irritating high-pitched 'rise and shine fucker, I know you didn't get enough sleep so I'm here to rub it in your face' bleep, and Beca can already feel her outrageously short temper begin to snap. She's tempted to throw the fucking thing against the wall, but that would be her second broken alarm clock in a month and she's pretty sure her therapist would disapprove of her blatant lack of anger management if she did. She decides to spare the offending item and unceremoniously dumps her damp towel on top of the ugly little chunk of plastic, muffling it's taunting tone instantly.

"You're safe... For today, asshole"

She turns to her wardrobe instead, which thankfully hasn't chosen to piss her off this morning, and yanks it open.

She pulls tight black jeans and a pale grey tshirt from the wardrobe; coupled with heeled boots and a fitted blazer, Beca's finally perfected a look that compliments her badass-wannabe-dj-when-I-was-a-teenager-but-now-I'm-the-editor-of-the-biggest-newspaper-in-Britain-so-don't-fuck-with-me personality down to a tee.

With her trusty Macbook slipped into her bag (the 2014 Louis Vuitton designed by Sofia Coppola, naturally, because being editor with friends in all the right places and a £1.75m a year salary has its perks), and with one final glare at her pathetic excuse for a coffee machine, she leaves her apartment, slamming the door behind her.

In the elevator (Beca Mitchell has no time for fourteen sets of stairs first thing on a Monday morning thank you very much) she jabs her finger at the ground floor button, before turning and examining herself in the mirrored wall with a frown. With a tired sigh, she traces her fingertips over the dark circles under her eyes that her makeup is only just managing to conceal. She's lost count of the number of times she's still been in her office past midnight this week, and last night was no exception; god, she needs that fucking coffee now.

The elevator announces its arrival at the ground floor with a cheerful ping, and with one last scowl at her reflection, Beca strides through the automatic doors. She barely has the time to nod her head and offer a polite smile at the security staffing the desk of the building before she's crossed the lobby and is swept up in the daily flurry of sleepy suit-clad commuters and businessmen.

She doesn't even need to check her phone to know that she's going to be late if she stops off somewhere and buys coffee, but quite frankly the threat of no coffee is worse than being ten minutes late to the newspaper that she fucking runs. She expertly manoeuvres her way through the crowds, her face pulled into a permanent scowl as she dodges briefcases and bumbling idiots, scanning her eyes across the street ahead of her for a coffee shop oasis.

It's a ten minute walk to Kensington High Street, and whilst she passes two Starbucks' and three Costa Coffee's, Beca's determined to find a coffee solution that's a little less... mainstream (because despite selling out and working for the biggest newspaper in Britain, Beca's still an asshole when it comes to mainstream brands).

She braces herself as a flood of people emerge from High Street Kensington station, and as she's making her way through the considerably thicker sea of people she finally spots her oasis.

Caffe Concerto is tucked in between a bank and a property-letting agency. It's already got a sizeable line of customers queuing for coffee, but it's grubby and devoid of any corporate branding, and Beca's caffeine-starved body feels as though it's hit the jackpot.

The smell of freshly ground coffee hits her the second she opens the door, and she's fairly certain she's been here before (probably some time before her two year love affair with the Keurig started). She takes up a spot in the line, patiently waiting for her turn to place an order, adding a sigh to the collection in the coffee shop as she spots some tourist holding up the queue with her inability to place a speedy order.

The redhead appears to take forever to order, and then she pipes up again about fucking sugar, and god fucking damn it does she not realize that Beca's already late for work and she needs this bitch to hurry the fuck up?

Eventually the woman moves away and the line starts to inch forward, but suddenly the redhead turns around to confront the man behind her and suddenly Beca's eyes are tangled up in the redhead's tantalising golden tresses and gorgeous porcelain skin. And god, that over-exaggerated grin she offers the man behind her as she further winds him up by playing dumb is enough to cause Beca's breath to catch in her throat. She's beautiful (and probably way too young for you you perve, Beca mentally reminds herself), and whilst Beca's very aware of her blatant staring she surprisingly has no intentions of stopping.

Her gawking at the gorgeous redhead is suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Luke, who blocks Beca's view of the stranger.

