“What an insightful question. Did they teach you that in Journalism 101?” I teased.
His ears reddened, but his eyes said I amused him. He shifted in his seat. “Did you always know you wanted to own a bakery? Is that better for you?”
“I suppose it will do.” I found flirting with him came too easily. “The answer is no.”
“Then what made you open this place?”
I looked around my beloved bakery at all the happy people chatting and smiling. “It just felt right, like I was meant to?”
“Meant to?” He said it like it was a foreign notion.
“Yes. Haven’t you ever known deep inside that you were supposed to do something?”
He paused for a moment. His eyes drifted down. “Some of us aren’t that lucky.”
The tone of his voice made me want to reach out to him. I almost did. What was wrong with me? “That’s too bad. How did you know you wanted to be a lifestyle reporter?” I found myself wanting to get to know him.
“I’m an investigative journalist,” he scoffed, offended.
I laughed at how seriously he’d said that. “An investigative journalist? Are you here to take down my bakery? See if I’m cooking the books or illegally filtering money into campaign funds through bake sales?” I joked.
The corners of his mouth twitched. If only he would really smile, it would improve his mood. Though maybe it was a good thing he didn’t; I bet he was dashedly handsome when he smiled, if he ever did. I had a feeling he forced himself not to.
“Like I said before, I’m here on behalf of Raine.”
“Couldn’t they have at least sent the sports guy? Or what about the woman who writes the advice column?”
His hands clenched. “Believe me, I’m not happy about this arrangement either. Can we just get on with it?”
“Maybe you should have some cake first.” I pushed a plate toward him.
“No thank you.” He flipped through some pages on his notepad. “County records say you opened this bakery three years ago. Is that correct?”
He’d seriously looked that up. Is that what he had been over here doing while I was getting the cake? “That’s correct.”
“What did you do before then?”
I tucked some hair behind my ear. “Traveled.”
His eyes narrowed. “This is your first business?”
I nodded.
“Where did you go to school? I don’t see any of your credentials on your website.”
I clasped my hands together and laid them in my lap. “I didn’t. My mother taught me almost everything I know.”
“She must be some teacher.”
“She was.”
“Was?”
“She died five years ago,” I stuttered.
He cocked his head like he could hear the lie in my voice.
I felt my face flush. Why was this guy throwing me off my game? Normally I could tell that lie with ease.
He made a note without offering any condolences like most people would. Instead he got right back to business. “Not only does your website lack credentials, but there are no photos of you. In fact, I don’t see you on social media at all. And why did you stipulate that we couldn’t take your photo for this piece?”
“I’m camera shy,” I lied again.
He perused me, taking his time. “I have a hard time believing that.”
I leaned forward. “Why is that?”
His eyes penetrated my own, making my heart pound as if I’d run a marathon. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.
Oh. I wanted him to whisper more words. I wanted him, which was ridiculous.
He shook his head as if he were trying to shake me out of his thoughts, the way I should have been trying to cast him out of my own.
“What’s your annual revenue?”
“Is that really important for this story?”
“As a journalist, I cover all angles.”
“I can see that.” Though I couldn’t understand why. “Are you sure you don’t want some cake?”
“Positive,” he growled. “Annual revenue?” He wasn’t letting that go.
“I don’t know,” I stammered. “My accountant keeps track of that.”
His brow quirked. “You don’t care about your bottom line?”
The answer was no, but I only shrugged.
He jotted down another note. “I see you purchased this place for $1.2 million. Does that sound right?”
I cleared my throat. “I don’t like discussing money. I was told this was going to be a feel-good piece.” I avoided answering his question, again.
It was clear from his smirk and the “aha” look in his eye that he knew he’d rattled me and was quite delighted about it. “Hmm. I guess that depends on what your definition of feel-good is,” he quipped before he got back to interrogating me. “I don’t see any loans or liens on the property. I can’t believe a place like this is not only flush after three years but has no business loans to date.”
“You got me, I’m a loan shark on the side,” I teased, hoping he would see how ridiculous his line of questioning was.