“My brother is Cary Grant Buchanan.My fraternal twin is Elizabeth Taylor Buchanan.Satisfied?Now, tell me why you needed to look me up.”
“Wait.”I huff out a disbelieving laugh.“I don’t know which to ask next.A twin?Your mom?—”
I hold her gaze, that pull between us tugging at the center of my chest.“You’re digging into my life.Only fair to know who’s holding the shovel.The thing I can’t figure out is why you’re doing a feature on me.It doesn’t fit with the other kinds of pieces you’ve published.”
She purses her lips, holding it a beat longer than feels natural, and it gives her away.She doesn’t like the question, or more likely, she’s not going to give me the real answer.
“I don’t make the decisions, only write what I’m told.”She shrugs, and I tilt my head back and chuckle.
Yeah.A non-answer.
Her shoulders drop, tension easing.“Well?”Her mouth tugs, and she’s losing the fight with her smile.“Did I pass?”
“More than pass.”My gaze drags back to her mouth before I can stop myself.“You’re good.”
And she is.Too damn good.
“Doesn’t feel like it.I’m stuck writing a profile on a racer best known for leaving.”
Best known for leaving.Yeah, that one hits in more ways than one.
I press a hand to my chest, the spot now pulsing, and force a grin I don’t quite feel.“Ouch.Hit me harder, why don’t you?”
Her face falls.“That came out?—”
“Exactly how you meant it.”My voice is lighter than the pinch in my ribs, but not by much.
She winces, annoyed with herself.“What I meant is I know this profile isn’t your preference either.This assignment isn’t… ideal.”
“No argument there.”I drop my hand, fingers tapping once against the table.“Neither of us is thrilled, but you’re not the type who half-asses anything.”
Her head snaps up, and for a moment, something raw moves between us.Recognition.Interest.Maybe a challenge.The kind that could tilt us toward each other or blow this whole interview sideways.
I nudge her phone with my knuckle.“Here’s another question for you.”
“You’re having a hard time understanding how this works.You’re not the one asking questions.”She pokes the center of her chest.“I am.”
“Fair.But humor me.”A smile tugs at my mouth.“Only one more, I promise.”
She quirks a brow, suspicious but curious.“What?”
“Why don’t you want to do this feature?”I ease back in my chair, acting like I don’t care.
Truth is, I’m bracing for a hit.She’s already landed a few.
“It isn’t the profile.”She tucks a loose strand behind her ear—small, practiced, pretty—and her features warm.“It’s like you said, I don’t usually write these kinds of things.I’m an investigative reporter.”
Her tone is polite, but the subtext lands: this is beneath her.And somehow, I’m the assignment she got stuck with.
“Sorry to be wasting your time.”I push off the back of the chair, posture tightening.No casual lean left in me.“I’m not big on media, so like you, I want this over with as fast as possible.”
“I didn’t mean it to sound that way.It isn’t you.Sports and sponsorships aren’t my usual beat.”
“Beat?”
A smile slips out of her—real and unguarded—and damn if it doesn’t hit low.Her eyes spark, intense enough to cut through the noise in my chest.
“Beat means the topic you cover.”She drops a hand to her lap.“Usually, I work on stories with corruption, cover-ups.”