by Laura Simcox
Joan frowned back at her. “Come on. I’ll show you your cubicle.”
“Great,” Georgia said and stood up. Now was definitely not the time to tell Joan that Brett had put a stop to the interview before it had even begun. Maybe if Georgia could get a moment to collect her thoughts, she could present a rational argument for being reassigned to . . . anything other than baseball. “After your conference call, though, I’d love to discuss—”
“You’ll be out in the field, which is a lot more fun than being stuck in here,” Joan said. She stepped off the platform and gestured toward a long bank of desks. “This is where most of the news-gathering happens, but you won’t need to worry about that.”
Georgia glanced longingly at the desks. Each of them had a computer monitor, and several were occupied by people slouched forward in chairs, busily typing. She felt a surge of jealousy, but she grabbed her briefcase and followed Joan past the desks and past a wall with huge TV monitors, each displaying live feeds from different news channels. After a narrow hallway, Joan stopped at a doorway and pointed inside at four cubicles, set up in a line. “Welcome to intern row. We’re light this summer, so it’s just you and Holly in here for the moment.”
“What assignments will Holly be working on?” Georgia couldn’t resist asking.
“Oh, she’s almost finished. Tomorrow’s her last day, but she’s spent most of her time shadowing the producer, helping write and arrange copy for the morning show.”
That’s what I should be doing. But Georgia just nodded at Joan. “Interesting.” If there was any justice in this situation at all, she would eventually get a shot at the control booth too.
Georgia stepped through the doorway and heard a deep voice resonating from the far end of the room. It sounded as if whoever it was—definitely a guy—was on the phone.
“Normally we’d have an orientation now, but news can be unpredictable and we have to be flexible, don’t you agree?”
Georgia nodded. “Of course.”
“Good. Then you’ll be fine with conducting an interview right away.” Joan gestured toward the end of the room. “Your cube is the last one, and I’ll leave you to it. Your weekly schedule is printed out and sitting on your desk. Let me know if you have any questions, and do a good job breaking the ice, okay?” Joan checked her watch and, a second later, was gone.
“Okay,” Georgia said to the empty doorway. Breaking the ice with whom? Dubiously, Georgia walked forward, clutching her briefcase in front of her. “Hello?”
Just as she reached the end of the cramped room, an office chair rolled backward out of her cube, blocking her path. It was occupied by a long, lean man wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans—a man with a smirk on his handsome face.
Brett Knox.
All the air rushed out of Georgia’s lungs as she stood there staring at him. “Hey, sugar,” he said. “You’re late.”
“My name’s not sugar.” Georgia reached up and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “What am I late for? I thought you declined the interview.”
“I did.” Brett gave her a lazy grin—one that promised anything but a serious interview.
His gaze swept over her blatantly, making her feel hot, but she had a feeling that his flirting wasn’t for real. Flirting was what athletes did best, and, like a giggly fool, she’d fallen for that kind of flattery in college. WHAP News wasn’t college, though, and Brett definitely wasn’t an eighteen-year-old jock. He was a professional athlete; dealing with the media was part of his life, wasn’t it? She needed to be professional too. Unfortunately, her pride took hold of her mouth before reason could.
“So you came in person—again—to tell me you’re not doing the interview?”
“No.” Brett shrugged. “After you left the ballpark yesterday, I got called on the carpet. Ship informed me that I was contractually obligated to allow interviews.”
“Oh good,” she blurted out. “I mean . . . I’m sorry that you’re inconvenienced, but now we can get to work.”
He threw his arms wide. “Well, here I am. You have an all-access pass to Brett Knox.”
She ignored his insinuation and reached past his shoulder to set her briefcase down. But with her hands free, there was nothing between her and him. She needed something because otherwise, she’d just be standing there like an idiot, staring at those sculpted lips. As she reached past him again, she felt the heat of his body filling the tight space. And his scent—like laundry detergent mixed with something earthy and wild. It probably was Tide, she thought dumbly. She’d always liked that smell. It was comforting. But the other . . . the scent of what? Testosterone, probably. That was dangerous. That was what was making her heartbeat erratic.
