ADA

I burst into the office of The Huntley Agency, sending the doors crashing against the walls. The receptionist jumps, almost toppling out of her chair.

"Sorry...I'm...late." I'm panting so hard I can barely get the words out between gulps of air. I sprinted the whole five blocks between Jitters and here. I bend forward, chest heaving as I struggle to breathe. I hold up a finger from around my coffee cup. I'm gonna need a second.

The receptionist stares at me, mouth agape as she takes in my disheveled, juice-stained appearance.

Great first impression, Ada.

I gulp down some coffee and straighten, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the pane of glass that divides the reception area from the rest of the office. I gasp.

Pieces of hair stick straight out from my ponytail. I look like a deranged hedgehog. Frantically, I try to comb my fingers through the now crunchy strands, but the juice has hardened into a sort of plaster. There's no way it's coming out without shampoo.

Sighing, I realize I have no choice but to make the best of the situation. I force what I hope is a professional smile and hold out a hand. "Hi. I'm Ada Datchery. The new intern."

The receptionist glances at my hand then looks me up and down, one judgey, micro-bladed eyebrow raised. She sniffs, turning her attention back to her computer screen.

I glance down. There's a green smudge smeared across my palm. I quickly wipe my hand on my yoga pants.

"It's been a rough morning," I explain.

"Looks like it," she mutters, tapping at her keyboard while simultaneously giving me some serious side eye. "You said you're Ada Datchery?"

"Yes."

"The intern meeting started ten minutes ago."

Could she be less helpful? I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from snapping at her.

Forcing a smile, I say, "Would you mind showing me where to go? Please?"

"Last room on the right." She jerks a thumb toward the hallway leading from the glass door next to her desk.

I force myself to say a terse, "Thank you," before bolting to the door.

"Good luck," she says, her tone making it obvious she thinks I'll need it.

I check my watch as I hustle down the hall. 9:13. Crap. Crap. Crap.

The bitter smell of automatic coffee lingers in the air as I pass the double-doors of a break room, bustling with people wearing business suits and photogs with cameras slung over their shoulders. They clutch Styrofoam cups, as they thumb through the tabloids that litter the round tables.

A couple of photographers dressed head-to-toe in black notice me. They do a double take as I barrel past. Considering the state I'm in, I don't blame them.

Celebrity photographs decorate the long, white hallway. Jennifer Lawrence laughing into a phone at an outdoor cafe in Los Angeles, Taylor Swift wearing a tangerine and magenta two-piece gown and holding an armful of Grammy awards, and Liam Anders standing outside Microsoft Theater at last year's Emmy's.

I glare at his stupidly handsome face. His eyes look even bluer next to the red carpet. The crooked smile dancing on his lips would be charming if I hadn't just experienced what a complete and total jackass he is first hand.

Dirtbag stalkerazzi. Just thinking about his words has my fingers squeezing my to-go cup until the sides bow.

Millions of people live vicariously through pictures of celebrities online and in tabloids every week. Grams and I used to pick up a copy of each of the major tabloids every Monday when she picked me up from school. We'd skim through the pages, dissecting the latest scandals and fashion trends while binge watching our favorite classic movies. We watched everything from Casablanca to Sixteen Candles. It was our thing, and I loved it.

When the chemo made her too sick to leave the house, I'd pick up the magazines and bring them to her. Those photos gave her an escape, however small, from the fear and pain she was dealing with.

If Liam thinks he's above all that, well, that shows what a self-centered jerk he is.

When I finally reach the conference room, I pause, hand hovering over the door handle. I'm probably going to get fired the second I walk in there. I just hope the shots I took of Mia and Liam this morning are enough to make up for being inexcusably late.

I decide it's best to get it over with—like that time Elodie and I decided it was a good idea to try waxing our legs and the anticipation was actually worse than the searing pain itself. I take a deep breath and push open the door.

