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Glasgow’s West End, I soaked in the city. Old world charm weaved itself through modern flair. It was loud. It was quiet. It was bright. It was romantic. This was certainly a far cry from the brightly colored print shirts and never-ending flip-flops that defined tourist central, otherwise known as Orlando, and I loved every last bit of it.
    Pulse was located inside a large stone building. It looked rather nondescript on the surface, more like an old bank than an ultra lounge. From what I’d heard, Pulse had become quite the hot spot since Brent opened it over the summer. I noted with pride a glossy advertisement by the entrance that Stephanie had designed. She’d certainly found her calling, and her passion, with graphic design work.
    A rather large, intimidating looking bouncer walked over to me.
    “Miss Meyers?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Follow me please. Mr. Archer is waiting inside.”
    I pulled out my cell phone and checked the time as he led me inside the building. It was only five past eight. Apparently, I was late. When I looked up from the phone, I gasped. This place was incredible. Dimly lit in shades of blue, cream and lavender, the whole room gave off a cool, modern vibe. White leather couches shaped like trapezoids were chaotically organized throughout the space. Small, cube shaped chairs flanked dark wooden tables. I couldn’t help but stare at the ceiling as we weaved our way through the crowd. It was made entirely of lights that were fragmented into triangles but were perfectly positioned to look like a huge stained glass window all in white.
    Every person I passed was better dressed than the last. I appreciated this being a high-end bar but found myself wishing it was a little less pretentious and a little more relaxed.
    “Ah, Lia.” Julian stood up from the reserved table and kissed both my cheeks. “Gorgeous dress. Have a seat. What do you fancy for a drink?”
    “Um,” I glanced at the drink menu, “I’ll have the Secret Crush please.”
    He grinned at me slyly after giving our drink orders to the server. My brows lifted a bit as I smiled back, anticipating what could possibly come out of his mouth.
    “Is there a specific reason why you negotiated your contract to last only three months, which incidentally, is the length of your temporary visa?”
    My stomach dropped and I did that really attractive fish mouth thing where my lips parted but nothing came out.
    “Well,” I started, finally finding my voice, “I wanted to see if this job was a good fit for me. For us. For the show.”
    “I see.” His blue eyes narrowed slightly. “And if it is?”
    “Then I suppose you’ll be stuck with me.” I smiled at the server as she placed our drinks on the table. Grabbing mine, I took a long sip of the raspberry flavored cocktail. The shrewd look Julian still aimed in my direction led me to believe he wasn’t satisfied with my response.
    “I’ve had a revolving door of executive producers over the last four years. Creative differences, incompetence, laziness, you name it. You came highly touted not only from your station in America but also from Sam and Robbie. If I’d known they were going to agree to such a short contract I would never have let you in the building.”
    This must be the bad side Robbie warned me about. I sank further into the plush cushion, nursing my drink and feeling more than a little bit guilty.
    “Wait a second,” I said, snapping out of my funk. “You didn’t know that I’d only signed on for a few months?”
    “No.”
    “They told me you knew. They said you’d be okay with it.”
    “Did they,” he grimaced. “Sneaky bastards.”
    “I’m so confused.”
    Julian downed his bourbon like a champion and leaned forward. “The two of them have been scheming behind my back for months. They kept Gemma on for much longer than was necessary just to watch me slowly implode. They want me out. There’s some younger, hot shot presenter from London making the rounds.