Which took very little effort, but I wasn’t going to point that out to him. He was a good friend, and I appreciated that.
Mama stood on the threshold to the house. “That cute reporter guy is interviewing another cute guy, and I think you’ll want to see this.”
I blinked. “Huh?”
“That Indian dude she adores. Probably. That would be thecute reporter guy.”
We headed toward the house.
“No clue about the othercute guy. You know Mama—she’s always wanting to set you up with a nice respectable man.”
“Isn’t the reporter married?”
“And more than twice your age? Yes. So I’m thinking the other guy is the reason she’s hustling us.”
Since one didn’t keep Mama waiting, we hustled into the house and straight into the living room with the large-screen television. Much larger than Mama would’ve chosen—but perfect for Papa whose vision wasn’t so good these days. For watching cricket, football, and darts—lawn, though, not the kind at bars.
The Indian reporter, with his tan-colored skin and threads of silver at his temples stood and spoke to—
“Son of a bitch.”
“Malik.” Mama glared.
“What? That’s Spencer Wainright. He’s the figurehead of This Land is Ours. But he never does anything. Why are they interviewing him? They should be interviewing me.” I nearly stomped my foot.
Wanting to be invited back in the future kept that impulse in check.
“Why do you think chaining oneself to the railing of the Lion’s Gate Bridge is an ineffective tool of protest?” Gorgeous Indian silver fox asked the question.
“Our organization believes in grass-roots movements—and we did hold up traffic for a few minutes this morning to get our point across. But inconveniencing a few commuters for a few minutes is very different from causing traffic chaos for an extended period of time. That we don’t approve of.”
“So Malik Forestal isn’t part of your organization?”
“We have many members who join us. Who attend our rallies and demonstrations. We did not approve, nor do we condone, what Mr. Forestal did today. He was looking for social media likes and clicks. Our organization’s goals are much deeper than that. More…substantive.”
I saw red.
Chapter Three
Spencer
Blossom glared.
“What?” I met that glare with a confused look of my own. I couldn’t fathom why she was pissed with me. “I thought the interview went well.” The reporter had been fair, competent, and someone I’d dealt with before. Kind of cute. And married—happily, as far as I knew—with children and, apparently, a grandchild. He was yummy, in a silver fox kind of way, but I hadn’t been looking at him that way.
Much.
Nope.
I’d been obsessing over a certain too-handsome-for-his-own-good rock star who’d given me a migraine yesterday, even though we’d yet to meet in person.
Blossom crossed her arms across her abundant bosom. I didn’t normally notice these things—or tried not to—but she always wore clothes that emphasized her…ample cleavage. She also had long, flowing blonde hair that was always tousled inthatway and big, beguiling, blue eyes.
When she recruited volunteers, we had scores of guys, and quite a few gals, lining up to follow her as if she were the pied piper.
She sighed. “You should’ve consulted me.”
“Blossom, you handlesocialmedia. Don’t get me wrong, you do a fantastic job.”
