Chapter 3

Evie

"You busy, Evie?"

My boss"s commanding voice startles me. I snap my laptop shut—hoping she didn"t catch a glimpse of what I was about to view for the eighty-seventh millionth time—and swivel around in my desk chair to face her.

"Never too busy for you." I lift my gaze and offer a smile. "What"s up?"

Margo glances around the cubicle farm. "Come on. Let"s walk and talk."

"Okay."

I tuck my laptop under my arm and join her as we commence one of her infamous "walk and talks" around the office. It"s a step up from her impromptu, oh you"re in the next cubicle, let"s have a chat in the ladies" restroom meeting.

"I need your top three reasons for why I should not get a tattoo," she says in her thick Australian drawl as we commence our walk. "Go."

"Um, okay…"

Margo Bailey.

My boss and the formidable executive producer of The Morning Buzz.

A one-woman powerhouse, responsible for my ever-growing collection of ugh boots.

And also my personal hero for a bold decision she made in her life. One that inspires me, especially on days when I"m dealing with my mother.

Upon joining The Morning Buzz straight out of college, I quickly learned that conversations with Margo can splinter into a million different directions, so you have to be prepared for anything she might throw at you.

"I need some more information to work with," I say, keeping pace with her. "What sort of tattoo are we talking about, and where would you put it?"

"On my back. Something massive and tacky. Will mortify my kids when we go to the beach."

I tap her arm. "And those are your top three reasons right there."

A smile spreads across her face. "I knew I hired you for a reason, Freeman."

We take a sharp left by the photocopier.

"So, you wanted to talk to me?"

"I do, and I"ll warn you now, this isn"t going to be an easy conversation."

My breath hitches, but I"m not entirely surprised. I had a feeling this would be coming. "Is it about my latest numbers?"

"It is, hon."

"Thought so."

The network runs a series of focus groups to assess what our audience likes and dislikes. Ratings are still the most important metric, but they only tell us how many people are tuned in at any given time. They don"t reveal what the audience thinks about what they"re watching, or why they choose not to watch certain shows or segments.

Every few months, a group of randomly selected people is brought in, led into a viewing room, and shown a variety of segments from the show. They receive a knob and are instructed to dial it as they watch. The scale goes from zero to one hundred. Zero means they have no interest in what they"re seeing, one hundred means total interest. They also have an option to "click off," which would be the point when they would change the channel or choose to stop watching the show if they were at home.

The most recent testing took place last week, and I"ve been dreading finding out the results.

After an initial burst of interest when I first joined the show—oh, how novel, someone not shouting that the world is on fire and instead reporting on positive, uplifting, interesting stories—my numbers have been on a slow, steady downward trajectory ever since.

Except for one notable bump, but it doesn"t count because it was for all the wrong reasons.

We migrate toward the back corner of the office, where it"s quieter.

"Let"s start with the positives."

"There are positives?"

"Of course there are. Quite a few of them. People adore you, Evie," she says, giving my forearm a gentle squeeze. "You"ve got the highest number of social media followers out of all the on-air talent, apart from the leads."

I knew this already. "I"ve been getting chilly vibes from Mandy the weather girl lately, ever since I overtook her on Instagram."

"Yeah, well, her forecast isn"t looking that great based on the latest testing, so brace yourself for some arctic conditions coming your way. She"s falling, you"re gaining."

"Noted. Avoid driving in icy conditions."

"Now, on to the focus groups."

Here it comes.

"First, the good news. Viewers love you as a person. You scored off-the-charts for likeability and relatability. Your upbeat optimism resonates with people. People feel like they can trust you. That"s important—and increasingly rare in the current landscape."

She"s building up to a but. I can feel it.

"But…"

Knew it.

"When it comes to your segments…" She gives me a double thumbs down.

"Wow. One thumb wasn"t enough?"

""Fraid not, hon. It"s pretty bad."

"They tune out?"

"In droves."

"Okay. Um. Wow. I actually repel people enough to get them to turn off their TVs or watch something—anything—else but me."

"You don"t repel people. A small, but crucial, detail I want you to remember. This isn"t personal. It"s about the content."

"But I create the content, so it is very much personal."

"I"ve been in this game for over twenty years, Ev. Trust me. If it were personal, we wouldn"t be having this conversation. You"d be at your desk packing your belongings into a box."

"Really?"

"Really."

