by Julia Blake
OVER THE years, Nick had been yelled at, swung at, and even threatened with a libel lawsuit that never amounted to anything. Sometimes he deserved it. Sometimes he didn’t. But never before had an agent fixed him with an unimpressed stare and called him out.
Something primal deep inside of him woke up. His tongue darted out to lick his lips at the thought of this woman with her long, sheer stocking–clad legs bossing him around. He wanted to prove to her that he could keep up. That he could beat her at her own game.
“Mom is more than happy to speak to her favorite sports show about her son,” he said, slowly measuring his words. “She’s practically bursting with pride. Mrs. Loder thinks Kevin should be an example of what kids from the South Bronx can do. A positive story for the neighborhood.”
“When did you speak to her?” she asked, her low, husky voice winding itself around him. It was a voice that would sound amazing whispering in his ear, murmuring the things she wanted to do to him.
One thought of those pink lips against his neck and—
Focus. You have to get this interview. No is not an option.
“I caught up with Mrs. Loder at a JFK High School indoor track meet last week,” he said. “Kevin’s cousin was running.”
A perfectly shaped, bloodred nail tapped against the edge of Rachel’s glass. She was furious. Tough. It was his job to piss off public relations reps, agents, and coaches—hell, he’d even annoy a player or two if it got him the story he needed.
“You’re telling me that an NYSN reporter who covers national events just happened to be at a high school girls’ track meet in the middle of the ramp-up to both the NBA and the NHL playoffs? With March Madness going on and spring training in full swing?” she asked.
“Yup,” he said, even though they both knew it was a bald-faced lie.
With the draft at the end of April, the window on this story was swiftly closing. Once picked, Kevin’s day-to-day media availability would become the responsibility of a team’s PR department, and the team reps would lock him down. Nick needed more than just post-practice interviews. He needed time with Kevin.
He should’ve laid the groundwork for this earlier. What she’d said on the phone about not calling her even though he’d been working in the tristate for years? Totally right. When he’d first arrived in New York, he’d convinced himself that he didn’t need her. He’d wanted to scoop everyone at work and at other national networks without having to call in a favor from a high school friend—high school acquaintance, he mentally corrected himself.
Throughout the years, he’d spotted her at press conferences as he sat in the scrum of reporters. She’d hang back slightly behind her client, keeping the athletes who sometimes had less sense than rocks from saying anything they shouldn’t. Most agents faded into the background, but with her brilliant hair and her slim, tailored dresses, Rachel always stood out. She was a woman among a sea of men, and something about that—her sheer power and competence—made him want her in the worst way.
Of course, there was no way he was going to let that distract him from what was really important here. He needed a story. A blow your socks off, crash Twitter, talk about it for the next three days kind of story.
“I can’t believe you spoke to Kevin’s mother without my permission.” The way she said it told him that she was more disappointed with Mrs. Loder than with him.
“What can I say? I’m persuasive.”
One plucked eyebrow arched, questioning the accuracy of that statement. “What exactly did she say to you?”
He had to play this right or risk being completely shut down. Slowly he said, “She thinks it’s important for young men to know that—”
“Did she say yes?”
Caught on a technicality, he toyed with his highball glass. “Not exactly, but—”
“Did the words, ‘Yes, I will interview with you, and I will convince my son to do the same thing,’ come out of her mouth?”
He let out a breath. She’d called his bluff, and this pesky thing called ethics meant he had to tell the truth even if it torpedoed his plan. “No.”
A tiny hint of a smile tugged at her glossed lips. “I see.”
“Have you watched any of my stories?” he pressed, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice as he felt his opportunity to sway her slip through his fingers.
He thought he saw something flicker across her features, but the agent facade was back in place faster than he could blink.
“Of course. It’s my job,” she said.
She threw out “it’s my job” like it was a shield, but the thought of her curled up on the couch watching him late at night made his throat thicken. He could imagine her padding around her apartment in those stretchy yoga pants women seemed to like, an oversize T-shirt slipping off of one shoulder. It’d be so easy to slide his hands up her hips, feeling soft skin beneath his touch.
He’d known that she’d grown up to be beautiful before she walked in the door, but now just the thought of her dressed down for bed was enough to send his mind into overdrive. And the fact that she seemed to keep a very close eye on his career didn’t do his ego any harm either.
“If you’ve watched me, then you know I’m the best,” he said, employing the same “fake it till you make it” bravado that had helped him navigate his career. “That’s why you should trust me with Kevin.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can see your modesty is intact even after fifteen years.”
Good. They were back on more even ground now. He could ramp up the charm, flirt a bit, and maybe then she’d loosen up. They’d had a pretty good thing going there for a few minutes.
“Kevin’s going to have to talk at some point. Let me tell his story,” he said.
She opened her mouth but paused, and, for a moment, he thought he had her. But then her full lips puckered to form one syllable. “No. The answer is no. Just like it has been with everyone else.”
