2 months earlier

"Condom truck tips, spills load."

I can't help but stifle a laugh as my boss, the Editor-in-Chief of the Seattle Sun Times, Andrew Mitchell, announces with a furrowed brow. He's quoting the latest headline as we gather in the conference room for our daily stand-up meeting.

His gaze sharp, landing on each of us in turn, clearly unamused. The room fills with a mix of stifled chuckles and awkward coughs as we all exchange glances.

"Who approved this headline?" he asks, his eyes sweeping around the room. "No one?"

A voice chimes in from the other side. "I believe James Foster did, but he's out of the office today."

Andrew lets out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before he looks back up at us.

"Let's ensure we don't encounter another situation like this," he says firmly, listlessly shaking his head. He adjusts his tortoiseshell glasses and briefly scans his notes before continuing. "Moving on to the next agenda item."

As he speaks, the glass door to the conference room quietly glides open, drawing my attention away from him. She's late. Again. For the second time this week. Juniper is never late for anything. In fact, she's annoyingly early for everything.

I watch as she enters the conference room, scanning for an available chair, but they're all occupied. So, she makes her way to the corner where she stations herself, opposite the room, near the buffet table filled with muffins and fruit. She stands there and quietly starts digging through her oversized white bag to retrieve her laptop, although she's anything but discreet. Not with her outfit practically screaming for attention. Those eye-piercing pink pants and that cropped orange top with ruffle things on her shoulders—her fashion choices have always been rather eccentric. Some might find it cute, others might call it trendy; personally, I lean toward obnoxious.

Her brown hair is pulled back into a low bun. But as she balances her laptop with one hand, she reaches up, letting her hair fall down. Giving it a little shake, she runs her fingers through it. It seems like she didn't have much time to get ready this morning, but she still looks annoyingly perfect.

"Hansen," Andrew says, directing his attention to me. I successfully draw my gaze away from Juniper, who catches me staring at her just as I shift my focus. "So it's settled. You'll take on the piece regarding enrollment at the University of Washington."

I nod. "Sounds good."

I see Juniper's head popping up from the corner of my eyes. She straightens her posture, clearing her throat from across the room. "Um, I'm sorry, Mr. Mitchell, but I thought I was assigned that piece, as we discussed yesterday?"

"Well, we considered having Wells tackle it since he's worked on a similar topic in New York."

Her eyes quickly dart back and forth between me and Andrew about ten times before she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and lets out a soft laugh. "But, Mr. Mitchell, I went to the University of Washington. I know just about ev–"

"Maybe if you were on time," I interject, and it's almost palpable how tightly her jaw clenches, even from across the room, "you could have been assigned the article."

"Yes, Jenkins," Andrew says, looking down at his watch. "You're late again."

Her response is quick, directed at me. "Maybe if there wasn't traffic on the I-5, I would have been here on time."

"Maybe you should have left earlier then."

"Maybe I did leave early but there was an accident on the freeway."

"Well maybe, you should try using Google Maps. Ever heard of it?" I say as our coworkers track our rapid-fire exchange like spectators at a ping-pong match.

"Well maybe, my new apartment always seems further away than I think," she says, stomping her foot ever so slightly. It's so subtle, only I notice it, and it kind of makes me want to smile.

Our supervisor, clearly exasperated, interjects, "June, will you just give Wells the contacts and the notes you have," he says firmly, putting an end to our debate, "You're taking the piece on paper straws."

"Paper straws?" she questions. I see her huff and glare over at me, her lips pursed in annoyance.

"Paper straws," I mouth to her from across the room as I return her glare with a smirk.

"Well, I think that wraps everything up for today," Andrew says, clapping his hands together. "I want to see a layout by the end of the day! Everyone get to it!"

As our colleagues begin to file out of the conference room, I close my laptop and watch as Juniper aggressively shoves hers back into her bag. She locks eyes with me as we find ourselves meeting in the center of the conference room, positioned near the exit.

She glances down at her feet, breaking eye contact, and says, "I don't have the notes with me. They're at my desk." Her voice drops, and she mutters "jerk" so softly that I almost don't hear it.

"Alright, I'll drop by before my next meeting."

"No, I'll draft them and send you an email," she says before mumbling something incoherent to me.

"Well, that's nice of you. Thank you," I say before I start to turn towards the exit.

"Do you make it your life mission to steal every good article from me?" she suddenly says before I can make it out the door of the conference room.

My brows pull together as I slowly turn around to face her, watching as she crosses her arms in irritation.

"You think I'm stealing your articles?" I ask, pointing to my chest.

"No. I know you're stealing them, just like I know you steal my good pens every time you walk by my desk."

I huff out a laugh, amused by her accusation. "Excuse me?"

She takes a step forward. "I know you take my good pens, Wells. It's not funny. I bring those in from home."

"I don't steal your articles, Juniper. Do you ever think maybe I'm just, oh, I don't know, better than you?"

She scoffs. "Whatever, this is the third one this month." She lets her arms fall to her side, her lips now tilted in a frown. "God, Wells, you're not even from here. I went to the University of Washington. That was my article. Where did you go? Washington State?"

"I went to NYU."

"See, you're not even from Seattle."

"Yes, and I'm still doing a better job than you are."

I maintain my composure, and she lets out a frustrated grunt. My lips curl into a small, smug smile as I glance once more at her outfit. "Are you going to the Barbie movie tonight or something?"

Her expression twisted into confusion. "What? No, why would you think that?"

"Did Barbie throw up on you this morning? Or did you just choose to dress like Pepto Bismol?"

She huffs, tilting her head down as she looks at her outfit, taking a moment to smooth out the cropped top of her shirt.

"My outfit is cute," she mutters defensively.

She looks up, her eyes wandering over me, as she narrows her eyes. "And what about you? Didn't have time to comb your hair this morning? Raid your grandpa's closet?"

I huff out a laugh and I run my hand through my wavy brown hair, and my gaze flicks down to my outfit – a basic chocolate brown wool sweater paired with simple dark grey slacks. Do I look like I dress like my grandpa?

"Oh, real nice Juniper. My grandpa is dead," I deadpan.

Her expression immediately shifts. "Oh, shoot, really?"

"No, he lives in Arizona with his girlfriend," I say as I turn on my heel and start heading toward the exit again.

I stop once I reach the doorway and turn to face her, only to catch her flipping me off. She quickly retracts her hand, hiding it behind her back when she realizes I'm watching.

"Oh, and Juniper?" I call out, drawing an impatient sigh from her.

"What, Wells?" she says.

"Just so you know," I start, my lips tugging up, "I do take your pens whenever I pass by your desk."