AN: So, this chapter picks up roughly two weeks before the Prologue chapter. It's long, but necessary. Please bear with me on this development. This story, although inspired by I Love Trouble, is going to deviate quite a bit. Which means it's more involved, more so than Choosing Realities. If there's some confusion, rest assured that everything will be explained (I can't handle plot holes/inconsistencies). Also, for the sake of the plot I have planned, Donna is Wilf's daughter, and Paige is the granddaughter.
Nearly Two Weeks Earlier...
One only had to spend a mere ten minutes with Wilfred Mott before realizing a fundamental truth—Wilfred Mott was not one for ambiguities. When it came to matters of great importance, matters that possessed a rather weighty significance, his words were clear, precise, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation. And since he always made sure to let others know exactly where they stood, he appreciated having that courtesy returned in kind, especially by individuals having a direct association with him—individuals such as the middle-aged man currently sitting in front of him and weaving what Wilf had to admit was a rather impressively skilled web of vagueness.
Said middle-aged man was the self-assumed prestigious Nathan Blane, and nearly since the beginning of his tenure on The Centurion's board of executives, he and Wilf had been at considerable odds. Whereas Wilf's primary focus was securing the paper's reputation of moral integrity and searching for the truth hidden within the midst of speculation, Nathan was practically obsessive over numbers and figures—local and national rankings, gross monthly earnings, circulation, online statistics, absolutely anything and everything remotely pertaining to such matters. Even though The Centurion had maintained a solid ranking in New York and the nation's Top 10 for many years, Nathan was very vocal about his dissatisfaction with Wilf's editorship, attempting multiple times over the years to use his influence on the board to undermine and force him out. Despite such diligent efforts, he'd never been successful—much to Wilf's relief. So to have Nathan sitting in his office prattling on incessantly and attempting to give off a causal, friendly air sent up so many red flags that it was nearly blinding.
Finally, and much to Wilf's delight, Nathan finished his useless speech and reclined further in his seat, maintaining eye contact, evidently waiting for a response.
Momentarily breaking away his gaze, Wilf silently sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, batting back his mounting irritation.
"Could you do me a favor, Nate, and just tell me exactly why you're here?" he asked, reluctantly turning his attention back to the man.
Severe annoyance flashed in Nathan's eyes, his shoulders suddenly becoming visibly tense. "Are you telling me that I just sat here for over ten minutes and you didn't hear a single word of what I just said?"
Wilf's eyes gave a mirroring flash of annoyance. "No, I heard you. Thing is, even though you talked an awful lot, you really didn't say anything. So…" he trailed off, hands poised open, cuing Nathan.
Gruffly sighing yet somehow still maintaining the illusion of friendliness, he said, "The buyout happens today at noon. I'm sure you're aware of that. Now, I've met the new owner—Pete Tyler—and he's a real forward thinker, very cutting edge. He has a clear plan for the direction he wants to take this place. Seeing as you've been with the paper for over twenty years, I thought that out of appreciation for your loyalt-…"
"Lemme stop you right there. I may be pushing 65, Nathan, but I'm nowhere near senile," Wilf said firmly, an edge of curtness lacing his words. He never had a tolerance for people lying, especially to his face. "You an' I both know that this isn't about appreciation for me or my work here. You've never had a positive word to say 'bout me in all the time we've known each other. So this…," he gestured over Nathan's person, "is all for show. 'Cause whatever this visit is really about, you wanna come out looking like the good guy."
The words hung in the air for a few moments before Nathan's mask dropped, obvious disdain in his eyes. "Alright, Wilf, you want it straight? Here it is—you're out. Well, as good as out. 'Bout time, too. I thought that you'd have retired or been six feet under by now, but…anyway, back to point. Tyler let us know that once everything's signed and official, he's going to announce several significant changes. Like I said, I've met him personally, and I can guarantee that after everything I've told him, you will definitely be one of those changes. Truth be told, I can't believe the board has allowed you to remain all these years. The way you run things around here…" Nate trailed off, grimacing in distaste.
"You mean having my people actually find out the real story behind things, as opposed to sensationalizing everything like some godforsaken tabloid?"
"Oh for God's sake, Wilf," Nate snapped, rolling his eyes. "Could you, just for once, forego the sanctimonious crap? I'm sick to death of your freakin' holier-than-thou attitude. You want sainthood—feed some orphans. But don't use a major newspaper for your pathetic 'moral crusade.'"
"Reporting what's factual is not waging some sorta Holy War. It's doing my job, Nate."
"Maybe in the Dark Ages, but not nowadays. The media isn't about facts, Wilf. It's all about perception," Nate sneered. "It's about giving people what they want, and what they want is dirt. They want to know every scrummy secret, every skeleton in every closet, every sordid affair—whether it's confirmed or not. Anything to distract them from their pathetically mundane lives. It's like a drug, a craving that's never sated."