"As you can see—" Agnes, my new boss, breaks off mid-sentence, her jaw dropping open. She's standing at the end of a long mahogany conference table. The traffic on 11th Street rushes by outside the window behind her.

A guy about my age with greasy hair pulled up in a man bun and a girl with bushy blond hair, lots of freckles, and wide-set eyes sit in the seats on her left. They stare at me, stunned.

You know you're having a bad day when a dude with a man bun is judging you because of your hair.

His eyes drop to the coffee in my hand, and he smirks, elbowing the girl. She glances down at my drink and claps a hand over her mouth, suppressing a laugh.

I close my eyes. Paparazzi Queen indeed. Stupid coffee cup. I want to crawl under the table and hide. What was supposed to be my perfect first day is turning into a disaster of epic proportions.

Agnes clears her throat, scowling down at me.

"Sorry." I duck my head, slipping into a chair across from the other interns. I set my cup on the floor, out of sight.

"You're late." Agnes folds her arms. Her lips are pursed, and she looks super pissed.

"Agnes, I'm so sorry."

"What in the five boroughs happened to you?" Her gaze hovers over my hair and juice-splattered clothes.

"It's a crazy story. Actually, I—"

"You know what? Save it. We don't have time right now."

"But—"

She gives me a look, and I immediately snap my mouth shut.

Agnes raises her voice. "As I was saying. There are three of you—two who managed to show up on time..."

I shrink down in my seat, twisting the charm of my necklace between my fingers.

"And there's one job available with this company, which means at the end of the summer, only one of you will be offered a permanent position."

Only one of us? Jeez. Welcome to the 76th annual Hunger Games. I knew I'd have to prove myself to earn a spot at Huntley, but I didn't realize I'd have to beat other photographers to do it.

I glance over at the other interns. The guy appears as rattled by the announcement as I am, but the girl just nods, a small smile tugging at her mouth like she thinks she's got this in the bag. I'm not about to let that happen.

Grams passed away before I found out I got this internship, but she made me promise I'd turn my dream of being a paparazzo into a reality. Losing is not an option.

"Your performance this summer will determine which one of you that will be," Agnes continues. "I've created a simple point system. Each of your photos I sell will earn you one point. If you manage to capture a shot that sells for more than a thousand dollars, you will be awarded five points. A scoreboard will be posted in my office so you can see where you stand at any given time. And if that isn't already incentive enough, you'll also be paid twenty percent of the commission on your shots.

I squirm in my seat, thinking of the pictures of Liam and Mia currently sitting on my camera roll. I don't know how much tabloids pay for photos like that exactly, but I'm guessing they'd easily surpass that thousand-dollar benchmark.

My knee bounces up and down, and I bite my bottom lip. I'm bursting to tell Agnes about them, but something tells me interrupting this meeting again would not be a smart move.

"When I'm aware of a celebrity's whereabouts, I'll text you with tips." Agnes holds up her cell. "So keep your phone on you at all times. For the most part though, you're on your own. You need to hone the skill of tracking celebs and capturing photographs I can sell."

We all nod. My throat is still parched from my run over here. I lean oh-so-casually sideways in my chair, sneaking a sip of my coffee beneath the table. When I straighten up, Man Bun is grinning at me all smug-like. I frown, setting my drink back down.

Agnes glances around, making eye contact with each of us. "A quick turnaround is essential in this business. You get a shot, I want it edited and in my inbox ASAP."

I see my opening to tell her about Liam and Mia. My hand shoots into the air. Agnes fires a glare in my direction so fierce, my arm falls right back to my side.

"Now," Agnes starts again as I slump back, stifling the desire to groan. I drum my fingers against my thighs, praying her spiel is almost over. Sitting on these pictures might be the actual death of me. "You've each been given a map highlighted with the locations where New York's celebrities live and the places they've been known to frequent."