We"ve reached the wall of windows overlooking the parking lot. I smile at Daisy. She"s my car, and I refuse to apologize for giving her a name because naming inanimate objects is totally a thing more people should do.

And if anyone has a problem with it, they can take it up with Pop-Up Pete, my toaster. I should warn you, though—you don"t want to mess with him. Pop-Up is currently embroiled in a long-standing feud with Microwave Mike, and it isn"t going well. Pop-Up eviscerates the poor guy every day, reducing him to toast. Ba-da-boom.

My eyes shift to Margo. "Can we walk and not talk for a moment? I need a moment to process."

"Of course, hon."

Margo takes her phone out as we swing back in the direction we came from. My thoughts drift back to something Fraser brought up over dinner at Levi"s last week.

I didn"t always want a career in journalism. For a while, I was seriously contemplating teaching.

Well, actually, my real childhood dream was to coach a pro hockey team, but that dream is about as likely to happen as growing up and becoming Taylor Swift.

What finally tipped me over the edge to choose journalism was thinking I could reach more people this way than I could in a classroom.

Guess I misjudged that.

And…I thought becoming a reporter would make Mom happy.

I misjudged that one, too.

She"s got a contact in Washington and has been on my case for me to leave The Morning Buzz to pursue more hard-hitting stories. What she doesn"t understand is that I don"t have that drive, the ruthless ambition you need to succeed in such a cut-throat environment. That"s not how I"m wired.

Sure, I can be weirdly—some might even say obsessively—competitive and passionate about certain things––like hockey and beating my brother in chili dog-eating contests––but I don"t have that same sort of energy when it comes to my reporting career.

And I never wanted my job to take me away from the place I love, the place where I grew up. I moved back to Comfort Bay after college because I couldn"t imagine living anywhere else. Some people might view returning to their small, quirky hometown as a failure, but it"s not for me.

I"m a small-town girl through and through, and Comfort Bay is a very special small town.

It"s nestled right on the ocean, so it"s got a laid-back coastal vibe. The world-class marina attracts plenty of impressive yachts, making it a logical headquarters for Fraser"s Dad"s family business.

Main Street is like something straight out of a Hallmark movie set, with brick-paved sidewalks, an array of charming boutiques, a cozy bookstore, a florist, and a quaint diner, run by a guy we call Bear because a) no one knows his real name, and b) his main forms of communication involve pointing, grunting, and the occasional monosyllabic word.

We"re three hours north of LA, which means we avoid getting swamped with tourists on the weekends and holidays, but we"re close enough to attract some mega-rich or mega-reclusive—or both—Angelinos. Rumor has it there"s a two-time Oscar-winning A-lister living in the hills.

The artistic community here is thriving, we"re close to the mountains—and some great hiking trails in the national parks—there"s some incredible wine country farther inland, and the weather is decent for most of the year.

Why would I want to live anywhere else?

But most of all, my friends are here—Hannah, Beth, and Summer. Collectively, we"re known as the Fast-Talking Four, for reasons which become evident to anyone who spends more than thirty seconds in our company. Those girls mean the world to me.

"You need more no-talking time, hon?"

I need a few more weeks of no-talking time, but I"ve kept her waiting long enough.

"I"m fine. Let"s discuss my numbers. I"m tanking. People would rather read their phone"s terms of service than watch me. But it"s not personal. I know, I know. So…what next?"

We wait until Delta from accounting passes us, then Margo says, "The network execs have you on their watch list."

"I"m assuming that"s as ominous as it sounds?"

"Pretty much. You"ve got their attention, but in a bad way. They"ll be looking at your next numbers very closely, and, well…" She blows out a breath. "I"m afraid if there isn"t a marked improvement over the next few months, we could be having this conversation at your desk while I help you pack your stuff."

My head drops. "Got it."

"You need a big story, Ev. Unfortunately, the last huge story you were involved with had you in the main role."

"I remember."

Oh, I remember all right.

It feels like every single media outlet in the world picked up on my very public, very humiliating dumping.

It even boosted The Morning Buzz ratings for a few weeks when I returned from my month-long off-air hiatus. People were actually tuning in just to watch my segments.

But then, like all viral fame, the interest and attention dissipated as quickly as it had come. People moved on to the next thing, and my numbers dropped again.

Margo stops by a wall of empty cubicles and leans against the partition. "I heard that nitwit ex of yours is getting married."

"He is."

"When?"

"Next month."

