Worth the Risk
By K. Bromberg
Copyright 2018 K. Bromberg
ISBN: 978-1-942832-12-6
Published by JKB Publishing, LLC
Editing by AW Editing and Help Me Edit
Cover Design by Helen Williams
Cover Photography Nicole Ashley Photography
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF K. BROMBERG
OTHER BOOKS BY K. BROMBERG
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF K. BROMBERG
“K. Bromberg always delivers intelligently written, emotionally intense, sensual romance . . .”
—USA Today
“This book will have you CUFFED to your chair until the very last page of this high-flying tale.”
—#1 New York Times Bestselling author Audrey Carlan
A poignant and hauntingly beautiful story of survival, second chances and the healing power of love. An absolute must-read.”
—New York Times Bestselling author Helena Hunting
“A homerun! The Player is riveting, sexy and pulsing with energy. And I can’t wait for The Catch!”
—#1 New York Times Bestselling author Lauren Blakely
“An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”
—# 1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout
“Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”
—New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans
“Supercharged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott
OTHER BOOKS BY K BROMBERG
Driven
Fueled
Crashed
Raced
Aced
Slow Burn
Sweet Ache
Hard Beat
Down Shift
Sweet Cheeks
Sweet Rivalry
UnRaveled
The Player
The Catch
Cuffed
Combust
never go in search of love,
go in search of life,
and life will find the love you seek
—Atticus
“It isn’t what you think. I promise.”
Eyes the same color blue as mine stare at me. Judge me. Scold me. The expanse of a desk is between us, but I can feel my father’s fury as if he were sitting beside me.
He pinches the bridge of his nose and gives a sharp shake of his head. “Is there anything you’ve ever loved besides yourself, Sidney?”
“That isn’t fair.” Tears burn as I try to swallow over the bitter pill disappointing my father has lodged there.
“Isn’t it, though?”
His words cut deep. But I screwed up. Again. At least that’s the only way he’ll ever see it. Frank Thorton is never one to allow room for error.
“Tell me what to do, Dad. Tell me how to make this better.” My hands tremble, but I grip the arms of the chair to steady them.
Thortons never show that they are intimidated.
“I’ve let your mom protect you for too long. I’ve let her persuade me to give you chance after chance when you continually prove to me that you don’t deserve it.”
“Dad . . .”
“This is a business. This is my business. This is how I’ve provided you with those chances to do all the nonsense that you do. I love you, Sid, with all my heart, but if you worked for any other company, you would have been fired many times over.”
“All I did was—” All I did was rush to Zoey’s aid when she called me. I bite my tongue and stop myself from saying more. Excuses aren’t allowed. Even if they were, I could have called. I could have let him know something happened so that someone else could cover for me.
But I didn’t.
“How do you think my employees feel about you? Would they call you hard working and innovative or would they think you’re spoiled and get to keep your job strictly because of your last name?”
“I told you, it isn’t what you think.”
“Then what should I think?”
My mind flickers back to the frantic phone call from Zoey. The bruises starting to mar her skin when I arrived, my rage over how a man could treat a woman that way, and her pleas for me not to tell anyone. As much as I know it would save my ass if I explained to my father why I didn’t show up for the interview with the fashion-designer-turned-whistleblower Wendy Whitaker, I can’t. I gave her my word and it wouldn’t matter to him.
His impatience radiates around us, and I know from experience that it’s best if I just keep quiet. The last word always has to be his, but I speak anyway.
“I know you won’t believe me when I tell you someone needed me and I went. I lost track of everything dealing with the situation, and when I realized what time it was, it was too late. All I can tell you is that it was for a valid reason.”
“And that reason was?”
I stumble over how to explain. “I can’t say.” My words are soft, my resolve a mixture of defeat and defiance.
He just purses his lips and stares at me over his steepled fingers.
“I screwed up. No excuses.”
“Thank you. You know ho
w I feel about petty excuses.”
“I do, and I also know you love this company. I do, too. Journalism and editing are my passion, and overseeing a magazine is everything to me.”
