A bell chimed somewhere deeper in the lobby. Someone wheeled a suitcase past us. The moment stretched.
“Breakfast?” he asked abruptly.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Breakfast,” he repeated. “You look like you haven’t eaten in twelve hours.”
“I was at a gala,” I said.
“At a gala where you were working,” he countered. “Which means you were probably too busy watching the room to actually eat anything.”
My stomach, traitorous asshole that it was, chose that moment to growl.
His mouth curved. “See?”
I wanted to die.
“That is not an argument,” I said. “That’s biology.”
“You can interrogate me over eggs,” he said. “Or you can keep glaring at me on an empty stomach and pass out in the middle of your big investigative breakthrough. Your call.”
The worst part was, he wasn’t wrong. My head ached. My limbs felt like they belonged to a marionette operated by someone with shaky hands. The adrenaline of seeing him was the only thing keeping me upright.
But sitting across from him? Letting him have my attention for forty-five uninterrupted minutes?
I’d rather embed with a unit that thought “cover” was an optional suggestion.
“I don’t do interviews with sources who don’t disclose their conflicts of interest,” I said.
He huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “That’s not a no.”
I stared at him. Big mistake. Up close, the changes were more obvious. A new scar near his hairline. Deeper shadows under his eyes. The same solid, unshakable way he took up space.
I remembered the weight of him. The sound he made against my throat. The feel of his fingers digging into my hips as if he was afraid I would disappear.
Then I remembered the anger. What he did.
“I’m not here for you,” I said finally. “I’m here for a story. For the truth. Whatever the hell you’re doing in Charleston? Stay out of my way.”
His gaze sharpened. “What story?”
“Nice try.”
“You know I’m not a journalist,” he said. “I don’t have to pretend I don’t ask questions.”
“No,” I said. “You just pretend you don’t owe anyone answers.”
We stared at each other, the air between us tightening again, coil on coil.
He sighed once, slow. “Ten minutes,” he said. “Have coffee with me. You can walk away after that and never talk to me again if that’s what you want. Maybe I can help you with your story.”
Infuriatingly, he was right.
Two minutes ago, I would’ve sworn I’d rather chew glass than sit at a table with him. Now my reporter brain was kicking in, shoving everything else aside.
Information.
Opportunity.