She cocks a brow. "And you know this information how?"

"Your honor, the prosecution is leading the witness."

Margo lifts her hands and concedes, "Okay. So I may have heard some rumblings around the office that you"ll be attending. But you know me, I like to fact check thoroughly. Are you really going?"

"I really am."

"Alone?"

"Uh…"

"You have a date!" Margo raises her fists. "Fantastic. Go, you. Please tell me he"s an incredibly hot, panty-melting date."

"I have a date." I look around to make sure no one"s within hearing range. "But I refuse to utter the words panty-melting…Apart from just now when I said them only to point out that I will never be saying them ever again."

Margo laughs. "You"re one of a kind, Evie. Who is he?"

"You don"t know him."

"Try me. What"s his name?"

"He"s a friend. Well, he"s my brother"s friend, actually. We were neighbors growing up. It"s a bit…complicated."

"His name, Evelyn." She persists in a tone that tells me she"s not going to let this go anytime soon.

I cough into my hand. "Fraserrademacher,"

"Sorry. I didn"t catch that."

Sighing, I repeat, "Fraser Rademacher."

"Why does that name ring a bell? Is he a singer?"

We resume walking.

"No."

"Is he the actor in that series, the one who won an Emmy? He had a fling with his co-star. That actress I can"t stand. You know, the one with the bony Ozempic shoulders."

"He"s not an actor. Nor does he date bony-shouldered actresses."

Ballerinas, gymnasts, and yoga-instructors-turned-influencers are more Fraser"s style, if his dating history is anything to go by.

"Is he?—"

"He"s a pro hockey player," I cut in, putting an end to what could easily be another five minutes of relentless questioning.

Margo jumps out in front of me and grabs me by the shoulders, her eyes dancing with excitement. "Are you joking? Is this a joke? I need to know right this very second if this is a joke, because if you"re just toying with me, I will be seriously mad about this. I may even fire you on the spot."

"It"s not a joke."

Keeping one hand firmly braced on my shoulder, her other hand slides into her back pocket. She produces her phone and furiously taps away, running a Google search on Fraser, I assume.

"It"s Fraser with an s," I supply.

Her mouth falls open, and she brings the screen to within an inch of her face.

"This him?"

She spins the phone around.

There"s a full-screen image of a shirtless Fraser and his former girlfriend—Tori, the infamous yoga-instructor-turned-fitness-influencer—taken on a yacht during their sailing trip in the Mediterranean last summer.

In the photos, Fraser"s dark hair is wet, his skin is golden and glistening, and his impressive physique of sculpted muscles and chiseled contours is on fine display.

Full display, I mean.

And before anyone accuses me of stalking, I only knew his whereabouts because I follow all of my favorite hockey players on social media.

Except…this wasn"t posted on Fraser"s Instagram. Because Fraser doesn"t have an Instagram account.

But Tori, his now-ex, does.

And yeah, okay, it may have been sliiightly stalkerish of me since I don"t usually follow players" girlfriends on social media.

I peel my eyes off the screen. "That"s him."

"This is perfect!"

Margo"s enthusiasm draws the gaze of a few people, so we retreat to the more sparsely populated side of the office again.

"I was hoping your date would be a solid six. Maybe a seven," she continues. "But this guy is…is…"

"More than a seven?"

"Yes." Margo laughs. "Definitely more than a seven. Evelyn, this is your chance to come out with a massive story and reverse your numbers."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you talking about? What story?"

"A story about you and your wedding date. Hello. This has all the ingredients you Americans love. Redemption. Revenge. And the sweet girl rocking up to her ex"s wedding with a hot hockey player."

"I can"t do a story about Fraser."

"Why not?"

"He doesn"t do press."

"He"s an athlete. Surely he does interviews?"

I shake my head. "Nope. He avoids the media like the plague."

"What about this photo I just pulled up? Doesn"t exactly scream avoiding the media if he"s posting images of himself strutting around like some Greek god come to life in the form of a hockey star."

"He didn"t post that photo. His ex did."

I have a feeling that could be why things ended between them. She craves the spotlight, he detests it with a passion.

"And you know this, how?"

Uhhh. "Because I"m a reporter," I shoot back. "It"s my job to know…things. Fraser is the most private, publicity-shy person I know. Trust me. He won"t agree to a sit-down interview."

