“Alright,” she admits quietly. “This is something.”
“Wait until you see it at night.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “Is that an offer?”
“Just an observation.”
Fuck yeah, it’s an offer.
The flight to Brooklyn takes eight minutes. I spend most of it watching her watch the city, taking in more detail than I should: the way she bites her bottom lip when she’s processing something, the way it drops open when she’s in awe. The small scar near her left eyebrow. The grace of her movements, like she was a dancer in a past life.
Knock it off. She’s a journalist. She’s the last person you need to get complicated with.
And yet, part of me is welcoming the complication with open arms.
Sal’s is a hole-in-the-wall diner in Carroll Gardens, unchanged since before the Dark Decade: red vinyl booths, checkerboard floor, a jukebox in the corner that still plays actual records, even though they’re scratched to shit. My security team cleared it an hour ago, making sure regular customers were compensated and relocated, staff briefed on discretion. Danny takes up position by the door, close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to give us privacy. At least I don’t have to worry about eavesdropping with him.
“This is cool,” Mia says as she slides into the booth across from me. Her eyes are already moving, taking in exits and sightlines. Journalist habit, maybe. Or something else. “Cozy little spot.”
“Best milkshakes in the city,” I say. “Trust me.”
“You keep saying that like repetition makes it true.”
“It is true.”
“And what if I’m lactose intolerant. What then?”
I study her face, unable to see if she’s joking or not. “Are you?”
She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a bottle of LactoEase, shaking it.
My eyes widen. “Why didn’t you tell me when I suggested it?”
“Because I like to live dangerously,” she says. “No, honestly, give me some water for the pill, and I’ll be fine. I’m not passing up the best milkshake in the world.”
“In the city.”
“We’ll see.”
I signal Katy—the same waitress who’s been here for thirty years, who doesn’t give a shit that I’m famous—and orderwaters, plus a chocolate milkshake and a strawberry one. They have more elaborate flavors, but simple is always best.
Through the windows, I can already see the crowd gathering. Phones out, faces pressed close. The price of being what I am.
“Does that bother you?” Mia asks, nodding toward them. “Living in a fishbowl?”
“Does it bother you that everything you write gets picked apart by strangers online?”
“Touché,” she says, taking off her jacket and bundling it up beside her. She’s wearing a fuzzy, off-the-shoulder sweater that shows off her golden skin and black bra straps. From the way she glances at me, I know I’m outright ogling her. “Still, I think my job might be a little easier.”
Katy places the water down, the perfection distraction, and Mia swallows back her pill before pulling out her recorder, setting it on the table between us. “So. No handlers, no conference room. What do you actually want to talk about?”
“Background,” I say. “Yours. I know your byline, your publication history. I did all the homework Julia tossed my way. But even though I approved you, I don’t know anything about you.”
“For good reason. This is supposed to be an interview aboutyou.”
“Interviews go both ways,” I bargain. “You give me something real, I’ll give you something real. Tit for tat.”
She considers this, fingers drumming lightly on the table. I can almost see her calculating risks, weighing options, though her face gives nothing away.
