SADIE BANKS
THIS GUY WAS HOT.
No, not just hot—smoking hot. The beyond good-looking kind of hot you see on the cover of magazines like GQ and Sports Illustrated.
Square jaw. Straight nose. Perfect hair.
He was shirtless. Chiseled. Sexy. Muscled in all the right places. In those jeans, he was most definitely eye-catching enough to grab attention.
And that mouth.
That mouth was sinful.
Honestly, it was just too much to resist, and I thought about leaning down and kissing those lips, but come on, that would be ridiculous.
Right?
The bottom line—this guy was exactly what readers craved. What they wanted. And what I was in desperate need of in my life.
I could look him up.
Maybe I would?
I shook the crazy notion away.
That wasn’t ethical.
Was it?
Anyway, obviously, I didn’t see a problem. However, the voice on the phone certainly had one. “SADIE! Are you listening to me?”
I was listening. Somewhat, anyway. When I wasn’t staring at his perfection or wiping the drool from my chin, that was. Seriously, this guy was everything. Rogue. Raw. Savage. And yet refined. He belonged on the runway. His eyes. Those abs. That scruff. He was so delicious.
Completely captivated by him, it wasn’t until my boss screamed, “The use of stock photos is a direct violation of our policy,” that I stopped daydreaming and realized I might actually have a problem.
Stock?
What was she talking about?
Him?
He was anything but stock. He was genuine.
Wasn’t he?
I looked again. Stared for a bit.
No. No. No.
He couldn’t be. I would never fall for stock.
Would I?
Feeling like I was free falling without a net, my gaze darted toward my new assistant. Chloe Carmichael sat on the sofa with her palms on her knees, staring at me like a deer caught in headlights.
Little quakes of concern churned in my belly as I studied her. Fidgety. Avoiding eye contact. Acting guilty.
And then, even with the afternoon sun blinding me, I could see the moment worry bloomed across her porcelain skin. That exact emotion grabbed hold of me as well and those little quakes turned into full-blown waves.
As quickly as I could, I muted the phone. “Where did you get this photo?” I asked her warily.
Guilt remained stamped on her face. She opened her mouth to speak but then closed it.
Starting to panic, I pointed to my laptop. More specifically to the 2x2-sized hunk sitting at the bottom of the column I’d posted on my blog not even an hour ago. “This one, Chloe. Who is he?”
Reluctance slowly revealed itself in her eyes as she reached for her phone. “Ummm,” she stammered. “I’m not really sure.”
I drew in a slow, ragged breath and said, “What do you mean, you aren’t sure? The information should be on the release.”
She said nothing.
“Chloe, please tell me you took this picture.”
The fear in my plea got her attention, and she said, “Well . . .”
“Chloe.”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“How about you give me the abbreviated version?”
She pulled her brow up and blew out a breath. “No, I didn’t take it.”
I felt my entire body sag.
She held a hand up. “I can explain.”
Deflated, I nodded because I couldn’t speak.
Regaining her posture, she said, “I had this really great blind date last night and ended up staying out pretty late. I forgot to set my alarm, and I’m so sorry, but I overslept. By the time I got ready, I knew I didn’t have time to find a real local subject to photograph and also go through the hoops required to use it. So.” She tapped the screen a few times and then held it up to show me. “I figured just this once I could use a pic from this great new site.”
As soon as I read, “FIND YOUR PERFECT IMAGE ON HUNKS OF ATLANTA.COM. PLANS GUARANTEED TO FIT ANY BUDGET,” the most abominable horror flashed before my eyes.
The photo really was stock!
He was stock!
And I was so screwed.
To add insult to injury, he was of the macro-stock variety, meaning he was available to anyone willing to pay the ten-dollar licensing fee for his use. You couldn’t get more generic than that.
I didn’t even know this guy, and I felt like he had betrayed me. I’d trusted he was real, when in actuality he had pimped himself out to the highest bidder for mass distribution. I even thought about physically going to find him or at the very least, looking him up online.
I swallowed past the hard lump in my throat.
This was bad.
So bad.
You see, I worked for Hotlanta—the anything you need to know about everything Atlanta guide. And the publication had very stringent policies about photo use.
In four words—nothing generic was allowed. Success hinged on being unique.
It hadn’t always been that way.