"See, you say that, but all I"m hearing is that in addition to being off-the-charts good-looking, he"s mysterious and possibly hiding something. Two key ingredients of an incredible story-in-the-making." Margo turns her attention back to her phone. "That is one obscenely attractive man. Those cheekbones. Are they even real?"

"They"re real. So are the eyelashes and the lips, in case you"re wondering."

She studies the screen intently for a few more moments before pulling her gaze to me. "I finally get why hockey is so big in romance."

"It is?"

"Have you been to a bookstore lately?"

"Yeah. One of my friends, Beth, runs The Cozy Corner bookstore in Comfort Bay."

"Oh, I"ve been there. I love that place. Have you spent any time in the romance section?"

"Not really. I only really pop in for a chat or to drag her out to get some food with me."

"Well, have a look next time you"re there. You"ll see what I mean. Sports romance, particularly hockey romance, is huge at the moment. For the longest time I didn"t understand why." She drops her gaze again. "But I do now."

"Can you please stop checking him out?"

She lifts her head, a smile teasing her lips. "Oh. So it"s like that."

"Like what?"

"You like him?"

"Of course I like him. I"ve known him for years. He and my brother are basically like brothers, even if they are nothing alike. It"s odd. But I find most male friendships slightly weird, don"t you?"

Margo smiles at my rambling. "No. I mean you like him like him."

I roll my eyes. "Fact check says not true."

"Uh-huh." She tucks her phone away. Her smile stays, though. "This could be huge, hon. And if he"s as media-shy as you say he is, that"s even better. You"ll have an exclusive."

"I won"t have an exclusive because I"m not doing the story. I can"t. Fraser would never agree to it."

I don"t even have to ask him to know this is a non-starter. Plus, I already feel like it"s a huge imposition having him come to the wedding with me.

Asking him this would be too much.

He"s just being a decent guy doing a nice thing by stepping up and helping his best friend"s sister out of a jam.

But then…why can"t I get what he said at dinner out of my head?

I will do everything I can to be the best date you"ve ever had.

There was a sincerity in his voice, a determined glint in his intense eyes, and a protectiveness in the way he held my hand that felt nice and confusing at the same time.

Nice because I can"t remember the last time a guy has ever vowed to be my best date—probably because it"s never happened. I don"t seem to attract best date vowing guys, I"m more of a magnet for let"s dump Evie one year in guys.

And it"s confusing because, well, it"s Fraser. He"s a terrific guy, but let"s be real here: He"s doing Levi a solid.

Nothing else. Nothing more.

Although…if he is simply doing this as a favor to Levi, why didn"t he say something practical like, When is the wedding? or Would you like me to punch Bryce in the face before or after the ceremony?

I may not read hockey romances, but even I know that what he said was a totally swoony, romance-novel-worthy thing.

Or am I reading too much into it?

Margo"s phone buzzes. "I have to take this. But listen, hon. I want you to succeed. I believe in the stories you"re telling. But this is no joke. If your numbers don"t improve significantly, your head will be one of the first on the chopping block."

"Thanks for the gross visual."

"I don"t want it to come to that. Believe me. But you"re about to take a smoking-hot hockey player, who I"m guessing hordes of women are dying to know more about, to your ex"s wedding, the same ex who dumped you in a now-infamous viral video. That"s a story right there. A big one. Just think about it, okay?"

"Leave it with me."

Margo takes the call, and I head back to my desk.

Via the snack station.

Where I swipe a pack of walnuts.

And by pack of walnuts I mean a chocolate bar because I have feelings that need to be eaten.

Five minutes later, I"m sitting in a toilet stall with my laptop open, munching on a Hershey"s Cookies and Creme Bar, re-watching the single most humiliating moment of my life, which happened two hundred and fifty-three days ago. Not that I"m counting or anything.

The video starts with Mark Merril, the anchor of the show, throwing to me. "So, Evie, we hear it"s your birthday today."

We were doing a live in-studio segment. I knew the birthday bit was coming. It had been discussed in the pre-show meeting. I thought they"d maybe wheel out a cake or sing a horribly off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday."

I had no idea they"d invited Bryce to the studio.

The second I saw him, I knew what was about to happen.

Ha. I thought I knew.

He"s going to propose.

How could I have been that naive?

I was so giddy with excitement, I didn"t even notice he was holding a colorful bouquet of chrysanthemums.

The one and only flower I"m allergic to.