Wilf, though a kind, good-natured man, found that he couldn't help the scowl that suddenly marred his features. People such as Nathan Blane were the reason why reputations were ruined, why careers were destroyed, why lives were decimated. His dislike had officially morphed into disgust on seeing Nathan's warped mentality.
"Addicts need rehab," he replied lowly, his eyes narrowed.
A slow, patronizing smirk crept up Nathan's cheek, and he scoffed in derision, shaking his head. "Once an addict, always an addict. You know that, Wilf. So, no…they don't need rehab, they just need a new dealer."
Though he was a man of admirably patient tolerance, Wilf could no longer stomach the repellant man. No, not a man, merely an entity, a presence that incited bile to burn his throat. Rising from his seat, Wilf fixed an unwavering gaze at Nathan.
"I believe it's time for you to leave, Nathan."
Another smirk of condescension appeared as the man stood. "For once I completely agree with you." His eyes flickered to his wristwatch. "You got a good three hours to let everything sink in. You shouldn't need more time than that, right?"
All of his antagonistic jabs proved ineffective as Wilf remained his determined stance, absolutely nothing wavering under the onslaught. Nathan made his way to door and as his hand wrapped around the handle, he looked back at Wilf one last time.
"I'd say 'take care' but…" he trailed off, knowing that his point had been clear, and finally exited.
Wilf quietly stared at the door for a minute or two after its closing. Suddenly feeling every bit of his almost 65 years, he slowly slumped into his aged chair. He propped his elbow on his desk and braced his forehead against his fingers, sighing as the seeds of uncertainty began to take root.
It was a quarter until one when the elevator doors parted and a young woman exited, coffee carrier in hand. She had no sooner taken three steps before her phone began to ring and she stopped midstride to retrieve it from her bag. Just as her fingers curled around its edges and she began to lift it to her ear, a sudden force rammed into her shoulder, causing the phone to clatter onto the floor.
Whirling her head to the side, her long, dark brown and red ombre hair furiously whipping the air, she was just in time to see the offender hurrying down the hall.
"Dude, seriously?!" she hollered out to the man, who continued on his way as if he'd heard nothing at all. Even though his silhouette started to fade from her view, the thoroughly peeved woman narrowed her eyes and growled lowly. Turning her view back to the floor in front of her, she stooped to retrieve her mobile just as a pair of scuffed dress shoes came perilously close to her beloved device. Like a shot, she flung her arm out, roughly hitting the approaching pair of shins. She tilted her head back and glared at the man she'd just halted.
"Dude, you break my phone, I break your foot—we crystal?"
The startled man rapidly blinked at her, silenced by her not-so idle threat. He only lasted under her glowering scrutiny for a few seconds before stepping wide around her and briskly putting distance between them.
"That's what I thought," she snorted amusedly, retrieving her phone and checking the missed call as she meandered to her desk. She was just about return the call, when the sight of multiple cardboard boxes cluttering her area brought her up short. Her brows scrunching in confusion, she slowly inspected them, finding each one empty, poking a few with the tip of her boot.
Turning her focus to the office directly behind her desk, she noticed that it was unusually shut up. Confusion, curiosity, and worry within her began to twist and twirl. Deciding that enough was enough and she didn't have to live in ignorance, she walked the some odd feet to the office and entered the familiar space, her eyes instantly landing on the aged man sitting behind the desk, typing intermittently on his keyboard. Warmth filled his eyes on seeing the young woman, but not before she caught a glimpse of his underlying weariness.
Frowning a tad, took a step towards him. "Gramps, wha-…"
"Hello, sweetheart, I was starting to worry about you," Wilf greeted his granddaughter, unintentionally interrupting her.
"Yeah…sorry 'bout that," she said replied slowly, taking a few more steps forward, "Plumber barely finished up an hour ago. Y'know how they say they'll be there between 8 and 10? Yeah…that's a load a' crap."
"Cheery this morning, aren't you, Paige?" Wilf chuckled at her grumbling. "I take it then that you haven't had any coffee yet today."
Paige raised the drink holder. "Had to settle for a hot and ready replacement because someone," she drawled pointedly, "took the last Keurig cup, which meant that I couldn't get my morning fix—thus explaining the lack of my usual chippery-ness."
Wilf felt a fire flash in his veins at the mention of a 'fix.' The remnants of his earlier conversation with Nate and the full revelation of his despicable true character still lingered in his mind. Forcing that all aside, he cleared his throat and smirked at his feisty granddaughter, though it was far from derisive.
