Page 126 of And Now, Back to You

“I’m sorry, what?”

Maggie keeps her face neutral, her hands folded together on top of her exquisitely organized desk. “I’m offering you a job.”

“I have a job,” I point out. “It’s right across the street.”

“You do have a job,” Maggie agrees. “And it’s a shitty one.”

I glance at Jackson. He’s staring at Maggie with his hand under his chin, his elbow on the arm of the chair. He doesn’t look confused, but he does look wary. Hesitant.

“Am I—” He swallows heavily, a quick look cut in my direction. “Am I being fired?”

Maggie is the picture of controlled patience, even though we’ve been asking the same questions in a roundabout loop for the past seven minutes.

“No,” she says. “As I’ve explained, you’re being promoted.”

“To what?

“Production director. But we can discuss specifics in a moment. I want to talk through the Delilah offer first.”

Jackson and I speak in unison. “I don’t understand.”

Maggie’s mouth twists. “Yes, that’s very clear.” She tugs open her top drawer and pulls out a single stick of Big Red gum. “I don’t see a reason to put an end to a good thing. The two of you have amazing chemistry. Your broadcast numbers are some of the strongest we’ve seen since Aiden and Lucie. Delilah, if you come work for us, you’d have your pick of airtime and segments. Jackson could hop on with you to do the weather, then spend the rest of his time in his much-preferred background role.”

“I am—” Surprised feels like too small of a word. Gobsmacked, maybe? “How long have you been thinking about this?”

Maggie leans back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest. “Awhile.”

I let that sink in. “I’m not sure what to say. No one’s ever tried to poach me before.”

Jackson makes a rough sound next to me. When I glance at him, he shrugs.

“Sorry, but that’s surprising to me.”

“Really? You think people are lining up to hire the girl who face-planted at the horse track?”

Jackson’s gaze is steady. “I find it odd that people aren’t lining up to hire the girl who laughed after she face-planted at the horse track, then delivered a flawless report on race times and track conditions.”

My cheeks warm.

I let myself picture it, for a fraction of a second. Coming to work without anxiety churning in my gut, wondering what clown show I’ll be put on next. Hoping for the best, but bracing for the worst. A little desk in a little office. Headphones over my ears and a microphone in front of my face. Jackson. Right next to me.

It’s a beautiful, tempting solution.

But it won’t work.

“I’m so sorry, Maggie, but I’m going to have to pass.”

The silence is almost a sound. I don’t think Maggie is used to people telling her no.

“I can raise your salary,” Maggie counters, eyes sharp. “I can double your pay. Easy.”

I laugh. I’m not exactly rolling in the Benjamins over at YBAL. “I have no doubt about that.”

“You’ll get to report on the weather. No goose migration. No . . . reproductive habits of bats.”

My smile falters. I forgot about that segment at the Baltimore Zoo. I went immediately home and showered for close to an hour. I swear I still feel their leathery wings flapping in my hair.

Beneath the cover of the desk, Jackson’s hand slips over my knee.