Spotlight & Giveaway: I Did Something Bad by Pyae Moe Thet War

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Pyae Moe Thet War’s new release: I Did Something Bad

In this smart and swoony adventure rom-com, a journalist and a movie star find themselves teaming up to cover up a murder…and falling for each other in the process.

 
When freelance journalist Khin Haymar is assigned by Vogue to get a scoop on Tyler Tun, Hollywood’s hottest movie, she’s determined to succeed. Tyler has returned home to Myanmar to shoot his latest film, and if Khin’s able to get an exclusive, there may well be a permanent position waiting for her at Vogue Singapore.

Tyler has a very private life and doesn’t show any sign of letting down his walls for Khin. But then one night on set, a man follows Khin into the park. When he threatens her, Tyler steps in and things escalate fast. Khin knows they can’t go to the police, even if this was self defense, and even if this stranger seems to have targeted her specifically.

As Khin and Tyler work together to hide their secret and find out more about her attacker, they grow closer and Tyler finally starts opening up. But now the idea of writing the article gives Khin an uncomfortable morality-related guilt. Before long, everything hangs in the balance. Will they get away with murder? Can Khin get the exposé she needs for her dream job? And is she willing to risk Tyler’s trust in the process?

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from I Did Something Bad 

From I Did Something Bad by Pyae Moe Thet War. Copyright © 2024 by the author, and reprinted with permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

One

“What?”

I’m glad I haven’t taken the sip of wine I was going for, because I would’ve definitely just spat it across the table cinematic-style. And spitting red wine on the editor in chief of Vogue Singapore who is conveniently wearing an all-white Gucci pantsuit is very low on the list of things I want to do today (or, you know, ever).

Clarissa Song’s berry-red lips part once more as she repeats, “I want you to do the Tyler Tun cover story,” with as much casualness as though she’s just informed me of the way she had her eggs for breakfast this morning.

“The—” With slightly trembling hands, I do take a sip, but only because otherwise my dry mouth isn’t going to form any words. Formulating a coherent response as I swallow, I place my glass back down beside my untouched Caesar salad and try to hide the fact that I can feel my heartbeat inside my ears. “You want me. For the. Tyler Tun. Cover story.”

Clarissa nods, holding up her fork as she chews on her forkful of salad. At least one of us is able to eat right now. “Yes.” She nods again and swallows. “We have an exclusive. He’ll do the usual publicity tour closer to the movie release date, but while he’s shooting on location here in Yangon, we’re the only outlet who has access. Obviously, all the Asia offices fought over it, but you know me—” She puts another forkful of greens into her mouth, letting her wink finish the sentence. Because I do know her—everyone in the Asian media network knows her—and I know how the sentence ends: I always get what I want.

Which prompts me to ask the obvious with as much tactfulness as I can summon: “And you want … me? To … write it?”

“Well, obviously it’ll be more than just writing.” She laughs. “He’s in town for almost two months—”

“I thought shooting was only a month?” I had just read an article on this very topic a couple of days ago.

“Yes, but he’s arriving a week earlier and staying behind for two weeks after filming’s wrapped up. Wants to spend time with his mother’s side of the family here. And he’s all yours for the approximate two months.”

I frown, wondering if it doesn’t seem a tiny bit invasive to be shadowing someone whom Rolling Stone recently called “the busiest human being in the world” when he’s specifically carved out personal time to spend with his family. But then again, I’m sure he would’ve said no if he weren’t on board. It is Tyler Tun, after all.

Clarissa is still talking. “You’ll have a company card. Charge whatever you’d like. Taxis. Food. Clothes if you feel like you need a new wardrobe. Flights if you need to follow him around the country. Trail him. You’ll get him from nine A.M. ’til five P.M. or whenever he leaves set. Whichever is later. Except for Sundays. Nothing on Sundays.”

“I—”

I am swiftly reminded that you don’t cut off Clarissa Song. She continues like she didn’t notice a thing. “It’s a weird setup, I’ll admit, but it’s all in the contract. What I want you to focus on is him. I’m sure I don’t need to explicitly clarify what a big deal this is. Learn his favorite breakfast. If he has a running playlist. If he does, who’s his most-played artist? He has a private plane, but when he flies commercial, does he like the aisle or window seat? Is he a cat person? Dog person? Hamster person? Anything. Everything. Two months may seem like a lot, but you won’t get any chances for follow-up questions. Learn”—she leans forward to emphasize—“everything. By the time this profile comes out, I want you to know Tyler Tun better than his own parents. I want you to know if America’s favorite golden boy flosses every night, and if he does, I want you to know his favorite brand of floss.”

I nod, and, because at this point Clarissa’s finished half her salad—while I think I’ve had a cherry tomato?—I take a small bite off of my plate. I’m equal parts intrigued and terrified. I wonder if asking this next question will essentially be me shooting myself in the foot, but in the end, my curiosity wins out. “And … why me?”

