“Do you?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I support your career, but it’s not just you anymore.”
“I know that.”
Silence muffled with faint music.
“Andrea?”
“Sorry, what were you saying?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll call you tomorrow after the reporter shows.”
“That would be great.”
“Cool.” He hung up since she wasn’t paying attention to him.
Chapter 6
Manicured hedges framed the entrance as Chantelle drove along the long circular driveway. Cutting the engine, she stepped out of her rented Chevrolet Malibu. She took in the outwork stonework patio. She lifted her chin, shielding her eyes from the sun despite her sunglasses, to see the expansive balcony. Then her eyes diverted to the flower garden and fountain. Approaching the wide steps, she came to Lance’s front door.
Moment of truth. She had enough pep talks in the car, on top of Mary Mary’s song “Go Get It.” It pumped her blood, but did nothing for her prickling skin. Rolling her shoulders back, she fluffed her hair. How would it look if she dashed back to her car now? Did Lance’s home have cameras?
When she lifted her chin and spotted one, she rolled her eyes. He did. The man was rich. He came from money and his career was skyrocketing. Chantelle shut her eyes. What did she look like standing outside his home, bouncing on her toes? She had to get a grip.
She knocked, wetting her lips. Step one complete. This was just another interview. Blowing out her cheeks, she forced a smile when a middle-aged woman opened the door.
“May I help you, dear?” she asked.
“Yes, my name is Chantelle Woods. I’m from The Wedding Report and I’m here to interview Lance Taylor.” She extended her hand.
The woman bobbed her head and returned the handshake. “I’m Dottie. Mr. Taylor has been expecting you. Come inside.”
Chantelle adjusted her crossbody purse, and Dottie led her into the foyer. The entryway was open with high ceilings along with the expensive marble floors under her heeled feet. Leather along with furniture polish flooded her nostrils, while designer pieces and paintings decorated the space.
“Give me a second.” Lance descended the curved stairway. He stopped fiddling with the cuff of his buttoned down dress shirt once he locked eyes with her. “Chantelle? What are you doing here?”
She inched closer, hearing the click of her heels on the floor. “I’m the reporter.”
His lips parted, but he didn’t respond yet. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he inched closer to face her. “I don’t remember them mentioning your name.”
She didn’t answer.
Lance squinted his eyes. “Why?”
“I’m here for the story.”
“They couldn’t send someone else? Why you?”
His words stung. Sucking her cheeks in, Chantelle fixed her stare on him. “Because I’m an employee at The Wedding Report who has proven her writing. I have my master’s in journalism—”
He held up his hand. “This won’t work, Chantelle, and you know it.” He stalked off, but she followed him through the living room to the kitchen.
A shiny black-handled kettle rested on the stainless steel stove. A rack of metal pots dangled overhead, and Lance reached for what looked like his coffee mug on the island. Chantelle tapped one foot on the tiled floor.
She’d worked too hard and risked too much for her current position. Could she profile him and his fiancé with no hard feelings? “Lance? I can get past the fact that we—”
“I’m marrying another woman in a month, Chantelle. I don’t want my ex following me around. Would you want me following you? It’s asking for trouble.”