Kat Cassidy

@katcassidyauthor.bsky.social

870 Followers 561 Following

Author of queer romance, lover of love and HEAs.

Merman swimming in moonlight with a trident
“You need something? Because last I checked, that tree-lighting piece still isn’t on my desk.” “Just landed in your inbox, actually.” Jackson props a shoulder against the doorframe. “Six hundred words on the majesty of a thirty-foot Eastern White Pine shipped across state from Egremont, plus a sentimental ode to your charming little local tradition of standing around freezing your asses off while it’s lit. It's the one I’ll be remembered for.” “People around here care about that sort of thing, Jackson. And like it or not, they read what you write.” Jackson snorts. “They read it because it’s the only paper in town, Mort. Captive audience.” “Uh-huh.” Mort pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know, when I hired you, you sat right there in that chair and told me you were looking to slow down. Smaller pond, smaller fish; your words. This is what that looks like. And now you’re standing here sulking—” “Not sulking.” “Whining? Pouting? Grousing?” Mort ticks off each adjective on his fingers. “Acting like a petulant little asshole? Hang on a second, I’ll dust off my thesaurus… Whinging? Whinging is a good one. ”
Trope reveal: Opposites Attract, Holiday Rom Com, Anxiety Rep, Hurt/Comfort, Small Town, oh no, he's hot and good at his job. Crisis? Cool, let me just emotionally disintegrate real quick, family pressure, work Christmas party, casual stalking/journalistic fact finding.
Digital art of a handsome ginger man in a witch hat on a background of stars.
“How do you know all that?” Jackson takes an unbothered sip of coffee. “I’m a reporter. Finding things out is my entire job.” “That’s… slightly terrifying.” “You want terrifying?” Jackson says, brightening. “McKenna’s been divorced three times. His credit score starts with a four. He has a secret Pinterest board of reclaimed barnwood projects he’s never going to build.” Ben groans. “Please stop. I absolutely hate this.” “It’s a disease. I’m sorry. Totally incurable.” “Do you do this level of invasive research on everyone?” Jackson pauses just long enough to be suspicious. “You won an award at your sixth-grade school science fair for a project called ‘Greywater Recycling: How Much Can One Household Save?’” Ben makes a strangled sound, somewhere between abject horror and laughter. “I found the photo,” Jackson continues. “You did not.” “Ben,” Jackson says solemnly. “There was a tri-fold poster board with glitter glue. You wore a child-sized blazer. ” Ben drops his head into his hands. “I’m hanging up.”
He pulls up the MarineSelect contract Ben sent him and scrolls through it again, slower this time. Reading like a lawyer. Looking for the fine print. There: The company accepts full liability for waste disposal practices, as well as responsibility for any legal penalties or charges resulting from disposal by MarineSelect or its subsidiaries. The blame for this doesn’t rise. It rolls downhill. Straight to Whitaker Seafood. To Ben. The perfect fall guy. Just enough power to be blamed. Not enough to fight back. The owner’s son. Young, rich, in over his head. Exactly the kind of patsy people love to hate. And Ben has no idea. The public won’t care that he’s been trying. They won’t ask if he knew. They’ll assume he did, and if he didn’t, they’ll say he should’ve. Negligent at best. Complicit at worst. He won’t stand a chance against the media narrative. Jackson knows because he’s written that narrative before. Pushed it out under deadline. Told himself it was fair. Just another story.
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