Sorry for the delay. My bad. Here's a new one: Enjoy!

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I find myself in the coffee cart line, cold, shivering, and almost shaking from a caffeine lapse, and thinking of Logan Huntzberger.

Of course I am thinking about how much I hate him. That should be obvious. This morning, over breakfast, Paris grilled me about him walking me back to the room. I insisted to Paris that I had insisted to Logan that he stay away from me. She didn't buy it.

I am grumpy. All through the Professor Goetlieb's lecture, I was plotting all the ways I could get back at Huntzberger for humiliating me. He makes me feel like a stupid, clumsy little girl, and I hate that feeling.

After my English lecture, I walk to the Daily News, where Paris is terrorizing some of the new reporters.

"Hello, Paris," I say loudly, and as soon as she turns her head, the little freshmen scatter away, frightened.

"Gilmore," Paris says, nodding. She is still a little tense about our row this morning. "I'm trying to figure out who I'm going to give the assignment to…" she says, peering around at the reporters.

"What assignment?" I ask, following her gaze.

"The article on the new library chamber," she says. "It's by far the suckiest topic, and I want to give it to the suckiest reporter so I have a reason to give 'em the boot," she prowls around like a predator.

"Right," I say, nodding as if I understand her. "Anyway, I've finished my article and sent it to you already. Anything you need me to do?" I said, following her as she circled the room like a hawk.

"…Nope," she says tersely, a little agitated at my interruption of her hunt.

"Are you still angry?" I ask, exasperated. She stops dead in her tracks and turns on her heel to face me.

"No. But I'm busy. Can't you see I'm busy? God, Gilmore, you think being editor is a walk in the park?" Paris snaps rudely. "If you're looking for someone to mess around with, go find Logan. I'm sure he'd fit the bill quite nicely." And with that, she turned and flounced away, before roaring at a couple of reporters taking a water break.

I stare after her, open-mouthed. The nerve of her! Suggesting that me and Huntzberger—

"Gilmore," Logan greets me from behind.

I give him a death glare.

He looks at me quizzically, but with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Did I hear my name mentioned just a second ago?" he asks, furrowing his eyebrow with mock concentration. "I could have sworn…" he stops when he sees me glaring at him with a look that could kill.

I roll my eyes, turn on my heel, and head to my desk, ignoring his attempt at mock confusion.

"Hey," he calls from behind me as I sort out some papers on my desk. Sitting down in my comfy office chair, I ignore him again.

He comes and rests his arms on my file cabinet. "I just wanted to let you know that I was impressed with your article."

I look up skeptically.

"People loved reading about your views on feminism, your invectives thrown at Ernest Belfort Bax for his underlying claims that all women are bluffers and act under false pretenses. And who can forget your immortalization of Mary Wollstonecraft?" he says, looking quite serious. There was a mixed admiration in his voice.

I nod curtly. "Thank you," I said, refusing to look at him.

He didn't move.

"Did you need something else?" I ask, reaching for my laptop.

"I have a proposition."

"Sorry. I'm pretty busy right now," I manage with all the nonchalance I can muster. Even so, I feel my cheeks burn under his heavy gaze.

"It'll only take a moment," he assures me, a twinkle in his eye.

I am silent.

He seems satisfied at my compliance. Tilting his head to his side, he watches me as I boot up my laptop. "I was…wondering…" he trails off.

As I wait for my password window to pop up on my computer, I shift my eyes up towards him and meet his gaze. "Need a prompt?" I say, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

"That'd be great," his face cracks into a grin, and he leans towards me a little more. "Scratch that line. Let me start again." He sucks in his breath, moves his neck from side to side, and pumps his shoulders as if he's about to give a presentation. "I was hoping…that you would accompany me to dinner tonight," he says very politely, replacing his usually mischievous grin with an expression of complete courtesy. "How'd I do that time?" he asks, his eyes sparkling with boyish mischief.

I type in my password, waiting for my desktop to load while I say, "Is that my cue?" I try to stop my mouth from curving into a smile.

"Yes," he says, moving in towards me. "And I believe your line is— "

"No," I say. "Absolutely not. Thank you for the invitation, but I'm afraid I must decline this time," I say, brushing my hair from my face again nervously. "Now, if you could excuse me, I'm quite busy."

I back my spinny-wheely office chair from my desk and rise to retrieve something from the printer.

Reaching out suddenly, Logan's hand grabs my wrist gently, yet firmly.

"Just dinner," he says seriously, looking into my eyes.

I never noticed how brilliant Logan's eyes were. They are the kind of eyes that I could drown in: pools of rich, golden brown, the color of—well, coffee. Strangely, even analogies linking to coffee cannot do his eyes justice.

I feel my resolve weakening. With exactly the kind of charm that could snap my common sense like a twig, Logan smiles encouragingly, warmly, and I feel the heat rise in my face with wild intensity.

"I…I…" I stammer. I didn't know what to say, and I felt so foolish.

He didn't release his hold on my wrist, and I find myself hoping that our little charade didn't attract too much attention.