"'Chippery-ness?' Nice to see all of those AP English courses paying off, what with that impressive display of vocabulary."
Pursing her lips and cocking an eyebrow, the nineteen year-old held off her retort and stared appraisingly at her grandfather, anchoring her free hand to her hip as she did so.
"Something's…off…with you. What is it? What's goin' on?"
Rising from his desk chair, Wilf approached her. "One of those mine?" he asked as he reached for the carrier.
Quick as lightening, Paige darted out of his path, pulling the coffees close to her chest.
"Aaat! Don't think so, Gramps. I know deflection when I see it, so you're not getting this dark roasted deliciousness until you come clean about what's bothering you!"
Wilf sighed and briefly closed his eyes, his fingers rubbing his lids for a moment before looking at her once again. "It's nothing, sweetheart. Everything's fine for now. Nothing to worry about."
The words had no sooner left his lips before Paige's eyebrow cocked to an almost unnatural height. "Fine for now…" she parroted disbelievingly. "Which means that 'later' is sooo gonna suck. So how's about you an' me go all proactive and hash it out now? Save ourselves all that 'in the moment' drama?"
"There is nothing to discuss," he maintained, his tone morphing from tired to tense.
While there were times that Paige was incredibly mature for her young age—where she was insightful and wise beyond her nineteen years—now was not one of such moments, which was made quite clear as she rolled her eyes. "Oh, that is such bull! I'm not blind, Gramps. Y-…"
Wilf set his jaw, frustrated not only with her prodding, but her attitude as well. "Let it go, Paige," he insisted, cutting her off, his tone of voice hardening further in displeasure.
She straightened her stance, shoulders back and eyes narrowed in defiance. "Fat chance!"
"Paige Catherine," he replied warningly.
"Grandfather Wilfred," she countered, matching his tone and refusing to back down from the fight. It somewhat bothered her to take such a confrontational attitude with her grandfather, but something was definitely troubling him. The sudden death of her parents nearly 17 years ago left her and Wilf as each other's only family, and therefore protecting him was her top priority. So, without question, she was going to get to the bottom of things.
Wilf maintained his hardened gaze with hers. He did not want to involve Paige in his personal misgivings, to burden her with such things. But as he continued to look upon her, taking in her unwavering stance and the steel resolve in her piercing blue eyes, Wilf couldn't help but soften his own stance. Though there was no physical resemblance, it was in moments such as these that she reminded of him of her mother, his beloved daughter Donna—her fierce loyalty, her passion, her brilliance, and especially, her sass.
Stepping close to him, Paige tenderly placed her hand on his arm. "Please…"
It was that final, earnest plea—spoken in such a soft, childlike tone—that at last caused Wilf to relent. Exhaling a slow, silent breath, his features softened completely, allowing the earlier weariness to once again become visible.
"The buyout's today, and…and there's a good chance that I'll be let go. More than a good chance, if Nathan's to be believed."
The heat of Paige's fury was practically radiating off of her in waves. Those crystal blue eyes of hers ignited and every muscle in her body tensed as she valiantly held onto the last thread of her restraint. Of course she knew of the trouble Nathan had caused her grandfather over the years, heard the workplace gossip he'd diligently tried spread. It wasn't hard to conclude that Nathan had something to do with Wilf's probable termination, and it was that knowledge that finally pushed her off the edge.
Clearing her throat, she shoved the coffee carrier into her grandfather's hands. "Right, then…" she growled, shucking her leather jacket and tossing it onto the small sofa behind her. "Nathan, huh? Well, that shouldn't be to difficult to take care of."
"Paige, stop breathing fire for a moment and tell me just what you're supposedly going to take care of," Wilf instructed. Although he knew the answer, he wasn't overly concerned, knowing how to best handle the situation.
"What do you think?" she asked, adjusting several of the bulkier rings on her fingers, "I'm gonna find that bloody wanker and see if black and blue look good on him!"
"You seriously need to consider cutting back on the amount of time you spend with David. Too many days in a row, and you start talking like him. And, let's be honest—it just sounds incredibly weird, sweetheart."
Paige merely rolled her eyes before pointing a finger onto his chest. "I know what you're doin', sneaky pants! You're trying to distract me from my mission, but it's not gonna work. If that friggin' pompous piece of-…"
"There's nothing that needs taken care of, nothing to fix. It's happening…simple as that."
The resignation in Wilf's voice was like a slap to the face, and Paige's lips parted in shock. "You're just gonna let this happen? Just roll over 'cause they tell you to?!"
Taking a few steps backwards and bracing against his desk, Wilf sighed, his shoulders slouching. "P-…"
"This is your home, Gramps. Our home!" her voice thundered. "I've spent practically my whole life in this place. I lost my first tooth in the Copy Room. Twisted my ankle sliding down the lobby banister and crashing into the wall. Heck, my initials are carved into the floorboard over there," she gestured to the back corner. "And you're just gonna let someone kick us out?"