Clarissa sits back, a small smirk curling one side of her lips. It’s not a mean smirk, but more an I thought you might ask that smirk. “Because,” she says, one perfectly microbladed eyebrow rising, her answer prepped and ready to go. “We needed the best of the best of the best. Not just the best, or the best of the best. The best. Of the best. Of the best.”

But I’ve never done a celebrity profile before.

When Clarissa’s eyes narrow and she says, “And yes, I know you’ve never done a celebrity profile before,” I move slightly back. Did I say that out loud? No, I didn’t. Did I? No. I didn’t. “But every time we’ve worked together, you’ve arguably been the most professional journalist I’ve collaborated with, and I need someone who will be professional about this and not lose their mind over the fact that it’s Tyler Tun,” she says, and fear and flattery collide head-on inside my stomach. Because I’m not necessarily “losing my mind” over the fact that I’m being handed a Tyler Tun profile, but I’m only human, which means that I’m also not not.

I inhale. Professional. I am professional, and composed, and definitely listening to what Clarissa’s still saying.

“Additionally, here’s the thing about journalism, Khin. I used to work with Neil Gaiman, back when he was a journalist, and to paraphrase something he always said, in order to be a good journalist, you only have to fulfill two of three criteria: your writing is good, you file on time, you’re fun to work with. If your work is good and you file on time, people won’t mind if you’re an utter asshole.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the elderly couple at the next table shoot Clarissa a dirty look, but either Clarissa doesn’t notice or she doesn’t care (probably the latter). She continues, raising a second finger. “If your work is good and you’re generally pleasant to work with, people will forgive you for missing deadlines. If you’re pleasant to work with and you always meet your deadlines, people won’t care if you’re not the best writer in the game.”

“I see. And which category do I fall into?”

“That’s the thing. I had my assistant track down every editor you’ve ever worked with, and I personally rang each and every one of them.”

“You did?” I don’t know why I ask such an inane question, because of course she did.

“My reputation is on the line, Khin. I had staff writers and editors begging me to take them off of their previously assigned celebrity profiles so they could have this one. I said no, of course. But I also wasn’t going to hand over this assignment to just anyone.”

“And what did my editors say? Which category did I fall into?” I repeat. I mimic her smirk because I know that if there’s one thing that impresses Clarissa Song, it’s bold, unapologetic confidence. “Do I want to know?”

“You checked all three,” she says, tilting her chin upward.

I’m taken aback by her answer but am also conscious not to let my surprise show. Instead, I return a smile that conveys something along the lines of That’s not surprising to hear, but thank you very much for the compliment.

Clarissa pauses before she speaks again, her eyes scrutinizing my reaction. Most people would try to be subtle about it, but not Clarissa. Then again, I suppose if I’m going to be profiling one of the most famous actors in the world, she has to make sure I’m good under pressure. When she’s seemingly satisfied with whatever it is she was testing me for (or with), she says, “I needed a journalist who checked all three. If even one editor had had one complaint, your name would’ve been crossed off the list. But you’re always polite, always file ahead of time, and you have an astounding way with words.”

There’s something so finite and assertive in her tone that it zaps me out of my daze, like she’s reached across the table and slapped me.

I have this job. Clarissa Song wouldn’t have wasted her time traveling here if she didn’t have something major (and official) to say. This isn’t an interview, or her asking me to file a writing sample. I’ve got this job already. And I need to start acting like it. “Was it a long list?” I ask.

Judging by the grin that overtakes her face, my recovered boldness is what she was waiting for. “I’m not concerned with the rest of the list. I tossed it in the trash weeks ago.” A beat. “You are taking this assignment.” She doesn’t pretend to phrase it as a question. I don’t think it ever occurred to her that I might say no.

“When do I start?”

“He lands in two weeks. Private flight. Everyone’s going to think he’s flying in from Singapore that evening.”

“But he’s not.”

Clarissa takes her time chewing another mouthful of salad, savoring the Caesar dressing, which I must concede is—as she noted when she ordered it on my behalf—decadent and the right balance of creamy and sweet. “No.” She blots her lips with the napkin on her lap. “He’ll be landing a full twelve hours earlier.”

“Do you want me to email you my rates?”

A chuckle ripples out of her throat. “Your pay is already written in the contract, which has been sitting in your inbox since the moment you walked into this restaurant. But trust me, you won’t need to negotiate,” she says, and thrusts her hand into the space above our plate of shared potato wedges between us. “Are you in?”

Excerpt. ©Pyae Moe Thet War. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 
 

Giveaway: St. Martin’s Publishing Group will be giving away three finished copies of I DID SOMETHING BAD by Pyae Moe Thet War ; open to US/Canada residents only.

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Meet the Author:

PYAE MOE THET WAR is the author of the essay collection You’ve Changed. Born and raised in Yangon, Myanmar, she holds a BA from Bard College at Simon’s Rock, and MA’s from University College London and the University of East Anglia. She currently shares a home (and her food) with her dogs, Gus and Missy. I Did Something Bad is her debut novel.

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