“Morning.”
“Morning,” Luke echoed. But the word felt brisk, clipped. He didn’t even step inside, yet he was already pulling his notebook from his coat pocket. “Mind if we go over a few things before we start?”
Right. Work mode.
It all felt so . . . abrupt. What had changed since yesterday?
“Sure.” Amayah forced brightness into her voice. Maybe some distance between them was a good thing. “But can we talk while we drive? I need to film some content this morning.”
“That’s fine.” He flipped to a fresh page and frowned. “Actually . . . this first part is about finances. I hate to ask, but it’s kind of necessary.”
Her stomach tightened.Of course, he wants to talk about finances.
“Would you rather do that here since it’s personal and all?” Luke waited for her answer.
“I’m not sure.” She narrowed her eyes. “What kind of questions are you going to ask?”
“Just what you’d probably expect.”
“Okay then. Shoot.” She closed the front door, not wanting to get comfortable inside. If so, they might take entirely too much time.
He stiffened as he looked at his notebook, his recorder in hand. “I’m just curious: With your platform blowing up—new followers, sponsorship offers, maybe even TV deals—how has the sudden income changed things for you? Has it shifted how you see yourself? Your goals? Your lifestyle?”
She kept her expression neutral, even as her chest knotted.
She hated talking about money—how much she made, how much she gave away, how much she refused to spend. Really, it was no one’s business. But everyone seemed curious, and some even acted like it was their right to know what her paycheck was.
She knew one thing: She never in a million years thought she’d be making the amount she did. It truly perplexed her at times.
But she promised herself that in the same way God had blessed her, she would also bless others.
“On second thought, let’s talk on the way,” she said simply. “It’s too cold out here.”
Luke nodded, something flickering in his gaze. “It is chilly.”
“I’m driving.”
“Have it your way.”
Luke waited for Amayah’s response to his question, not ready to let it drop.
After his realization last night—and his talk with Harry—he’d decided to operate in professional mode. He needed to be objective.
Instead, he’d allowed himself to get too close.
So today, he’d told himself he would get to the truth—and then go from there.
Amayah had gotten in her car—a modest but well-kept Toyota crossover. She’d cranked the engine. Warmed it up.
Then she’d taken off without offering any kind of answer.
“So, about that question . . .” he prodded.
She gripped the steering wheel tighter, clearly not comfortable with this line of inquiry.
Honestly, he wasn’t comfortable asking these questions either. But as a journalist, he had no other choice. This was his job.
Finances were a part of Amayah’s story, whether she wanted to admit it or not.