"I'm pushing 65, sweetheart. At this point, it's basically early retirement."
"You don't do retirement, Gramps! You barely manage sick days. Your two days of convalescence is the whole reason I spent my entire morning sans caffeine and waiting for the plumber to grace me with his presence."
Wilf couldn't help but softly snort in amusement at the truth of her assessment. Though his throat had been raw and his body had ached down to his very bones, he'd been determined to prove that he was perfectly fine and that he was more than capable of fixing their slightly leaking kitchen faucet. Unfortunately, that had somehow resulted in the unintentional removal of the garbage disposal and a scathing look from his granddaughter. The same granddaughter who had an undisputable point—he wasn't made for full-time domesticity. Neither of them was made that way, to be honest. However, it seemed that the decision had been made for them, whether either of were agreeable to it or not.
Wilf was just about to emphasize that fact to her, but was halted by a few brief knocks and the opening of his office door. Both he and Paige turned their attention towards the sound, and were immediately met with the sight of a tall man, an impeccably tailored suit fitting his frame. His posture was perfect, clearly that of a highly professional businessman; yet there was something about him that kept him from being intimidating—at least in that moment.
"Hello," the man greeted. "My apologies for interrupting. Name's Pete Tyler. I was hoping that you and I could speak for a few moments, if you don't mind, Mr. Mott."
The only thing that surprised Wilf and Paige more than the man's British accent was his identity—Pete Tyler, new owner of The Centurion. The formerly vocal young woman suddenly had no words, merely widened eyes and a widely gaped mouth. It was only when Paige caught a flicker of mirth in the new owner's eyes that her surprise faded and her fire returned. Quickly schooling her flustered features, she regarded the new owner with a taut, forced smile.
"Right," she said gruffly, picking up her jacket and taking her coffee from the carrier still situated on the desk. "Guess I'll just leave you two to your lil' chat…" She trailed slowly towards the door. "If ya need me, for anythin' at all…I'll just be-…"
Wilf lifted his brow. "Paige…" he drawled, that one word directing her to hurry it along.
"Right…yeah, I got it…I'm leaving…" she assured, finally stepping through the door and pulling it close. Just before it latched, she pushed it open again, popping her head into the room. "But, if you need me…."
With a sigh and two strides, Wilf was at the door and pushing it close. "Yes, thank you, Paige."
"Well, that was rude…" was her muffled response.
A small smirk tugged at the elder man's lips as he listened to his granddaughter mutter and putter around on the other side of the door. With a faint chuckle, he turned back to face Pete Tyler.
"Sorry 'bout that. Paige is-…"
"Please, no worries," Pete assured, waving away his concerns. "It's nothing that I haven't seen before. Besides, my girls could give her a serious run for her money."
Hearing the decider of his career speak with a certain amount of easy informality continued to puzzle Wilf. Based on the rumors circulating and Nate's earlier statements, he had expected Pete Tyler to be rigid, stoic, perhaps even a bit cutthroat. However, that was not the sort of man that was standing before him. And honestly, Tyler's approachableness was putting Wilf off center.
"So, Mr. Tyler," he asked, clearing his throat, "what can I do for you?"
"Do you mind if I sit?" Pete asked, gesturing to one of the open chairs.
"Of course, please!"
Both men took their respective seats and quietly regarded each other. Wilf couldn't help but silently battle the uncertainty that flared within him now that it was his figurative 'judgment hour.' All of this wasn't helped by the fact that Pete Tyler continued to maintain an easy nature, yet still keep an air of authority.
Pete was the first to break the silence. "So, Mr. Mott…"
"Please, call me Wilf."
"Wilf," he acknowledged with a small smile, "I appreciate you taking a moment to speak with me. I know you're a busy man."
"I'm sure it's nothing compared to you, especially after today."
"Yes, well, I'm fairly used to juggling my time. Adding another ball to the mix is just par for the course. But, never minding that," Pete dismissed with a wave of his hand. "I wanted to speak with you about a few matters that have come to my attention over the past few months. I'm not sure how familiar you are with me or the way I handle business, but I make it a top priority to know the ins and outs of anything I take on. And with an acquisition such as The Centurion, I made an even closer, more in-depth inspection. Which means I know all the key players, and you are definitely a key player."
"I suppose so," Wilf acknowledged with a small shrug.
"There's no 'suppose so' about it, Wilf. It's an indisputable fact. And as such, I've learned quite a bit about you and the work you've done here."
I'm sure you have, Wilf grumbled inwardly.
