If the phone rang one more time, Celeste was going to hurl the most annoying piece of technology ever invented at her cubicle wall. Not that tossing the stupid thing would break it—the partitions were made from a soft material—more like bounce off it. Plus, her neighbor, someone even more annoying than the phone, might pop his head up and smirk, asking in his oh-so-smug voice if she’d lost her temper for the fifth time this week. Yes, he actually kept score.

There wasn’t a chance she’d give Reed Dumont any satisfaction, not with the boss soon to announce who’d sit in Angela Pemmican’s broadcasting chair on a permanent basis, now that the queen bee was moving on to bigger reporting opportunities in the world of news television. Good riddance to that. The woman had thought herself too good to anchor the morning and nightly news for a mere network dedicated to Canada’s Indigenous People—especially one based out of Winnipeg, and not the bigger metropolitan cities like Toronto or Vancouver.

“Hello. You reached the desk of Celeste Fisher.” She cradled the phone under her chin and shucked aside the file she’d been working on.

“Celeste. Veronica here. Fontaine wants you in his office, pronto,” the executive assistant said into the phone.

“I’m already there.” Celeste’s curiosity ramped to eleven. She hadn’t expected to hear from the big boss, much less be ordered to his office. Sure, a phone call from the news director was a given, but the executive producer?

Maybe Fontaine had already made his decision about the promotion? She set down the receiver and stood, smoothing her skirt. What if she was about to fill the queen bee’s chair?

Being a face on television meant having to always look good, so she kept makeup in her desk drawer that she withdrew to touch up what she’d already applied this morning. Reed’s phone rang in the next cubicle. Great timing. He’d be too busy running his mouth with the unfortunate person on the other end of the line and not able to question where she was off to.

Once Celeste refreshed her lipstick and powdered her face, she scooted from her cubicle just as Reed stepped from his cubbyhole.

“Well, well.” His smile was his usual cat eating a canary. He swaggered forward, his sensual, spicy scent reaching her before he did. “I guess we’re heading in the same direction. Need an escort?” He offered his arm.

Something resembling a trail of ice snaked down Celeste’s spine. “What exactly do you mean the same direction?” She whipped on her heel, moving at a brisk pace. She had to swerve around the mail cart in the center of the narrow hallway.

“Where you’re going. I got the same phone call, too.” He spoke in the luscious tone he reserved for the TV screen, the one smoother than the finest scotch and responsible for upping their ratings, judging by the oodles of fan mail he received.

Celeste tensed. Reed’s breath came close to brushing the nape of her neck while they beelined to the boss’s office.

“Oh? Is that so?”

“Sure is.”

Suspicion replaced the ice on her spine. Why had Fontaine commanded them to his office at the same time? Correspondents worked individually, unless two reporters were required, which was rare.

They left the main area where the reporter cubicles were located and entered the hallway of those elite enough to have offices overlooking the hustle and bustle of Portage Avenue, the busiest street in Winnipeg.

People yapping on their telephones, fingers banging on keyboards, and the radio playing the obligatory Christmas music filtered into the hallway.

Oh Lord, and Here Comes Santa Claus was stalking her to Fontaine’s office.

Celeste couldn’t shake the tension pressing on the back of her neck, thanks to Reed hot on her trail, most likely still smirking because he was that confident he’d get the promotion. So much for unwrapping a new position and her own office as an early Christmas present. They might not hear who got the job until after the new year.

Reed hustled a step ahead to knock on Fontaine’s door.

Celeste stopped from shaking her head. The darn guy always had to be first—at everything.

“Enter,” the boss called out.

Before Reed could open his big mouth again or escort her to a chair like a damsel in distress, Celeste darted inside. Like hell she’d give an ounce of control to a guy who lived to be in charge.

“Good afternoon, Chief.” She flashed her boss a dazzling smile, a smile perfect for sitting in the morning and nightly news chair.

Blair Fontaine grinned. Even though he was in his late fifties, he remained slickly handsome in his three-piece suit, barely a wrinkle on his smooth bronze skin, and a full head of shoulder-length, salt-and-pepper hair. His fit physique came from morning jogs on the Harte Trail and weekend hiking in the Assiniboine Forest in the Charleswood area.

One day Celeste would own a home in Charleswood and afford a golf membership at the exclusive Ridgeway Golf Club, just like her boss—if she got to replace Angela.

A self-made man, and divorcé, Fontaine more than proved anyone from a First Nations community could succeed. He always boasted to the staff that hard work got him where he was today, and if he could triumph, so could everyone else. He proudly bragged about the accomplishments of his two children who’d recently graduated from the University of Manitoba and were on their way to the top.

“I bet you’re wondering why I called my best reporters here,” Fontaine began in his deep baritone.

Gooseflesh spread across Celeste’s calves and tickled her thighs. She crossed her legs in the chair. “What do you need?”

Fontaine’s grin exposed his ultra-white veneers. “I’m surprised you two haven’t gotten the scoop yet.”

“Scoop?” Reed knitted his mink-colored brows. He sat beside Celeste in front of the big oak desk.