“Excuse me.”
“Sure,” Brett said. He moved out of the way.
“Thanks.” She grabbed a printout from the desk and straightened, a bit lightheaded, and pretended to scrutinize it. So if he didn’t want to be here, why was he still staring at her like she was an ice cream cone on a hot day? Was it because of who she was? Who her dad was?
She peered over the edge of the paper and saw that the smile had dropped from his face. “Okay. I can tell you’re uncomfortable, so why don’t we break the ice with a few questions about your background?”
“No, thanks.”
“What do you mean ‘no, thanks’? Didn’t you just say that I had an all-access pass?”
“I’m not here for an interview.”
Georgia let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re wasting time, Brett.”
“No, I’m not.” He met her gaze. She swallowed.
“A few ground rules,” he said. “I’ll talk only if we have a scheduled interview. That’s also in my contract. And so you know, I’m not going to talk about my personal life. Just baseball. Although I don’t want to talk about The Show. It’s bad luck.”
“The Show?”
Brett raised his eyebrows. “Major League Baseball.”
“Oh, of course.” Georgia folded the paper in her hands. “I knew that.”
“Mmm.” Brett stretched in the chair, his wide shoulders lifting . . . expanding, and Georgia couldn’t keep herself from watching him, even as he let out a long yawn, followed by a satisfied groan.
“Sucks to be up this early. You know what I mean?” Brett asked.
Georgia glanced at her watch. “It’s nine thirty.”
“Exactly.”
“What do you normally do at nine thirty?” She reached for a pen on the desk and folded the paper again.
Brett chuckled. “You’re trying to interview me.”
No, she wasn’t. She was trying to keep her libido in check by distracting herself with whatever inanimate object was at hand. “It’s not an intrusive question.”
“All the same, it’s a question, and you’re holding a pen.” He smiled.
Georgia rolled her eyes. “Fine. When can we meet for an interview?”
“Check your schedule.” He reached up and tapped the paper in her hands.
“What?” Georgia unfolded the paper and looked at it, her stomach sinking. An entire workweek of her life was printed on the page, and most of it involved going to baseball games. She was scheduled to be at the stadium from ten until noon, today, watching practice. Her first story was due by the end of the week—some stupid piece about fan appreciation days at AutoZone Park.
“Oh, great,” she muttered. How the hell was she going to talk Joan out of the assignment now?
“I’m busy most mornings with practice and a lot of afternoons and evenings with games. Half the time, I’m gone on away games,” Brett said.
“So when can you make time?”
He shrugged. “Maybe the Fourth? You’re gonna be there, anyway.”
“I am?” Georgia located the Fourth of July on the schedule and her eyes widened. “Oh, hell no. I’m not throwing out the first pitch of the game! I can’t do that. I-I’m not going to be exploited like that.” She threw the schedule and pen back on the desk.
Brett laughed and stood up. “Sugar, you can’t have it both ways. You’re lookin’ to exploit me, aren’t you?”
“No! Interviewing you wasn’t my idea. I want to do stories about political corruption and inner city blight and . . . and, well, hard news. Baseball isn’t hard news. Being the star of a circus wasn’t what I signed up for.”
Brett leaned forward, a challenging light in his eyes. “I didn’t sign up to be exploited either. And just so you know, baseball’s a lot harder than it looks.”
She blinked up at him. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just frustrated.”
“Oh yeah?”
In more ways than one. “Yeah. So, um. I appreciate that you stopped by, but if you’re not going to do an interview today, why didn’t you just call to set something up?”
Brett gave her a slow smile. “The powers that be decided that I’m your one-man Redbirds welcoming committee.” When she frowned, his smile got bigger. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised by the special treatment.”