"Seems you've caused some of the higher-ups to be…displeased…with several of the decisions you've made over the years."
"You'd be right on that, Mr. Tyler. I've tended to ruffle some feathers when it comes to certain subjects."
"Yes," Pete agreed, "something that was also brought to my notice. I'm aware that you have chosen on multiple occasions to refrain from publishing certain articles, despite the fact that they were hot topic items. Quiet a few of them were practically dripping with scandal, but you held off. What exactly was your reasoning behind that? Wasn't it rather foolish to pass on such opportunities?" Pete leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed, crossing his arms as he waited for a response.
"The only thing that would have been foolish would've been to print a load of supposition and rumor. I have never seen the need to run someone into the ground just on the off chance that what was printed would be true. Nothin' good's ever come from shooting first and asking questions later," Wilf maintained resolutely, yet respectfully.
A simple, slight nod of the head was Pete's response. After a minute of silence, he continued, "So…you'd do it all again, just the same? After seeing all the trouble it has brought you, you'd still stick to your guns? Wouldn't change anything to make your position here any easier?"
"With all due respect, Mr. Tyler," Wilf sighed, maintaining complete eye contact, "what sorta man would that make me if I traded in the truth just so I didn't have to deal with a few arrogant prigs? I'd rather have clean conscience than an easy workweek. And if that's not something you're willing to accept, then I'm not the man you want sitting behind this desk."
There was a long silence as Pete Tyler rested his piercing gaze on the elder man. Just as Wilf was about to prod for a definitive answer regarding his future, Pete's features softened and he relaxed his arms, offering a good-natured smile.
"Good, that's just what I wanted to hear."
Blinking rapidly, Wilf couldn't help but do a double take. "I…uh, sorry…what?"
Pete let out a soft snort at the elder man's surprised expression and stuttering. "I take it that wasn't the response you were expecting?"
"You could say that. Especially after the conversation I had this morning informing me there would be significant changes after today. Thought for sure you'd be handing me my walkin' papers."
Wilf watched as Pete's jaw stiffened and eyes narrowed at this new bit of information. It was clear that he was more than a tad upset with that knowledge.
"I was unaware that you were approached this morning, although I'm certain about who it was that spoke with you. Nathan Blane, yes?" he postulated. At the slight nod of Wilf's head, Pete continued, "Yes, there were significant changes made and Nathan Blane was one of them. He was one of several that were made aware that their presence was no longer needed nor welcomed here. Having known the man as long as you have, you can imagine he wasn't too thrilled with that decision."
As the image of Nathan Blane being thrown out of the building by two burly guards played out in his mind, Wilf couldn't help the small satisfied smirk that tugged on the corners of his lips. For nearly six years, Wilf had endured Nathan and his innumerable attempts to intimidate and dispose of him. Naturally it had been a source of anxiety for Wilf, but it wasn't until after hearing that the man was no longer going to be a thorn in his side that Wilf realized just how much strain he'd been under for so many years. It was as if a weight had suddenly been lifted off his shoulders, and it was a most welcome surprise.
But, it was just that—a surprise. After all, Wilf might not have agreed with Nathan's view of the world, but sadly, it was a view that was shared by a greater portion of society. Being aware of this, he couldn't help but ask Pete the question that had been forming in his mind over the past few minutes.
"Why are you keeping me on? Not that I'm not grateful, please don't mistake me on that! I just…well, to be honest, it's…what am I trying to say?" Wilf sighed with frustration, rubbing his forehead. "My choices, they're not exactly the norm for this business. Why would you choose to keep someone who goes against the grain?"
The professional mask remained firmly in place as Pete Tyler mulled over Wilf's inquiry. It was only because he was paying such close attention that Wilf saw a shift of emotion in the younger man's eyes.
Pete cleared his throat before he began his explanation. "I don't come from money. For years I worked my fingers to the bone to give my family the best I could, which was often times just scrambling enough money to keep our flat. It wasn't till after…" he trailed off, clearly affected by some unspoken memory, before pushing it aside, "it wasn't till we immigrated here that all that started to change. Even then, though, it was never about money. It was about my family—making them proud, providing for them…protecting them. Rose and Amy are…" A soft smile graced his lips. "Well, they're my everything."
Wilf nodded, silently giving his understanding. Paige was his only living family, and there wasn't anything he wouldn't do to keep her happy, to keep her safe.
"I've never set out to ruin anyone, no matter my personal feelings; and fortunately, that mentality has been shared by those with whom I do business. However, several years ago, one of the mergers I was involved with developed some complications. One of those complications was a junior partner—James Stone. Without going into a long, drawn out story, let me just say his termination was by no means an easy matter. Out of spite, he gave nearly every paper what he called 'the dirty Tyler details.'
