Page 4 of One Weekend in Quebec City

“Is this Shelby Bailey?”A woman’s voice asks, smooth and professional like expensive silk is on the other end.

“Yes, it is,”I reply, my heart quickening slightly.

“Hi, Shelby. Myname is Linda Morgan. I’mSpencer Hollis’s assistant. Doyou know who Mr. Hollis is?”

The name rings a bell, loud and clear, like the clanging of a church bell on a bright Sunday morning. Technically, she must mean Spencer Hollis Jr. since Senior died several months ago. He’sa billionaire from New York who owns a handful of businesses. Whenthe patriarch suddenly passed away not even a year ago, his oldest son, Spencer, took over. Fromwhat I’ve seen splashed all over the internet, he’s quite the playboy, a man who makes headlines for being seen with a new glamorous model or actress every week. Thekind of man I’ve dissected and judged from afar but never actually met.

“Yes. Iknow whoheis.”I try to keep my voice neutral and professional like I interview the super-rich every day. “How can I help you, Ms. Morgan?”

“Mr. Hollis is looking for a journalist to do a feature piece on him,”she says, and my pulse skips a beat, my breath hitching. “He’s reviewed your portfolio and is very interested in collaborating with you on this project.”

A feature piece? Onhim? Byme? Thismust be a joke.I’vebeen working hard to become a recognized name, and this isexactlywhat I’ve been waiting for.Whenit finally happened,I thought I’d writea piece on a local celebrity.Maybea famous hockey player or Canadian actor. Nota Wall Street mogul. Thereare so many other people he could choose. Why me?

And then my inner voice reminds meto notlook a gift horse in the mouth.Thiscould be it. Thestory that gets me recognized. Ishould jump all over it.

But Spencer Hollis? Thebillionaire who makes headlines for all the wrong reasons? What’sthe angle? Whatdoes he want?

“I’m certainly interested,”I manage to stammer, my fingers tracing the smooth edge of my desk, grounding me as I try to sound as nonchalant as possible. “What exactly is Mr. Hollis hoping to accomplish with this piece? Doeshe have a specific direction in mind?”I don’t want to come across as inexperienced or unprofessional.Still, myinsides are screaming, doing a little jig of a happy dance, while I keep my tone even, nothinting athow excited I am.

I hope.

I can practically hear the smile in Linda’s voice when she answers, “He’s looking to redefine his public image, Shelby. He wants to show the world there’s more to him than the headlines presume to suggest.”

Right. Theman is handsome, rich, single, andhappens to haveaccess to dozens of the most beautiful women in the world. He’sthe very definition of the assumptions those headlines suggest.

“He’s traveling to Quebec City next weekend,”she continues. “And if you’re amenable, he’d like to conduct the interview there. You’dhave access to him for three days—Friday evening through Sunday evening. Ofcourse, he’s there for business, but you’ll be able to watch him work part of the time and conduct your interview the rest of the time. You’llalso be able to take photos that might want to include in the article.”

Quebec City? Along weekend in one of the most beautiful cities in Canada with Spencer Hollis? AndI get to write the story of my career.

I can think of worse things.

As I holdthe phone to my ear, my mind spins with possibilities. Isthis opportunity really happening? Myfingers tap nervously against the desk. CanI manage this? Whatif I mess it up?

“I’m very intrigued, Ms. Morgan,”I say, trying to keep the eagerness out of myvoicewhile my heart pounds like a drum in my chest. “Could you send over the details? I’llcheck my schedule and get back to you.”

“Of course,”she says. “I’ll email you everything right away. Welook forward to hearing from you, Shelby.”

I give her my email, and when the line goes dead, I drop my phone back onto the desk, the dull thud echoing in the small room. Itake a moment to let it all sink in, a smile spreading across my face. “This is happening. I’mgoing to meet Spencer Hollis.”My summer evening ritual of walking alongthe beachwhile I reflect on my day and figure out my next move is long forgotten. Mymind is already racing, the possibilities spinning out before me like a web. SpencerHollis wantsme. Towrite a piece onhim.

This is wild.

I stand up, the old wooden chair creaking in protest, and pace around the office,thinkingand plotting.Thatman has connections everywhere. Models. Actors. Highlysuccessful and influential people in business.

Thisassignment is a gift, the type ofassignmentthatcould help my career take off if I pull it off.

I can’t blow it.

After five years of paying my duesandmakingnicewith dozens of celebs of varyingdegrees,I’m ready.Evenif it means spending a weekend with a ridiculously gorgeous billionaire flirt. I’llwatch him work and ask hima few questions in between his meetings. IfI’m lucky, I can get him alone for an hour or twoso we can reallyfocus on the interview without distractions.

Pausing near the window, the wood of the sill warm and smooth beneath the tips of my fingers, I gaze out over Lake Ontario. Thewater is a glistening expanse of sapphire, the setting summer sun casting shadows in the distance.

Thewaves splashing against the stone pier belowusuallysoothe me. Tonight, the sound excites me, quickening my pulse. Mom would encourage me to jump at this opportunity.

Dad wouldundoubtedlychastise me for keeping the window open while running the air conditioning. Evenwhen the humidity in the air is thick enough to taste, I can never resist keeping my window open so I can hear the birds and listen to the sounds of tourists taking advantage of such a beautiful day or evening by the water.

I wish they were both here to support me. AuntEloise would tell methey’relooking down, sending positive vibes.

Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath. Thescent of summer—freshly cut grass, lake water, and the faint tang of barbecue smoke—drifts in, grounding me, calming me.

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