“No,” she managed. “But it wasn’t necessary. I could have found you all on my own.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second.”
“So which of the powers that be decided that I’m going to throw out the pitch on the Fourth?” Georgia’s voice was breathy.
“My boss told me that it was your boss’s idea, but who the hell knows.”
“Well, bosses can suck it.” She paused. “Forget I said that, too.”
Brett chuckled, and a moment later, he was laughing out loud. Georgia couldn’t help it—she began to smile and then gave in to giggles. When they subsided, she saw that Brett was gazing at her mouth, his expression unreadable.
“So . . . I’m supposed to go with y’all to the ballpark, and, after practice, I can show you how to handle pitching basics.” He stepped around her and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“I . . . okay,” she heard herself agreeing. “I just need a minute to get organized.” Her legs shook a little, and she sat in the chair he’d just vacated, her knees pressed together. The seat was still warm from the heat of his body.
“See ya outside.” Brett winked and walked out the door.
Georgia stared after him for a moment and then swiveled the chair, shoved the schedule out of the way, and lowered her forehead to the smooth surface of the desk. “Oh my God,” she whispered. She could not develop a crush on him. She was going to have enough on her plate navigating life with Joan.
She lifted her head and leaned against the back of the chair. So what was in her best interests right now? Getting the interview with Brett Knox over with, that’s what. Joan wanted a background story, and Brett didn’t want to give it. But Georgia would get it, and then she would move on—fast. She’d slam through those stories on the schedule, do a fantastic job, and convince Joan to run them back to back. Hell, Georgia wouldn’t even utter a tiny complaint about having to report them on camera. And when she’d wrapped up baseball? Joan would have to let her move on to real news. This was Georgia’s internship, damn it, and WHAP needed to take it as seriously as she did.
She stood up and grabbed the schedule, fully intent on cornering Joan before going out to the sweltering ballpark, but, before Georgia made it a few steps, Joan appeared in the doorway, her long arms folded, giving her an uncanny resemblance to a praying mantis. Preying mantis would be more accurate.
“How did it go with Knox?” she asked.
“Fine,” Georgia offered through stiff lips. “I’ll have his story by the end of the week. Easy.”
Joan shook her head. “If you do, I won’t accept it. You need to take time with this because his story is complicated. He was called up to the Cardinals last season, but he got bumped back down to Memphis pretty quickly. Find out why. You’ll have to break down his attitude, his past, his relationship with his famous brother—it won’t be easy.” She raised her pencil-thin eyebrows. “We ran a human-interest piece on his brother, Joe, when he got called up, but that guy is so mellow it was almost a nonstory. Brett Knox, though? He’s ratings gold. He’s a loose cannon.”
Great, just what Georgia needed to start her internship off with a boom. And she had to dig around in his past to find out what made him a loose cannon? It’d be a hell of a lot easier to just let him flirt his way through a surface story, but, apparently, that wasn’t going to be acceptable—even though he was a fantastic flirt. “So Brett’s brother is a major league player?”
Joan just stared at her. “He’s the first baseman for the Cardinals. Last season he was MVP in the Major League All-Star Game.”
“Okay.” How the hell was Georgia supposed to know that? And more—shouldn’t the fact that she didn’t know be a red flag? She stared back at Joan, who didn’t say a word. Finally, Georgia took a breath. “Fine. I see the angle—and I’ll work hard to get a good story, but after I finish the baseball series, I want to be assigned to harder news.” She paused. “Assuming I’ve earned it, which I’m certain I will.”
“Well, according to your thesis supervisor, you have a reputation for earning your way, Georgia. So there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”
There was plenty, starting with the fact that WHAP was using her like a celebrity prop, but Georgia sensed complaining about that wouldn’t do her any good. And her pride wouldn’t allow her to go whining to her mom and dad. She just nodded again. “Do you have any investigative stories on the back burner?”