"Unfortunately, much to my horror, I wasn't the Tyler he sank his teeth into. He targeted my daughter. Fed everyone these sordid, completely fabricated accounts of a relationship. They'd only met once at a corporate event, something that could easily have been corroborated had anyone bothered to take the time to do so. Instead, they pounced on my Rose, hounded her. Printed every vile word that Stone could think of to say. It wasn't till after we brought all of Stone's corrupt dealings to light that everyone changed their tune. But that didn't take away the pain and utter embarrassment Rose felt for months afterwards…it was a bloody nightmare..."
A righteous indignation flared within Wilf's bones as he listened to Pete lay out his daughter's past ordeal. He could only imagine what vile slander this James Stone had spread about the young woman. If the barely contained emotion of her father was anything to go by, the poor girl had experienced serious heartache. It was because of accounts such as those that he'd maintained his stance on truth above tabloid.
"So…to answer you directly, Wilf, I kept you because of your integrity. You're one of the main reasons I decided to buy The Centurion. I'd heard about you. Like you said, you are a bit of an oddball," Pete grinned, "You were mentioned in several circles, and I couldn't help but admire a man who refused to prey on people like my daughter had been preyed on. A man like that is worth backing."
There was a stretch of silence as the weight of Pete's words fell on Wilf. The appreciation from this stranger was humbling, and quite honestly, encouraging. It was refreshing to see such humanity—restorative, even.
"Mr. Tyler…I don't know what to say to that other than…thank you."
"You can call me Pete, Wilf. And as far as what to say, your thanks is more than enough. Nothing more is needed." With a sigh, Pete straightened and clapped his hands onto his knees. "Well, I've taken up enough of your time. No doubt you're as swamped as I am."
Rising from his seat, Pete moved to the door, Wilf following. They were just a few steps shy of the door, when something suddenly clicked in Wilf's mind.
"Wait…Rose…? Your daughter's name is Rose? Rose Tyler?"
Pete turned his head and a good-natured smirk emerged. "Was wondering when you'd put that one together."
Wilf's eyes widened and he puffed out a breath. "She…she never said anything. Not once during the whole thing. Didn't even drop a hint."
The smirk morphed into a smile as Pete nodded his head in approval. "Good. Means I raised her right."
A small mirroring smile emerged on Wilf's face, and he shook his head in pleased disbelief. Pete Tyler was a rare breed—a rare breed, indeed.
While Pete and Wilf were deep in conversation, Paige was sitting in front of her computer, her desk phone pressed tightly to her ear.
"C'mon, Jake…" she cooed to the IT co-ruler. "I know you. That brain of yours is so massive; you could do this in your sleep. I just wanna listen in on what they're sayin'…"
She pursed her lips as she listened to his response. "Legal is such relative term, Jake. Who's really to say what's legal, y'know?"
This time as she listened to his answer she glared into the receiver. "Well, you weren't too worried 'bout that when you an' Mickey hacked into the Marvel Studios mainframe, now were ya? …H-…Hello? …Jake?"
Growling in frustration, Paige slammed the phone down. "Butthead." She knew that she'd blown any chance of persuading Jake to help her, and that once he told Mickey about her comment—and he definitely would—he would refuse to help her, as well. Aggravated but resigned, she scrolled through her music, picking a playlist and putting in an ear-bud. As she began her day's to-do list, Paige caught a glimpse of someone who should have definitely already been there and working approaching her desk.
"Oh, David, been meaning to tell you—I found this app on my phone, it's called Clock. It tells you the time no matter where you are, and here's the real trippy part—it has these things called alarms that wake you up so you can get ready and go places—such as work," she quipped, her words dripping with sarcasm.
David Smith gave the young woman a mock glare. "Drink your coffee," he motioned towards the cup with his chin. "You're a bit too moody for my taste."
"And you're a bit too late for mine," she volleyed back, a dark eyebrow raised precariously high. "It's well after 1:00, and you're just now rollin' in. Dude, you do know that you're employed here, yeah?"
"Ah, Paige…a gem, as always," David flashed an amused smirk before taking a sip of his own coffee. "You're like my very own cute an' cuddly cactus. I just can't help but hug you." With a dramatic flourish, he scooped her close with his free arm, playfully shaking her.
"Stop it!" she squawked, wiggling in his embrace.
Chuckling heartily, he let her go, ruffling her hair for good measure.
Huffing, Paige straightened her clothing. "Such a child," she grumbled as she smoothed her mussed hair. However, when she saw her lifelong friend's brilliant, albeit goofy grin, Paige couldn't help but mimic his grin and giggle as well.
"You're such a dork sometimes."
"You should feel privileged; you're the only one who gets to see this side of me."