He eyes me with skepticism. “Are they, or is this just a passing fancy on the Sidney Thorton express until you find the next who-knows-what at the next stop?”
“That isn’t fair,” I say even though I know I haven’t done anything to prove his theory incorrect. My last-minute trips and changing obsessions. My habit of picking up a new hobby or fad, only to put it down when something new comes along.
“If you could pick your dream job within the company, what would it be?”
His question throws me momentarily. “What do you mean?”
“We own ten magazines. If you could pick the magazine and the position, what would it be?”
Is this a trick question?
“Why?” I stand and move to the wall of windows that overlook the San Francisco skyline and valley below.
“Just humor me.” His chair squeaks, and I know he’s turned to watch me. “If I know your goals, then maybe I can help you attain them.”
“The editor-in-chief of Haute. No question.” I think back to the years I’ve spent imagining what I would do with the magazine. The original ideas. The new twists on the tried-and-true stories that have been published time and again. How I would put a fresher face on an industry standard that is slowly fading amid the tapering-off printed editions.
“Why?”
“It combines my two loves—fashion and talking about fashion with people who love it just as much as I do.” I turn to face him, needing him to see I’m serious. “Add that to getting to oversee the perfected delivery of such stories . . . I mean, it’s everything I could ask for.”
He holds my gaze, gauging whether he believes me or not. I deserve his quiet scrutiny—I know I do. That doesn’t make it any easier to stand here and not squirm.
“What would be your least favorable position?”
Tread lightly, Sid. He’s up to something here.
“As long as I’m learning new things to gain experience to one day earn me that editor-in-chief job, I would be happy anywhere in the industry.”
“That’s a line your mother would fall for. Too scripted. Too perfect. Don’t bullshit me, Sidney.” Again, he steeples his fingers and leans back in his chair, as is his habit when he’s deep in thought. “I’m in a quandary here over several things.”
Quandaries are never a good thing when it comes to my father.
“What type of things?” Why is it I’m twenty-eight and my father can still make me nervous?
“First off, I’m mad at myself for giving you the leeway to think that silver spoon you were born with gets to stay in your mouth without you having to earn it.” My gulp is followed by his sigh. “You do great work when you apply yourself. Incredible work, actually. Your eye for what will resonate with readers is instinctive, your ideas innovative, your take on stories fresh.”
“But . . .”
“But you’re missing the big picture, and that’s my fault.”
I shake my head, trying to follow his line of thought, but he holds up his hand to tell me there is more to come. “You know you’re my pride and joy. But I’ve done you a disservice. I’ve let you think working here is a given. That you don’t have to act responsibly when your last name is Thorton.”
“I know that. I’ve never assumed—”
“You’ve never assumed, and yet, you’ve never had to get a job outside of Thorton Publishing. So, answer my question. If you had to pick a magazine that would be your least favorite to work on, which one would it be?”
Crap.
“C’mon, Dad, you know me.”
“So . . . what? No kids. No family stuff?”
“Just no domesticity,” I finish for him, and he chuckles.
“Ah, yes, I forgot. The woman who plans on jet-setting her whole life and never being strapped down with a child.”
“You make that sound harsh. It isn’t a bad thing to know what you want and not conform to societal standards about what a woman should or shouldn’t want.”
“Only the fashionably acceptable for you. And domesticity is not that, right?”
“That isn’t what I meant. It’s just . . . I don’t know those things—motherhood and children—they’re nowhere near my radar, so that would make it hard for me to contribute to a magazine that is focused on them. ”
He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “The board and I have been talking about eliminating two or three magazines from our portfolio.”
“But why?”
“Decreased circulation.”
“Isn’t there decreased circulation across the board in this digital age?”
“There is.” He nods resolutely. “But these also have a decline in online subscriptions and viewership. Of the three titles, there’s one in particular I want to save. It is one of my first magazines, and it holds sentimental value to me.”
“Okay . . .” The different titles of Thorton Publishing’s magazines run through my head, and I try to pinpoint which one he’s referring to but can only draw a guess.
“In order to save it, I need to beef up its online visibility. I need more hits to it, more buzz about it . . . more social media draw. With a fresh take that can reel in new readers, I can net more advertising.”
