He held her gaze. “I do.”
Oh.
Honking outside. “That’ll be our GrabTaxi. Ready?” He poured his coffee down the drain, took hers.
Nope. But . . .
She grabbed her bag and met him at the door. “Here goes nothing.”
“Here goes everything,” he said and closed the door behind her.
The flight to Bangkok took one hour. One hour of trying not to notice how he’d automatically booked himself into the middle seat. How he’d shared his cashews without being asked. How he’d pretended to read while keeping one eye on other passengers.
Professional. Protective.And ding, ding—off-limits!She didn’t want a guy who disappeared for weeks like North.
She wanted to do the disappearing, thank you.
But when Skeet had grabbed her bag to carry it off the plane, shoot, her stubborn heart just hadn’t listened.
Now, surrounded by the gleaming marble lobby of the Arnoma Grand hotel, press credentials hanging from a blue lanyard, she had bigger problems to worry about. She’d twisted her hair into a neat bun and thrown on her most serious-journalist outfit—navy blazer, crisp white blouse, black slacks. Professional, if not a little boring.
Skeet, however, looked like he’d stepped out ofInternational Correspondents Monthly. Dark jacket over an blue button downshirt that brought out his eyes, camera bag slung across his chest.
“Remember,” she murmured, joining the stream of conference attendees heading toward the main auditorium, “you’re my photographer. I’m the journalist with the questions. Try to look artistic and brooding.”
“I don’t brood.”
“Everyone broods. Photographer handbook.”
“There’s a handbook?”
“Page forty-seven. Right after ‘How to Look Mysterious While Adjusting Camera Settings.’”
He grunted. It might have been a laugh. It landed dangerously in her bones.
Around them, the lobby hummed with conversation. Medical professionals clutched coffee and conference programs, lanyards a rainbow of specializations. Pharmaceutical executives in expensive suits talked in low voices near registration. Younger researchers hurried past with laptop bags and frantic energy.
The auditorium doors opened and released a rush of air-conditioning and the low hum of several hundred conversations. Press credentials got them seats in the media section—close enough to see clearly, far enough back to avoid attention.
“There.” Skeet nodded toward the front row. “Third seat from the left.”
Dr. Radic looked older than his conference photo. Nervous. Light-blond hair needing a trim, sweat stains darkening his collar even in the air-conditioning. He kept checking his phone, glancing around, adjusting his glasses with shaking hands.
“He looks like he’s about to bolt.”
“Or throw up.”
“Or both?”
Lights dimmed. An Asian woman in a crisp red suit took the podium. “Good morning, and welcome to our session on GlobalHealth Innovations. Our first presenter is Dr. Marko Radic from the Institute for Refugee Medical Care in Prague. Dr. Radic will be discussing enhanced nutritional interventions for displaced populations.”
Applause rippled through the auditorium as Dr. Radic made his way to the stage. He fumbled with the microphone, cleared his throat.
“Thank you. I, um...” Thick Eastern European accent. “I want to talk today about hope. About how simple nutritional supplements can transform health outcomes for some of the world’s most vulnerable people.”
Chloe leaned forward. On the surface—humanitarian work that made medical conferences worthwhile. But knowing about the children dying in remote villages, every word seemed like a lie.
Skeet looked over at her, raised an eyebrow.