She rolled her eyes and sat back in her seat. Walking over to vacant desk, David rolled the chair over and sat beside the young woman.
"What's with all the boxes?" he asked, motioning to the mass of cardboard surrounding her.
"I was playing life-sized Jenga. Obviously, I lost," she grinned up at him.
David waited a moment for her to give him a legitimate answer, but she simply maintained her grin as she picked up her mobile. Instead of repeating his question, he merely rolled his eyes. Having known the spunky young woman for nearly ten years, David knew that this was playful avoidance on her part; and Paige was nearly the epitome of stubbornness—she would not cave.
"So...what are you doin' here so late? This is at least…what…the fifth time in the past two weeks? Kinda startin' to become a habit, don't ya think?"
There was a flicker of guilt in his eyes and he tugged a bit on his ear. "I don't think it's been that many times."
Her dark brow arched even higher and her lips quirked to one side as she silently called him out.
"Alright, fine," David sighed. "So I've been late a few times…I can't help it. Joan's got all these publicity events scheduled to promote the book. I can't just back out on them. That's not very responsible, is it?"
"So…," Paige drawled, "in an effort to be responsible, you acted irresponsibly? You do see where that makes absolutely no sense, don't you?"
"Oi! I've never missed a column, have I? I'd say that's rather responsible of me, wouldn't you?" he retorted, offended by her assessment.
"Yeah…I don't see how you've managed that…" she knitted her brow, clearly mulling over something.
"Well, I have," David sniffed, "and that's all that matters."
"Huh…" Paige shook her head, clearing her mind for the time being. "Well, if ya ask me, Joan's just booking all these gigs so she has plenty of excuses to fawn all over you."
David rolled his eyes. "Oh, please…" he scoffed, "she does not fawn all over me."
An unnaturally loud snort sounded from Paige. "Oh, David…my sweet, sweet, completely oblivious David. She's one flirty grin away from begging to birth your babies. An' I betcha anythin' that she already has your name inked on her derriere."
His chin practically hit the floor as he listened to her, completely gobsmacked. This only stirred Paige's amusement, and he watched as she began to shake with barely controlled laughter.
"I-I…I do not flirt with Joan," he spluttered, "nor do I want to. Our relationship is strictly professional."
"Maybe on your end, but I'm tellin' you in no uncertain terms, that chick wants you."
Well, thank you for making things incredibly awkward, David mentally grumbled.
Shifting uncomfortably, he raked a hand through his hair before clearing his throat and changing the subject. "This chair is quite comfy," he wiggled for emphasis. "Much better than mine."
"Well, that sucks for you, 'cause it's no longer up for grabs. Gramps hired a new reporter a few days ago. I think she starts tomorrow."
David's interest was piqued. "Oh, really? Do y'know anything about her?"
At the prospect of talking about the new hire, Paige began bouncing with excitement. "I didn't get a chance to spend too much time with her…didn't even catch her last name, now that I think about it. But lemme tell ya this: Rose is freaking awesome! We have a lot in common. Funny. Awesome taste in music. Feisty too, from what I can tell. You'll love her."
The limited description of the new hire was already to David's liking. But before he could question Paige further, the door to Wilf's office suddenly opened, and a middle-aged man in a custom-fitted suit emerged, Wilf close behind him.
"Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Wilf," the man said while giving a firm handshake. "There's a few other matters that I'd like to discuss with you, but they can wait till later."
"I look forward to it, Pete."
Offering a smile, Pete nodded and took a few steps over to Paige, his smile morphing into an amused grin.
"It was quite enjoyable meeting you as well, Paige. I look forward to getting to know you better."
Her eyes flittered over to her grandfather, and on seeing his smile and face free of worry lines, her attitude towards the new owner instantly softened.
"Likewise, Boss," she grinned and gave a small salute.
Pete chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. Turning his gaze, he looked squarely at David.
"And you would be David Smith, correct?"
"Uh…yes, that's right." David's eyes widened a bit in confusion, both at the man's identity and at that the stranger knew his name. "Sorry…who are you?"
"This is Mr. Tyler," Wilf introduced. "As of today, he's the new owner."
"Ah!" David nodded in understanding. "Well, pleasure to meet you. Your accent…I take it you're from London as well?"
"Born and raised," Pete confirmed, albeit in a rather rushed manner. "Been in the States a little over 16 years now." His eyes flitted to his wristwatch. "Sorry…I wish I could stay and talk a bit longer, but unfortunately, I have several matters to attend to. But we'll definitely pick this up again soon. So, if you'll excuse me…" Pete nodded his farewell and departed.
When he was out of sight, David swiveled his chair back around and smiled at Wilf.
"Morning!"