In fact, up until a little more than six months ago, Hotlanta was only available in print, and stock imagery ran rampant on every page. But then the magazine was sold, and when my new boss took over, everything changed. Social media communication had become the focus, and much to my boss’s chagrin, the popularity of the online publication was soaring.
The bottom line, Hotlanta’s new business model clearly stated the use of unoriginal content was not permitted in any shape or form.
Not online.
Not in print.
Not.
At.
All.
It was all about image—part of the larger plan to carve out an untapped social media niche for Hotlanta.
I knew I must have told Chloe about this. How could she not have understood that meant no stock anything? Period. Born and bred Atlanta hunks or not. There were no hoops. She had a pile of release forms in her bag for goodness sake.
Pinching my lips together tightly, I tried to remain professional and calm, but everything I’d worked so hard for was on the line, and it wasn’t easy.
Chloe is young, I said to myself.
She doesn’t know any better, I reminded myself.
“It’s a new local site, and I really believe that supporting it will help Hotlanta improve the readership in the lagging twenty-one to twenty-five demographic. Ms. Petra really should consider what an asset local stock photos could be to the publication.”
Right then all of my calm threatened to dissolve instantly.
I stared at her in disbelief.
Her main role in this company was to take pictures.
To.
Take.
Pictures.
Didn’t she understand using that site would mean she was no longer needed? That the junior social media specialist position she held could be rendered obsolete?
Besides, was she really trying to rationalize the shortcut she’d taken by suggesting company policy changes?
“I bet it won’t even be that big of a deal, Sadie,” she continued, as if the shock of getting caught had worn off and a sense of righteousness had set in. “Everyone in our industry uses stock.”
It wasn’t that she was totally incorrect. Everyone did use stock. But that’s why it was a big deal. Hotlanta wanted to stand out. Be different. The gravity of her shortcut was only reinforced when the voice over the line grew louder.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and winced.
“Just explain the site to her,” Chloe whispered. “Tell her the site is local and homegrown, and just what Hotlanta needs for that extra boost of readership.”
I shook my head no. I doubted the powerful woman yelling at me right now wanted to hear any suggestions about how to run her company, especially from me.
Although I hadn’t taken my phone off mute, for some reason I still covered the receiver. “Chloe,” I whispered back, “you don’t get it. It’s because everyone uses stock imagery that the magazine doesn’t allow the use of it under any circumstances. And that is why it is a very big deal.”
Everything about her went rigid and hard. Anger flared in her eyes. It was clear she didn’t like what I had to say. “That’s too bad,” she sighed. “In my experience, policies should never be that black and white.”
I wanted to shake my head again, but I didn’t. “This one is.”
“Well, I had no idea Hotlanta was so strict,” she sighed again. “I don’t get it. I thought they were all about promoting Atlanta?”
Inwardly, I was screaming because we were all about promoting Atlanta.
“I wish I had looked into the company a little more before agreeing to join,” she added.
I wished a lot of things, too. Most especially, I wished I had asked Chloe about the photo she had given me today because it was clear she didn’t get it. She didn’t get me. And she most definitely didn’t get Hotlanta.
With my shoulder holding the phone to my ear, I pulled my laptop a little closer. If I could see those traitorous eyes staring back at me, I knew they would be screaming, “Let’s get out of here.”
I wished I could.
Especially when the voice over the line started to sound like a droning in my ear. “Sadie, what were you thinking? Not only does your verbiage make your column sound juvenile, but also that hideous picture cheapens your page. Cheapens Hotlanta. Why didn’t you use Chloe? That’s why I assigned her to you.”
I said nothing. I couldn’t throw Chloe under the bus. It didn’t feel right.
Elise didn’t seem to notice. “You know what, don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter. The entire post is crap. I want it taken down. And why haven’t you removed that ridiculous rainbows-and-butterflies line I asked you to delete from your moniker months ago?”
I still said nothing.
“Sadie?”
Again, I didn’t respond.
Emotion caught in my throat, and I couldn’t speak.
“Never mind. Here’s the thing, you know how important it is to maintain our image, especially during this very fragile transitional time, and the bottom line is you are not doing your part. I have worked hard to ensure this magazine is embraced by all social media outlets, and this—”
Yes, I knew what a big deal it was.
It was my page.
The anonymous SB.
It was my column.
Love Connections by SB.
It was my mistake.
I had screwed up.
Keeping my identity offline didn’t change that. I had violated company policy.
All I could do was stare at the words I’d written on my screen and read them over and over.