“But if Mrs. Loder wants to do the story—”
“Ask her as often as you like. The family knows going off plan could compromise his draft status, and Catherine would never do that.”
Something about the word compromise pricked at his instincts. “Why would an interview put where Kevin’s picked in jeopardy?”
Rachel waved the hand holding her nearly empty glass. “It’s a figure of speech.”
He leaned in. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Rachel mirrored his move until the gap between them was uncomfortably small. For a crazy second, he let himself imagine what it would be like to thread his fingers through that long, wavy hair and pull her to him. He could kiss her full and hard on that pale pink mouth that refused to say yes.
“Nick,” she said, “I hate to tell you, but they pay me to lie to reporters. And the answer is still no.”
Their gazes locked. Blood hammered in his ears. “I don’t give up easily,” he said, pitching his voice a little lower than he meant to.
“Neither do I.”
Rachel knocked back the last of her scotch and nodded to the waitress who glided over, a black billfold in her hand. Instead of setting the check down next to him as he’d expected, the waitress handed it to Rachel.
“I’ll take that,” he said, reaching for the bill.
The waitress let her eyes run over to him, a slow smile spreading over her face. He knew exactly what that look meant, even if he hadn’t invited it.
“Of course, sir. My mistake,” said the waitress.
Rachel stuck her hand out for the bill but kept her gaze on him. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”
The waitress gave him an apologetic shrug, handed Rachel the bill, and swept away their empty glasses.
Nick frowned. “You know the rule. The reporter always picks up the tab when taking a source out for drinks.”
Rachel flipped the billfold o
pen, revealing a platinum credit card, a printed slip, and a pen. “I’m not your source.”
“But I didn’t even see you—”
“I asked the hostess to take my card before I sat down.” She signed the slip and closed the billfold with a snap. “It was cute getting here before me to make me uncomfortable, but don’t try to outgame the master.”
It should have pissed him off that she’d bested him, but he liked her confident and sassy, more than willing to put him in his place.
“I can’t believe you check-ninja’d me,” he murmured.
“Should’ve drunk your rye.”
Rachel slid her phone into her purse, and he realized that this was it. She’d walk away from the table, and he might never see her again.
The urge to touch her overwhelmed him, so he rounded the table to pluck up the bright red coat she’d thrown over the back of her chair.
He held it up, frowning at how absurd it was that this was the only protection she wore against the bitter winter wind that raced between the city’s buildings. She murmured a thank-you as the satiny lining of the sleeves whispered against her bare arms. The thought of the slippery fabric against her skin sent his blood pounding. The scent of her perfume—faint this late in the day—wrapped them in jasmine, and Nick breathed deep. He couldn’t remember what she wore in high school, if she wore any perfume at all, but he liked this on her. Soft and strong. Tough and feminine. A study in contradictions.
He should let her walk away from him, but he couldn’t help smoothing his hands over her shoulders as though he was settling the coat properly. He wanted to feel the warmth of her body through the tightly woven wool, imagining her pressed against him. He stood so close that he could brush her auburn hair over her shoulder to expose her neck. Pressing his lips to that creamy skin would be the easiest thing in the world. Would she gasp and let him kiss her or whirl around and slap him straight across the face? He smiled. A slap. No doubt about it.
He wasn’t supposed to want this woman—whether she’d admit it or not, she was a source, and sources were off-limits—but at that moment he didn’t think about any of that. His lips inched just a little closer to her neck and—
Rachel stepped forward, breaking the connection. “I should go,” she said, her voice just a little shaky. “Contracts.”
Nick scrubbed a hand over his chin, trying to get back what little sense was left in his thick skull. He wasn’t going to jeopardize his tenuous relationship with Rachel by doing something stupid. Not before he’d locked down a promise that he could interview Kevin.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I need to get back to the studio and go over scripts before I get on the anchor desk. Can I walk you to a cab?”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ve got to call a client. I’ll see myself out.” Her blue eyes held his for a second. “Sorry you didn’t get what you were looking for, Nick.”
Then she turned on her heel with the precision of a drill sergeant, leaving him to watch her walk away.
She was right. He hadn’t gotten what he wanted, but somehow the night didn’t feel like a total loss.
Chapter 3
Nick made it two steps past the assignment desk at the front of the newsroom before he spotted Mindy barreling through the bull pen toward him.
“What’d she say?” his producer demanded.
“No ‘Hello, I’m glad you’re back. How was your drink?’ ” he asked.
She let out an exasperated but indulgent sigh—the one she used when he asked for extra time on a story or told her that he didn’t think a highlight was written to video properly—and planted her hands on her hips. “Hello, Nick, my favorite reporter. I’m glad you’re back. How was your drink with your high school friend who also happens to be the incredibly powerful agent we need to do this story?”
“Well, since you asked, she had a very nice scotch and I had—”
Mindy clamped a hand down on his arm and yanked him in the direction of his cubicle. “Jesus Christ, Nick. If I wanted to know who wore what and what was on the menu, I’d be producing an entertainment show. Tell. Me. What. She. Said.”