"I can take you out right after you're done with your work here," he says soothingly. "I know this really great Thai place, and I think you'd love it."

"I…I don't know," I say. Hitting me again, his smile is just as vibrant as the first.

Suddenly, I look away from his eyes, catching Paris' hateful glare from across the room. Burning with such ferocity, my eyes widened. She had caught me under the influence…of Logan Huntzberger.

"Um…" I squeak in a voice much higher than I had intended. "Maybe another time. Hope that's all right."

I shake Logan's hand off of my wrist and scurry away to the printer. Sorting through the pages, I find my printed article and turn to head to my desk.

I find myself head to head with Paris Geller.

Note to self: never get Paris Geller angry if you want to get away with your life and/or dignity.

"What was that?" she snarls, looking like a mix breed between a cobra and an elephant. Her teeth are bared like a reptile waiting to strike, but her ears are abnormally large and quite distracting, especially when I'm supposed to look contrite.

"…What? What was what?" I say a little too quickly.

"Don't you act all innocent to me!" she says so fiercely that I can feel her spit flying.

"Eew," I whisper, wiping my forehead. "You just spat on me!"

"You're damn right I did!" Paris roared, making our little show the most watched in the newsroom. "Keep in mind that's literally and figuratively!" she growled, jabbing a finger at me. "Oh yea, I went there!"

"What…what?"

She leans in towards me to shield the contents of our conversation. "You little liar. No, there's nothing between me and Huntzberger, nothing at all! You almost had me fooled, didn't you? Thought you could get away with it, didn't you? Well, you're wrong! You're just so wrong!"

I clasp my hands nervously, glancing around to see that Logan was out of earshot. "Private and professional business separate, Paris," I whisper. "And out of my own defense, I was not lying, I just said—"

"I'm the editor of this whole shebang, FYI, Gilmore. And so, as editor, I can keep my private and professional lives tight! In fact, if I wanted to, I could get them shaken and stirred! Just watch me make a margarita out of this one!" she shouted insanely.

"Paris, I really think you need to calm down."

"Article, discuss the new library chamber. In my hand, 8 a.m. tomorrow," Paris says. She walks away before I can get a word in edgewise.

I want to throw something at her retreating head. But something tells me that's not the way to go.

I expect to stay in the newsroom…oh, until the wee hours of morning.

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At fifteen before one in the morning, I finished my masterpiece. There's not much I can do to a topic so bad, but I feel that I've done my best.

The last person to leave before me was Davis Baron. He left at 8: 15.

I turn off my computer after printing my article and delivering it to Chief Paris' desk. I pack up my bags and pens and highlighters and books, and grab my coat. Five empty coffee cups and two espresso mugs litter my desk. There is no way I'll be able to fall asleep tonight. I take one of the espresso mugs, half empty, and bundle up, ready to face the harshness of nature.

It's really cold. Winter is steadily approaching, yet I feel that Christmas can't come soon enough. I lock up the newsroom, brace myself, and throw myself out into the harsh December cold. The biting wind nips at my fingers and my face, so icy that it feels instead like a raging fire.

Suddenly there's a tap on my shoulder. I let out a scream, dropping my espresso mug, spilling the warm liquid all over the cobblestone ground.

"Shh!" I hear a familiar voice.

"Logan?" I ask incredulously. "What're you doing here? It's almost one!" I reach down to pick up the fallen espresso mug and toss it into the trash can gingerly.

"I was hoping you'd change your mind about dinner," he says, looking hopeful.

"I don't think so. It's so late," I say, shaking my head in disapproval. I can scarcely believe that he had waited.

"You can't tell me that I waited around for hours…just to be refused," he says, looking like a sad, forlorn little boy.

Pausing, I think carefully. "Oh, fine. But only for a little while," I warn.

Grinning, he says, "Right. No worries, though, we'll only go across campus. Too late for Thai, so there's always breakfast," he says.

"Breakfast for dinner. Sounds plausible, I suppose," I say, feeling a little optimistic. "Let's go, then," I start walking ahead.

"Whoa, where are you going?" he asks, grabbing my hand. "I have a car you know. I'm not about to let you walk around in freezing weather," he says, smiling.

"Oh, right. I'm sure your Porsche will transport us there in a snap," I say, rolling my eyes.

"You got that right," he says, grinning. He leads me to the student parking lot. "Except I have a Lamborghini."

"Of course you do," I sigh. I don't want to admit how much my heartbeat is fluctuating.

"C'mon, then, Ace," he calls to me. He runs out into the crazy, windy weather and turns to face me. Waving his arms stupidly, he looks like a ridiculous spectacle at the zoo.

"What did you say?" I say, following him at my own pace.

"Let's go, Ace," he repeats, laughing.

"I'm not really a gambler," I say, crossing my arms with disapproval.

He laughs his musical, songlike laugh. "Not that Ace. Ace as in 'Ace Reporter'." Giving me a bright smile, he ruffles my hair playfully.

I shake his hand off of my head.

"Ace Reporter," he repeats. "That's you."

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