Chapter Eight
Mitch leaned against the corner of his desk, his knuckles white from the weight, and fixed me with a look that said I was the last person he wanted to see in his office.
“What is it this time?” he asked, and had it not been for the smirk hiding in the bush of his beard like a scared animal I might’ve guessed he was upset with me — but he was only ribbing me, as usual.
“What, can’t two friends talk?”
“Please, you only ever come in here when you want something, so out with it,” Mitch said.
“Honestly, I have a question. Why wasn’t I invited to do a press tour of Stubbe’s Palace?” I asked and Mitch snorted.
“Wait, are you serious? Are you really upset I didn’t send you on some dead-end story to schmooze with rich people?” Mitch asked. “That doesn’t seem like you.”
“It isn’
