“What are you?—”
“You know,” he said, voice dropping lower, “if you really want to thank me, I can think of several ways you could show your appreciation.”
“Oh really?” I arched a brow, all innocence.
“Really.” His hand slid up my thigh. “We could start with you taking off that shirt. My shirt, technically, which you stole again.”
“I didn’t steal it. You left it on my side of the bed.”
“Your side of the bed.” He looked extremely pleased about that phrase. “I like the sound of that.”
“Focus. You were saying?—.”
“Oh. Yes. I was thinking you could thank me thoroughly. Maybe with significantly fewer clothes than you’re currently wearing.”
I swatted his shoulder, laughing despite myself. “Your thoughts are never clean, are they?”
“With you, no.”
He caught my face and kissed me—quick but thorough, stealing my breath. When he released me, he was grinning. “There. That’s my payment for practically groveling to Simon Tucker.”
“You did not grovel.”
“I absolutely groveled. Do you know how hard it is to convince Simon to do anything he doesn’t want to do? The man is infuriatingly stubborn.”
I stared at him, my eyes misting. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“Go prepare your questions.” He ran his fingers through my hair gently. “And eat breakfast. You’re going to need your energy for eviscerating Simon with your brilliant journalism.”
“I’m not going to eviscerate him.”
“You absolutely are. That’s what you do. You ask nice questions that sound harmless and then three questions later people realize they’ve told you their entire life story.” He turned me around and gave me a gentle push toward the door. “It’s your superpower.”
I walked back to the home library—my books, my chaos—and sat down at my desk with my heart hammering with an excitement I hadn’t felt in a long time.
This was it. This was the story that could change everything.
I pulled up a blank document and started typing questions, and for the first time in months, I felt like myself again.
The interview was scheduled for the following week. Tucker’s office, not his home. Hannah Pierce—now Hannah Tucker—would be there. No recording devices, just notes. One hour maximum.
I showed up fifteen minutes early, nerves fizzing under my skin. This was huge. The kind of story that could launch me from “junior reporter” to “journalist people actually knew.”
No pressure.
A receptionist led me to a conference room—glass walls, a table that could seat twelve but was set for four.
Simon Tucker walked in exactly on time. Tall. Dark-haired. The kind of presence that made people notice when he entered rooms. Beside him was Hannah—blonde, elegant, with sharp eyes that assessed me in about three seconds.
“Ms. Wells.” Simon shook my hand. Firm grip. “Thank you for being flexible with the terms.”
“Thank you for agreeing to this at all.” I sat across from them, pulled out my notebook. “I know you don’t usually do interviews.”
“I don’t.” He settled into his chair, one hand finding Hannah’s on the table. “But Jack spoke highly of you. Said you were someone who could be trusted to tell a story honestly.”
“I’ll do my best to live up to that,” I said.
Hannah smiled slightly. “We’ll hold you to it.”
