Back in the van, I flip down the visor and lean forward to check my appearance as Kevin races us to the studio. We’ve got exactly forty-five minutes to get this package together for the six o’clock news.

“My nose looks like an oil slick, and I’ve got mascara specks under my eyes.” Shit! My gaze cuts to Kevin. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Kevin takes a loud slurp from his Big Gulp. With frizzy brown hair and two-inch thick glasses, he’s the consummate tech geek, wrinkled shirt and all. “I didn’t notice. Petal was more interesting.”

I groan and dig through my oversized purse, pulling out a small compact of pressed powder to blot my face. Why didn’t I check the mirror before that stupid segment?

Marv, our overbearing news director, could catch a speck of pepper in your back teeth. I’m dead. Glancing out the window, I wonder if we could possibly get back and do a re-shoot . . . Who am I kidding? No telling where Petal Boo is now, and depending on the downtown traffic, we barely have time to get to the station.

“You look fine, Becks.” Kevin takes another slurp. “You’re always too hard on your appearance.”

I glare at him, and he shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road. Fine doesn’t cut it these days. You have to be young and pretty much perfect to land an anchor gig. They’re the top-paying, most visible spots in the broadcast-news food chain.

We’re finally at the studio, and I dash to the editing booth to pick the video clips and put the story together. Most of Kaitlyn’s interview ends up on the cutting-room floor in favor of scene-stealer Petal Boo. It’s sad, but I can’t help grinning as I realize Petal might be the one bright spot of my week. Even though I look like a disheveled mess standing next to the tiny, spray-tanned beauty queen, I don’t mind so much. She’s got loads of personality, and she’s definitely one to watch.

I record my voice-over and layer it on top of B-roll of little girls teasing hair the size of Texas and twirling around in thousand-dollar sequined evening gowns, bedazzled cowgirl boots, and glittering one-piece swimsuits. The entire package is ready to go as the Channel 5 theme music begins.

“Becks! I need that story now!” Vicky, our executive producer, waves at me from the end of the short hall where the editing booths are located.

I punch Save and give her the thumbs-up. “It’s on the server ready to roll!”

Leaning back in my chair, I think about the old days when a kid with a cart full of tapes would run the stories to the control room. It’s so much easier now that digital has replaced film.

Standing, I don’t even bother tucking my white blouse into my skirt. Hell, it’s too tight anyway. My shoes are in my hand, and I collect my jacket and purse ready to call it a day. I’ve been at the station since nine, just in time to catch the morning show wrap up before heading out on my assignment. I’ll stop by my desk and check my emails before I leave.

Of course, my path takes me right past the sports den, a newly renovated space consisting of desks and computers arranged in the shape of an octagon, like an MMA fighting arena. I don’t even try to suppress my eye roll. Still . . . the one thing that stops them rolling is our new sports director.

With wavy dark hair and steel-blue eyes, Cade Hill has been here less than three months, and already he’s revamped the entire department into a slick, SportsCenter-style man-paradise.

He’s an ex-NFL superstar, son of a millionaire, and infuriating as hell. After retiring from the Atlanta Falcons, where he was the starting quarterback before blowing out his knee, he came here and was immediately put in charge of sports. He has zero experience, and he thinks he’s a newsman. Please. It takes more than a sexy physique to tell a story on air.

Lucky for me, he’s bending over a co-worker’s computer, giving me the full, amazing view of his tight ass. I have two weaknesses in life: a muscular backside so toned you could bounce a quarter off it and Mexican food, and I’m sure not thinking about guacamole right now.

As if he can sense my eyes on him, he turns and catches me staring. My cheeks heat, and he grins that infuriatingly cocky grin with those deep dimples that actually make my panties wet. He rises to his six-foot-four height, and I pick up the pace, hoping to avoid speaking.

Get it together, Becks. Cade Hill is the last guy I would ever let ruin my plans for stardom.

“Truly Earth-shaking reporting today, Stone,” he says, stepping to the open doorway.

I summon my inner goddess and put my nose in the air as I continue to the newsroom. “Stereotypical male response to a female-dominated profession, Hill.”

The butterflies in my stomach do somersaults when I feel the heat of his body right behind me, but I don’t slow down.

“Profession?” he says, and I hear that grin still in his voice. “What did I miss?”

“Charitable organization,” I reply. “The Miss USA pageant awards more than 350 thousand dollars in scholarships every year.”

“You know, we could use your hustle on the sports team,” he says, and when I do stop, he extends a finger as if he’ll touch my cheek. I inhale a sharp breath. “Picked up a little shine there.”

He did not just mention my oily face . . . Oh, he did. “For your information, the humidity in downtown Houston was a thousand percent this afternoon.”

“Funny, Pat’s weather report said it was only ninety-eight percent.”

“Pat wasn’t there, and neither were you.” My eyes glide down his blue cotton shirt, cuffed at the elbows to show off his muscular forearms, to his Armani slacks. “It’s a good thing. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to ruin that ridiculously expensive suit.”

“Thanks for noticing.” He veers off, heading in the direction of the control room and giving me another view of that ass, but for whatever reason, he pauses and looks back. “You seem upset, Stone. Do I make you uncomfortable?”

Yes. He’d brushed against me in the break room once, and the sizzle had nearly given me a seizure. Okay, I exaggerate, but I had spilt my coffee down my skirt, all the way to my brand new knock-off Louboutin pumps.

“I’m a professional. I am not uncomfortable around anyone.”

Lies, all lies! Cade Hill is the sexiest, most intimidating man I know, with a beard I might have imagined between my thighs more than once. Shake it off.

He chuckles and continues walking. I step over to my computer, quickly scan my inbox, and decide everything can wait until tomorrow. The six o’clock news is done, and I’m ready to get home, whip off my bra, and kick back. I’m passing our news director’s office when I hear Marv call me from inside his glass-walled box. “Rebecca! Can you step inside for just a moment?”

Marv is old school, and I give my disheveled appearance a quick survey. Shirt out, shoes off, makeup melted—I’ve had better days. Still, I’ve been at KHOT five years. These guys know me.

Dropping my shoes, I step into them as I stuff the front of my blouse into my skirt. “Just heading home . . .” I pause when I see Cade sitting inside the door, his back to the wall. He seems confused, but I put on a smile as I focus on Marv. “How’d we do in the lineup?”

“CBS led with the plant explosion in Texas City. NBC stayed with us and covered the cellular strike blocking up traffic on the north side,” he replies, glancing at three big-screen televisions mounted on the wall—all tuned to our competing local affiliates.