Wilf frowned at the young man. "It's 1:30."
"Fine, afternoon. Is it too much to get a proper hello from you lot?" Paige chuckled while David whined.
"Hello," Wilf perfunctorily placated. "Now, stop lollygagging and get to work, son!" He turned and walked back into the seclusion of his office.
"Fine, fine, fine…obviously I'm not allowed to socialize. Pair of slave drivers, you are," David mockingly complained, his dramatics in full swing.
"Y'know that's right," Paige smirked and pantomimed a cracking whip. "Hop to it."
Instead of walking away, like an average, normal human being would, David remained seated in the desk chair and began to roll away.
"Dude! What did I say 'bout the chair?"
"Sorry…What's that? I can't hear you…gotta put my nose to that ole grindstone," he called out, settling behind his desk in his newly pilfered seat and finally putting an end to his procrastination.
Standing at his living room window, his arm propped against the brick trim, Joshua Daniels took another long gulp from his longneck, staring unfocusedly into the darkening horizon. It had been his third drink in less than two hours, but the alcohol had no effect. There was no dulling of his senses, no hazy humor…nothing. His mind was still functioning and it was infuriating.
He hadn't meant for any of this to happen, could never have anticipated such outcomes. It had all started out so innocently; he'd only been trying to help a friend. But it had quickly evolved into something much more, something over which Joshua no longer had control. Maybe he'd never had any control in the first place, maybe it had all been an illusion. The very idea struck a nerve, and in agitated anger, he turned and threw his beer across the room, the bottle shattering and remaining liquid trailing down the wall.
As his thoughts moved to and fro, threatening to drive him to madness, the velvet box housed in his pocket grew heavy and suddenly grounded Joshua to the present. His hand sought the precious object, his fingers finding purchase against its smooth exterior and clutching it tightly, closing his eyes as a sharp pain radiated through his chest. Even though his mind was filled with chaotic turmoil, a sudden unexplained feeling cut through the mental clamor, and Joshua was gripped with the overwhelming need to talk to her, to hear her smile as she spoke. There was no choice in the matter; it was essential.
Plucking his phone up from its place on the coffee table where it had been haphazardly tossed, he unlocked it and dialed her number. After two rings, the call was picked up.
"Hey, babe…"
The sound of her sweet voice instantly warmed his heart, her dulcet tones caressing his tired mind. "Hey, sweetheart. You still at work?"
"Just shut down my computer and walking to the elevator as we speak. Good Lord, it was a long day. Have I ever told you stupid people annoy me?"
The faintest of smiles pulled at the corners of his lips at hearing her frequently repeated complaint. "I think you've mentioned it maybe once or twice."
"Well, lemme tell ya, it bears repeating. How can people func-…" she stopped herself, sighing."Never mind, I'm too tired to go into it right now. Maybe after a hot bath, some Thai food, and a big glass of red wine I'll feel like rehashing it. What about you, babe? Anything happen today?"
Joshua closed his eyes, a swell of emotion hitting him with extreme force, rendering him silent.
"Joshua? You okay, baby?"
The concern and anxiety in her voice did nothing to help his waning resolve. He wanted to tell her everything, to purge his soul—God, did he want to. He knew she could handle it, without a doubt. After all, she'd stood by him through thick and thin, never once wavering. She was undoubtedly his strength. And it was because of those facts that he couldn't do it. He loved her too much to put her anywhere near the situation. No matter how much he needed her, Joshua would not sacrifice her safety for his own selfishness.
Forcing all his warring emotions aside, Joshua garnered all his remaining strength.
"I love you, Georgia Parrish, more than anything in this world or the next. You know that, don't you?" There was a certain amount of desperation in his voice. He had to make sure she knew how much she meant to him, even if it was the last thing he did.
"Of course, I do, Josh. I love you too. Always have, always will."
A calm settled over Joshua as Georgia words filled his heart.
"Josh…Tell me what's wrong."
"Nothin', sweetheart," he insisted. "I'm just tired, is all. Long day for me too."
"You want me to come over? I know you're not big on Thai, so I can pick up some dinner from Giorgio's. I just gotta run home an-…"
"No…no, I'm good. You go home and relax. I'm just gonna head to bed early."
"…Alright…Call ya in the morning?"
"Yeah…Sure."
"M'kay…Night, babe. Love you!"
Joshua could feel the smile in her words, their tenderness, and strangling lump of emotion formed once more, however, he managed to answer her despite it.
"I love you."
A double beep signaled that she'd disconnected. He gripped the velvet box tighter as a sudden dread filled him. No matter how hard he tried to fight it, to deny even the remote possibility, Joshua couldn't help but feel with certainty that he'd spoken to his beloved for the last time.