Joan’s lips quirked up. “I understand where you’re going with this, but we’re in the middle of sweeps.” She paused. “Do you know what sweeps are?”
“Yes. The Neilson ratings. July is a data-gathering month, and I understand how important ratings are to stations, which is why I’ll do a great job on Brett Knox. And after that, I’ll get another assignment,” she said stubbornly.
“Of course. How about this. If you’re successful with Knox, and if there’s time left on your internship, I’ll promise you a feature on childhood nutrition in disadvantaged neighborhoods.”
“That sounds pretty great.” Georgia relaxed a bit. “So, I guess I need to get moving.”
“Yes, you do. Learn how to throw that ball before the Fourth of July, okay? Do WHAP proud.”
I’d like to throw that ball at your head. Georgia smiled. “Not a problem.”
She went back to her cubicle, grabbed her phone, and stuffed her heavy briefcase into a drawer. There was no way she could deal with that thing today, and besides, her phone had a voice recorder. She texted Ernie to let him know she was ready and then strolled out of the station with Stan, into the baking heat. Her stomach jumped when Stan opened the SUV’s back door, because Brett sat on the opposite end of the seat, his beautiful brown eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. Hidden was good—she wouldn’t have to look into those eyes and risk another fit of nervous giggles.
But when she was settled next to him, he took off those glasses and grinned. She stared—at the crinkles in the corners of his eyes and the short, thick lashes tinged with gold. It would be really helpful if he didn’t stare back, but he did. She glanced away as the SUV drove through the open gate. “So, Brett. Tell me about your childhood.”
He laughed.
“Okay, another time. How old are you?”
“Twenty-six. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two. Did you go to college?”
“What about me makes you assume I didn’t?” he asked. “But yes, I graduated cum laude.”
Georgia raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. How about you?”
“I haven’t graduated yet.” She coughed. “But I will soon and expect to be summa cum laude.”
“Mm.” Brett looked away.
“Tell me about your family, Brett.”
“No, thanks,” he said politely.
“Okay. How about your brother, Joe? Will you talk about his baseball career?”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.” He leaned back against the seat, and she glanced at him again. His jaw looked tight. “There are plenty of sources for information about Major League Baseball players,” he offered.
“No problem,” she said casually, pushing aside a wave of exasperation. “I have a great source.”
Brett gave her a skeptical glance. “Okay, then.” He replaced his sunglasses and began humming under his breath.
Georgia reached for her phone and pressed an icon on the screen. After entering a pin number, she lifted the phone to her ear. “Hi, Dad.”
Brett’s humming stopped immediately. Concealing a smile, Georgia settled back against the seat.
“Georgia! How are you? How’s the internship?” Patrick Fulton’s voice was full of concern as usual—he’d yet to stop thinking of Georgia as a kid.
“I’m fine,” she answered. “Internship is . . . off to a brisk start.”
“Good, good. Memphis is hotter than hell, isn’t it?”
Almost as hot as the guy sitting inches away from her. Georgia shifted toward the window. “You’re right, Memphis is warmer than I imagined it would be. How’s Mom?”
“Perfect. But she nags at me nonstop to take a vacation.”
“Dad, you really ought to take her advice and sneak off to Camp David for a while. Or something.” Before he could protest, Georgia changed the subject. “Are you treating my cat well?”
“He’s adapting. But I have to tell you, Georgia, Junior Mint is eating us out of house and home. He weighs twice as much as the dog.”
Georgia laughed. “Well, the cat’s only there temporarily, and I appreciate your taking him in.”
“That’s what parents do.” Patrick paused. “So, what can I help you with, hon?”
“Well, I’m working on my first story assignment and I need your opinion.”
Patrick was silent for a moment. “Since when do you ask anyone’s opinion about anything, Miss Stubborn?”
“It’s about baseball.”
“Oh.” Patrick laughed. And then he laughed again. “You got stuck with sports reporting?”
