Kit (Chicago Blaze 8)

“Maybe. I don’t know yet if that’s the part of your story I want to tell. But I sincerely apologize for not preparing you better for what to expect. I tend to get lost in my own head sometimes and forget…the people around me.” Her cheeks turn pink and she looks down at the table.

“Can we start over?” I ask. “Tomorrow, over lunch?”

“Sure.” Molly looks up and gives me a grateful smile. “Let me check my schedule.”

She opens an app on her phone and I see a tightly packed, color-coded calendar. “I could do a late lunch, at 1:15?”

“As long as we get an appetizer, because I turn into a pissed-off grizzly bear when I’m hungry.”

“Do you want to try for another day?” she asks, her forehead scrunching up with concern.

“No, tomorrow’s good. I was teasing. I promise not to bite your head off.”

Molly reaches into her purse and takes out cash to pay our bill.

“No, let me,” I say, going for my wallet.

“Work reimburses me for expenses.”

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got it.”

“No, I can’t let you buy me anything since you’re a source.”

I arch a brow at her, amused? “You think two whole dollars worth of tea is going to corrupt you and make you tell the world I’m the greatest guy ever?”

She smiles. “I like to think it would take at least five to buy your way into my good graces. But anyone who knows me will tell you I’m a rule follower. The Gazette doesn’t allow me to accept gifts, so I don’t.”

Begrudgingly, I put my wallet away. Molly leaves the cash on the table and stands up, pulling on a thick, orange knit stocking cap.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” I say, standing up and buttoning my wool coat.

“I don’t have a car. I walked. But thanks.”

I narrow my eyes in question. “You walked from where?”

“The Gazette building. It’s a lot easier for me to get around the city on foot. It’s actually faster.”

I follow her to the door of the deli.

“I’ll give you a ride, Molly. It’s freezing out.”

A gust of freezing cold wind confirms that as she pushes open the deli’s front door.

“I’m good,” she says to me over her shoulder. “I’m used to it.”

She tucks her notebook into her bag and puts on black mittens.

“Can’t I just give you a ride?” I offer again.

“No, I’m walking.” She turns around so she’s facing me and asks, “Where are we meeting tomorrow?”

Someplace really close to the Gazette building. I can’t believe she won’t even let me give her a ride back to her office. Makes me wonder if she has a jealous boyfriend or something.

“I’ll text you about it later,” I say.

She nods and turns around, pulling her hood up and hitching her bag over her shoulder. Her hood is trimmed with brown fur and her snow boots are, too, the boots so tall they almost reach her knees.

Molly’s a city girl, all right. She’s also practical, focused and not the least bit attracted to me. She’s nothing like the glammed-up puck bunnies I’m used to being around. I imagined her writing a story about what an affable guy I am, but between my defensiveness and her tough as nails approach, it’s looking unlikely.

If I’m reading her right, Molly Lynch is uncharmable.

Or maybe I’ll just have to up my game.

Chapter Five

Molly

* * *

I spot Kit in the doorway of the sandwich shop we’re meeting at for lunch. He pretty much blocks the entire entrance, both with his height and his broad shoulders. He pulls a black beanie off his head and runs a hand over his hair, scanning the booths for me, and a couple of women nearby give him long, appreciative looks.

I understand why. His light brown hair is shoulder-length, and it has a little wave to it. With his short beard and handsome face, he looks like…I can’t even put it into words.

A gentleman Viking.

Yes, that’s it. Kit is all man, but his dark brown eyes are warm and his perfect white smile is very refined. Of course, I’m not thinking these things because I’m attracted to him, but because as a journalist, it’s my job to observe everything about him.

He spots me and grins, sticking the beanie in his coat pocket as he heads my way. One of the women still ogling him follows his line of vision and then gives me a dirty look.

He glances at his watch, probably making sure he isn’t late. And he’s not—he’s actually five minutes early. But I was ten minutes early.

“Hey,” he says, sliding into the other side of the booth, “I hope I didn’t leave you waiting long.”

My heart thumps erratically for some reason. I clear my throat and note the date and time of our interview at the top of the fresh notebook page in front of me.