I look around at the other interns, who're carefully studying the maps in front of them—maps which were apparently handed out before I arrived. I lean forward, trying to read Man Bun's map from across the table. Agnes notices. Sighing, she thrusts one toward me.

"Thank you," I whisper.

She shakes her head. "Now, as per the contracts you all signed, any celebrity photos you take belong to Huntley. You are not to sell your pictures to anyone else. Don't even try, because I promise you, I will find out."

The hard glint in her eyes doesn't leave the smallest doubt that she means what she's saying.

"You can forget about your social lives," Agnes says, "because this is no nine-to-five job, kiddos. You're to come to the office and check in with me once a day and update me on your progress. We'll be meeting as a group every Monday for weekly staff meetings and training. Other than that, I want you out there." Agnes jabs a finger toward the window. "Getting me photos.

"This isn't high school. Being a celebrity photographer is hard work, and only the most dedicated of you will have a job here come September. I need photographers who're willing to do whatever it takes to make this agency succeed. If you don't think you can handle that, well, don't let the door hit you in the ass."

She pauses as though waiting to see if any of us will walk out. The silence in the room is heavy, pressing in on me. Each second that ticks by is another chance for someone else to sell their grainy cell phone pics to the rags and decrease the value of mine.

Anxiety boils inside me like water in my mom's electric tea kettle until I can't hold it in anymore. Everything comes rushing out.

"Liam Anders and Mia Harlow just got into this huge fight down the street. She was screaming at him, and he broke up with her right there in the middle of the sidewalk."

Everyone blinks at me like I'm speaking a language they don't understand.

"And I got pictures." I fish my Nikon out of my bag, holding it up like some kind of trophy.

"You got pictures of Liam Anders and Mia Harlow getting into an argument? In public?" Agnes's face is blank.

I nod. "That's why I was late."

She holds out a hand. It takes me a beat to realize she wants me to pass her my camera.

My fingers are clumsy with nerves as I switch it on and almost drop it for the second time this morning.

Agnes reaches for the glasses perched on top of her head, giving me a look that clearly says if I don't deliver, my internship here is over. She stares down at the screen, pauses, then starts scrolling through the pictures without saying a word.

My head feels a little floaty like I'm about to pass out. I realize I'm holding my breath and force a wobbly inhale, waiting for her to react.

After what seems like an eternity, Agnes asks, "How many other photographers were there?"

"None. At least not until after Mia left."

"You're telling me you are the only photographer who got these shots?"

"Yes. There was a crowd of people watching though, so I'm sure someone snapped some pics with their phone."

The glacial expression on Agnes's face thaws. She gives me what could almost pass for an approving nod.

"Well then, we have no time to lose." She stands. "I suppose your tardiness is excused this time, but how do you explain—" She gestures at my appearance.

I look down and groan. "Mia threw her juice at Liam. He ducked. I didn't."

Agnes laughs, actually laughs, and says, "Meeting adjourned. I have some pictures to sell." She pops my SD card out of my Nikon and hands it back to me. "You can all come watch me edit these, so you can see what I expect of the shots you turn in."

I have to fight the urge to jump up and down and squeal. I'm about to become a published photographer!

Reminding myself that I'm a professional, I calmly stand, tucking my camera into the bag slung across the back of my chair. The other interns—who definitely aren't smirking anymore—begin gathering their things and hurry after Agnes.

"Oh, and Miss Datchery?" Agnes stops short. "Next time, don't wait so long to tell me. This is a time-sensitive business." She taps her bare wrist like it's a watch.

"But—" I start to explain that I've been trying to tell her about the pictures for the last twenty minutes, but Agnes turns on her heel and marches out of the room.

My head spins as I swing my bag over my shoulder and hurry after her. Those pictures—my pictures—are going to be all over every media outlet, every tabloid magazine, and every celebrity news blog. Not to mention millions upon millions of people's social media accounts. This 'dirtbag stalkerazzi' is about to go viral.

Take that Liam freaking Anders.