He shook out his arm, easing the muscle she’d just pinched. “You like pushing around men who are twice your size, don’t you?”
Mindy’s glare could have melted through four inches of solid steel. “I’m highly caffeinated, I’m supposed to be watching two NBA games and a Rangers game right now, and I’ve got a headache the size of Queens. I’m not kidding around, Nick.”
He took a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and set it on his desk. “She didn’t say yes. You win.”
Mindy sank into a chair across from him and pushed up her glasses with a sigh. “I didn’t want to win that bet.”
“I didn’t want you to either.”
She picked the bill up and looked at it, turning it over in her hands. “I figured it’d be a long shot to just come out and ask when she’s turned everyone else down. Did you tell her that you’d spoken to Catherine Loder?”
“Oh yeah. She was really happy about that.”
Mindy pulled a face. “Nothing’s wrong with you stopping by a high school track meet. You’re a sports reporter.”
He snorted, remembering the “How stupid do you think I am?” look on Rachel’s face when he’d tried to use the same logic on her. “Yeah, she saw through that real fast.”
Something deep in his gut told him Rachel was keeping the reins on this kid way too tight, and that didn’t sit well with him.
“Why do you think they’re staying so quiet?” asked Mindy.
It’d be freaky that she’d read his thoughts except that, ever since she’d become his producer, she seemed to know his mind better than he did. She liked to brag that it was her job to think, write, and talk like him—better than him. It was how she became one of the best producers at NYSN.
“Something’s got them worried,” he said, dropping into his desk chair.
“Maybe the shooting isn’t quite as cut-and-dried as it seems.”
“He was seven.”
“Hey,” she said with a shrug, “weirder things have happened.”
He sighed. Yeah. They had. “Okay, so we start digging into the shooting. See if you can get the police report and talk to any of the detectives on the case.”
“I worked in local news for three years. I know how to work up a crime story, Nick.”
“Which is one of the reasons you’re my favorite, Mindy.”
She rolled her eyes, but he could tell by the way she softened a bit that the compliment had done its job.
“What are you going to do while I dig around in police reports?” she asked.
He’d been wondering the same thing during his walk back to the station.
“Look,” he said, rocking back up in his chair, “we already know Mrs. Loder thinks there’s something to her son’s story. Maybe she just needs some reassurances that what we’re doing here is a real human-interest piece.”
“You want to talk to the mom again?”
He snatched a beaten-up baseball he’d kept from his playing days and tossed it to her. “I think we have to. So long as we’re getting stonewalled by Rachel, Mrs. Loder’s our best chance.”
Mindy caught the ball and ran her short, iridescent-green nails over the seams before tossing it back. “Looks like you’re heading up to the Bronx, my friend.”
“Home of Lou Gehrig.” He threw her the ball again.
She caught it and whipped it back, lightning fast. “Kemba Walker.”
“Vin Scully.”
“Willie Colon.”
“Hank Greenberg.”
“Cullen Jones.”
He rolled his eyes as the ball smacked into his palm. “Cullen Jones?”
“You’re seriously going to give me crap about that? He’s an Olympic gold medalist.”
/> “And two silvers,” he said.
“See?”
“Do you know anyone who was born before 1980?” he asked, throwing the ball back to her.
She plucked it out of the air. “You’re such an old man. You know, the Loders have got to know that Kevin has to do media at some point. He can only Marshawn Lynch us for so long. Once he’s in the league, he’s going to be required to talk to journalists.”
“We can’t wait that long,” he said.
There it was again. That gnawing pit in his stomach that had been his companion for months. All of the security he’d found since he’d struggled his way to NSYN? Gone with a single, company-wide email seven months ago. “Industry-wide change.” “Efficiency measures.” “Pulling together.” It had said everything but the word everyone dreaded—layoffs—but they’d all known that was exactly what it meant. Sure enough, by the end of that week, eighty-seven people were gone and rumors were swirling there’d be more. The specter of job cuts had tainted every single story that every reporter, producer, assignment editor, director, and photographer had done since then. They were all fighting to survive.
And then there was the problem of his dating life. It shouldn’t matter—his stories should speak for themselves—but his news director, Micah, had pulled him aside and told him in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want to see Nick in the tabloid gossip columns anymore. It wasn’t the kind of publicity the network wanted.
It wasn’t like he’d courted it. He’d just gone through a phase of dating some high-profile women—a couple of models, a rising tennis star—and the gossip vultures had eaten it up.
Now he couldn’t seem to shake the interest in his dating life—no matter that he’d stopped going out like he used to. Maybe it was getting a little older. Maybe it was the combination of his friends’ teasing and his bosses’ scrutiny. But mostly he’d gotten . . . tired.
It had all hit him when he’d been out with a woman named Michelle who he’d met getting coffee downstairs from the newsroom a little less than a year ago. He’d asked her out, made the reservation, and shown up in a suit. Same routine, different date. And then, while sitting across from Michelle he realized something felt familiar.
