Bake my love

Avery Sutton POV:

My eyes were dying from staring at this stupid screen. That dumb cursor kept blinking at me like it was laughing at my life. Chit-Chat Weekly gave me another trash assignment: *Top 10 Cat Memes That Made Grandmas Cry Over TikTok*. Four years of college and $82k in debt for **this**? I was supposed to be exposing scams, not making people think Grumpy Cat needed therapy.

"Avery!" My boss's voice crackled through the speaker like a dying smoke alarm. "Get over here or I'll make you write love letters for *TikTok pets*!"

I didn't move. Yesterday, I'd discovered one of those "cute" cat memes was linked to a pyramid scheme. Now my DMs? Flooded with angry emojis from a lawyer whose profile pic was his golden retriever in a tie. My cat, Judge Judy, batted my phone off the desk with a look that screamed *Girl, you're doomed*.

But hey-if that lawyer actually sued me, at least Judge Judy's 12 Instagram followers might crowdfund my bail.

Miranda Hartley slammed a folder on my desk. Her heels clicked like gunshots-same rhythm as the day she'd fired Todd from accounting for "excessive soup slurping."

"Ethan Chase," she said. "Dig dirt on him."

Coffee sloshed in my *World's Okayest Blogger* mug. "The tech guy? The one you..." *Dated*. The office Slack still had a GIF of her deleting his texts mid-meeting.

I flipped open the folder. Ethan's LinkedIn photo smirked up at me. For a billionaire, he still looked like the type to Venmo request you for half a fries. My student loan statement glared from my browser tab-$82,300. Mom's latest text blinked: *Rent okay?*

Miranda's acrylic nail tapped the cease-and-desist letter paperclipped inside. "He'll talk to you." Her eyes flicked to my thrift-store sneakers. "You're... relatable."

I bit back the urge to flip her off. Last month's draft-*Do Billionaires Use Toilet Paper?*-stared from my screen. Three news desk rejections. Three.

"Fine," I said. "But if this backfires, I'm blaming you."

Jordan hip-checked my desk, her energy drink sloshing onto my keyboard. "Remember when you got sued for calling that influencer's Pomeranian 'a sentient lint ball'? This'll be easier."

"That dog **was** a lint ball," I muttered. "And this isn't a TikTok roast. It's Ethan freaking Chase."

She tossed me a lint-covered blazer from her car floor. "Wear this. It says 'I'm definitely not here to leak your nudes.'"

Chase Innovations' lobby smelled like burnt popcorn and regret. The elevator doors groaned like they'd murder me first chance they got. My phone buzzed-Jordan: *WEAR THE LIPSTICK. IT SAYS "I DEFINITELY DON'T WORK HERE."*

The receptionist's stare burned holes in my thrifted blazer. My shoe squeaked.

The elevator dinged.

---

Three hours and one panick pee-later, Ethan's office was all sharp angles and leather that probably cost more than my life savings, but it smelled weirdly like my grandma's kitchen-burnt vanilla and impatience.

He didn't look up from his laptop. "I don't do interviews."