He offers up a cheerful "morning boss", and Beca realizes that he's the impatient asshole that the redhead was purposely winding up. She smirks at this, and Luke probably mistakes this as Beca being genuinely happy to see him, which is a big fucking mistake because Beca's never happy to see her sports editor, no matter how jaw droppingly handsome he may be.

"Running a bit late this morning, aren't you?" He comments, hoping to draw his beautiful young boss into conversation.

Beca can barely stand to hold a conversation with Luke at work without wanting to strangle him, and she has absolutely no intention of wanting to carry one with him outside of work so she offers a small nod to his question. And thank god, Luke appears to be able to detect Beca's blatant lack of interest in a pre-work chat, and with a curt "see you at the pen", he leaves the coffee shop just as it's Beca's turn to get served.

She wastes no time in ordering her signature black coffee with an extra shot of espresso, which the barista whips up in record time for her. She nods a small 'thanks', which the barista returns as she's handed her drink, and as she turns away from the counter she spots the ever-smiling redhead still occupying the sugar station. Beca spies the stack of plastic lids at the redhead's counter, and hesitantly makes her way over just as the redhead's eyes choose to lock onto her.

She offers a smile as Beca approaches, and Beca half-heartedly tries to return it, but really she's not a smiling-at-strangers type so it probably just comes across as an awkward grimace.

The redheads eyes are glued to Beca as she scoots up to allow the shorter woman to grab a lid from the stand, and Beca can feel the temptation to tell her to piss off and mind her own business begin to flare up inside of her. She refrains, her therapists disapproving tone echoing in her ear, and instead she raises her cup to her lips, welcoming the strong bitter taste that she's been craving since the second she stepped out of bed.

"You knew that guy? The jerk who was standing behind me?"

Beca's coffee was a mere millimetre away from her lips just as the stranger decided to start up an unwanted conversation with her.

And even though she hates the guy, the redhead doesn't know that, and she's a little shocked that this complete stranger just insulted Luke right in front of her.

"Uh, yeah"

The redhead seems to smirk at Beca's limited use of words, and Beca raises her cup to her mouth once again in an attempt to take a sip of her drink, but she's once more interrupted.

"He's a bit of an ass, right?" The young woman comments casually. Beca raises an eyebrow at the comment, because as much of an ass Luke may be, this woman is in no place to be judging him.

The redhead smiles again at her, and Beca's actually angry because really, who the fuck even is this woman who's insulting strangers and grinning at Beca like that's an a-okay thing to do on a Monday morning in a crowded London coffee shop?

Apparently, the redhead can read minds too, because she extends her hand, which Beca eyes suspiciously.

"I'm Chl-"

Beca is incredulous that this woman feels an introduction is necessary. Hell, Beca has absolutely no intention of making friends with anybody at this time in the morning, especially rude redheads who distract her away from her coffee. In a moment of desperation her eyes fly to the old-fashioned clock on the wall above the barista, and she realises, thank god, that she's late and that she needs to leave.

"I've gotta go"

She's a woman of very little words, and it's an excuse that's lame even to Beca, but before she's even got time to dwell on the fact that she's just rudely interrupted this stranger's attempt at an introduction, her feet have carried her out of the coffee shop into the bustling street. She takes a deep breath of crisp Autumnal air before she's swept up in the flurry of hurried businessmen, the gorgeous red-headed stranger left clutching her latte at the sugar counter instantly pushed to the back of her mind.


Notes to editor:

- For Beca's style, I'd suggest looking up Emmanuelle Alt. She was my key inspiration, and I think she pulls off the casual street-wear/editor of French Vogue look very well. Up the badass levels a teeny tiny bit and I reckon we've got a wardrobe worthy of Beca Mitchell, DJ-turned-newspaper-editor extraordinaire!

- The London Times is a fictitious newspaper that Beca is the editor of. For the intents and purposes of this story, lets just imagine that it's the largest newspaper (circulation wise) in the UK, and that it also offers its editor the highest wage (£1.75m is actually the highest UK editor wage, and its offered by the Daily Mail, so I'm borrowing that figure for this story)

- I fucking love working in London, but I also have the world's shortest temper so anyone who walks too slow, bumps into me, or who takes too long ordering a coffee during rush hour is instantly an asshole to me. Something tells me Beca's probably the same, though I promise she's not permanently a miserable bitch, only first thing in the mornings!

- Reviews are always gratefully received ;)