“Okay,” I repeat, a little quieter now.
“I think you’re just the person for the job.”
“What do you mean?”
Really, I’m more intelligent than I sound, but hell if I’m not standing here and staring at my dad as if it’s judgment day. If it’s a magazine with decreased circulation, it’s most definitely one I’m not keen on.
I just screwed myself, didn’t I?
He takes one look at my expression and reminds me, “If you really want that job at Haute, you’d do anything to get it, right?”
“Of course.”
“Even figure out a way to save Modern Family and prove you’re worthy of the job?”
“Modern Family? As in ‘what’s for dinner,’ and ‘how to get your kid to behave,’ or ‘silly summer crafts’?” I sound calm while I’m cringing on the inside at what feels like a major demotion.
“As in domesticity.” His grin is wide and unforgiving.
This is a test.
He’s watching me closely, waiting for the immediate rejection I refuse to give. Domesticity—motherhood, parenting, kids in general—is the one subject I know almost nothing about. Strike that. I know plenty about those things, but they are so far removed from my current life that it makes the notion hard to swallow. I can fake it with the best of them, but stepping in and working side by side with the people at the magazine and pulling it off? Now, that might be hard to do.
But editor-in-chief of Haute?
Holy shit.
“I can’t just walk in and run a whole magazine.”
“Rejecting the idea of hard work already, are you?”
“That’s not what I mean.” I sigh in frustration. “I mean, to step in without any footing and—”
“Relax, Sid.” He chuckles when I don’t find his little joke amusing at all. “I don’t expect you to step in and take over. Modern Family has its own very capable and tough editor-in-chief, Rissa Patel.”
“Great,” I mutter through my forced smile. I can already see her finding ways to make my life hell.
“It will be. She can teach you a lot, but your main focus will be to elevate the magazine’s online component. There are a million different and innovative ways to capture new readers and improve advertising. It’s your job to figure out what that way is and how to implement it. Whatever you do, I need to see an increase.”
I think of the offices for Modern Family in Sunnyville, the town where I grew up. I think of leaving my very sleek apartment in my high-rise overlooking downtown San Francisco. I think of my best friend, Zoey, and having to leave her after eve
rything that just happened. Sure, she says she’s fine now. Of course, she’ll say it again when I tell her I have to leave. But hell if I’m not going to worry about her or that prick she swears she’ll never see again while I’m gone.
And I think of having to leave it all behind for a while to satisfy my dad with the lesson he is trying to teach me.
My resolve wavers. “I know nothing about—”
“And before you answer, I should preface this offer by saying it isn’t an automatic. You don’t do this and then step into the editor’s shoes at Haute. Veronica will be retiring at the end of next year. That will give you six months to turn Modern Family around and then another six months to a year to learn what you need to do the job. Then and only then—with her blessing—will I promote you to your dream position.”
“So, if I can prove myself to you and Veronica, the position is mine, correct?
“Correct.”
“Should I assume that you’re expecting me to leave soon?”
His tight smile already has me canceling my plans to head to Santa Barbara at the end of the month. The trip I’ve looked forward to for weeks. “Of course. Time is money.” He glances at his calendar and then back to me. “Take your trip with your friends, but know this . . . you will be working on it every day until then from here on out, and the day after you return, you will be in Sunnyville, hands-on. You should be able to accomplish plenty in the month, so when you arrive there, you can hit the ground running.”
“Okay.” I fight the sudden swell of tears that burn. Are they because I know he’s showing me a glimpse of mercy now only to be merciless on me later? Or is it because he’s my dad and I hate that I’ve let him down?
“I’m not messing around here, Sid.”
“I know.” The words barely come out.
“And don’t expect a warm welcome.” I swear amusement flashes through the blue of his eyes. “They’ll think you’re there to spy on them and report back to me. They’re already on edge over rumors about the magazine being yanked and their jobs taken away.”
“Lovely.” And then a thought hits. “What about the current staff? Isn’t there someone there already qualified? Won’t they be mad at me for taking a position from them?”