Mark introduces Bryce who gives me the flowers before answering a few softball questions. I stifle a sneeze and hold the flowers away from me. If I wasn"t trembling with nerves about my upcoming proposal, I would have paid more attention to not letting the flowers make contact with my skin.

But I was nervous. A jittery tension thrummed through me, and I was focused on trying not to show it.

Or sneeze.

Because I was on live TV.

The segment continues on my laptop.

Bryce turns to me. That gives me a chance to drop the flowers and place my hands in his.

"Evie, our one-year anniversary is next month…"

Actually, it"s next week but this is a big moment. An easy mistake to make in the circumstances. He"s probably nervous, too. His first time on live TV, and all that.

He starts talking about all the wonderful times we"ve had together.

Okay, this is it. He"ll be dropping to his knee any minute now.

"I"ve been giving this a lot of thought…"

Yep, any second now…

"You"re an incredible person, Evie. One of the best people I"ve ever met…"

Okay. Late knee-to-floor launch. That"s okay. No need to panic. He"s probably overwhelmed by the whole situation—the studio lights are ridiculously bright for anyone not used to them—and has forgotten to do the knee drop. That"s okay. A standing proposal it is, then.

He lets go of my hands.

He"s getting the ring. HE"S GETTING THE RING!

"…but this isn"t working."

Gasps fill the air.

I turn in shock to Mark, who is doing a double take. My hands fly to cover my mouth, and I inhale sharply.

"I think we should break up."

Think that was the moment of peak humiliation?

Nuh-uh.

Stay tuned, because it"s coming up…right now.

As I breathe into my hands, my mind spinning in disbelief, the flower residue I have on my fingers filters into my nose.

I sneeze.

Uh-oh.

Once.

Twice.

I drop my hands.

Somehow, through the haze of shock, my brain snaps into gear, warning me to get my chrysanthemum-stained fingers away from my breathing passage.

But it"s too late.

The damage is done.

And that"s how, right after getting dumped on live TV, I fall into an unstoppable sneezing fit.

I can"t bring my hands to cover my face because that would only make it worse.

I"ve got nowhere to hide because I"m in a studio with three cameras pointed directly at me.

All I can do is stand there, face uncovered, with the studio lights beaming down on me, open-mouth horror-sneezing over and over and over again.

No wonder it went viral.

It was the most memeable, GIFable, instantly shareable trainwreck thirteen seconds of live TV since that actor from Ted Lasso forgot his own name in a late-night interview and inexplicably jumped up and started doing some Irish folk dancing.

The story blew up.

Meet the sneezy breakup girl everyone"s talking about

Have you seen the sneezing breakup sensation who"s all over the internet?

There"s something sneezy about Evie

And that"s how #BreakupSneezeGirl was born.

I snap the laptop shut and get up.

A sickly feeling skitters in my belly as I pace.

Well, try to pace.

I"m in a toilet cubicle, so it"s more like I take two steps, spin on my heel, take two steps, and repeat.

I feel horrible.

And a little dizzy.

And I am so over feeling horrible about this. My relationship with Bryce wasn"t exactly healthy. There were a bunch of red flags I was ignoring. Was I excited about getting married to him, or by the prospect of the proposal?

It was the latter. Definitely the latter.

"What am I doing here?" I mutter to myself. "This isn"t healthy. I have to let this go."

"Everything okay in there?"

I let out a scream.

I"d been so in my head rewatching that stupid video, I didn"t hear anyone come in. "I"m fine," I reply to my cubicle neighbor.

"I just heard something about not being healthy and needing to let it go, and since we are in a toilet, I thought you might be a little backed up."

Physically, no.

But emotionally? Quite likely.

"I"m all good." I gather up my stuff, vacate the stall, and make a beeline for the door. "Thanks for your concern, though," I call over my shoulder.

By the time I make it back to my desk, I"ve made a few decisions.

One, no more talking to myself in toilet stalls. That is officially banned.

Two, I"m done with watching that video and being stuck in that moment.

It happened.

It"s done.

I need to move on.

That can"t be something I just say anymore. It needs to be something I do.

And three, I"m not bringing up the story idea with Fraser.

I can"t. It"s a total non-starter.

My mind is made up.

Despite the ratings juggernaut I know it would be.

Fraser has good reasons to despise the media as much as he does. They invaded his life once. He never wants to go through that again.

I get it.

I respect it.

I"d never put him in that position because I know how much he"d hate it.

Which means…

I"ll just have to find some other way to increase my numbers and save my job.