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“What did you want to do?”
She took a deep breath before she answered, “I thought I was going to do groundbreaking investigations and write pieces that would earn me a Pulitzer someday. But there wasn’t a lot of demand for a journalist with no real writing experience. So I took a job at a small cable news station in San Diego, hoping I could get some experience under my belt and some name recognition. For some reason, I’ve been there ever since.Deadline Americagot more and more popular, and it just hasn’t made sense to stop doing it. My pay slowly increased until I was making decent money, too.”
“But?”
I could hear the hesitation in her tone.
She lifted her head to look at me, and my gut wrenched at the melancholy expression in her gorgeous eyes.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said softly. “I owe a lot toDeadline America. I was able to do some stories that were really important, even if I couldn’t tell them exactly like I wanted. I have a producer, a director, and a lot of other people to answer to about my content. There’s usually a limit on just how gritty things can be on television, and there’s added sensationalism sometimes when I just want to write…”
“The facts?” I finished.
“Exactly,” she said with a sad smile. “Even if those details are gritty and a little too much for television. I think that may be part of the reason why I’m burned out. I know what’s real, but I don’t always have an outlet to tell the ugly truth. I am doing stories worth telling, but sometimes there’s way too much fluff and not enough realism. I’m writing an investigative written piece in addition to my report forDeadline Americaon the Darien Gap crisis. It’s something I’ve done for a lot of my stories over the years, even if nobody ever reads them. The situation there in the Darien Gap is horrific, Chase. There’s so many children with no place to go and so much suffering that had gone on for them even before arriving in Bajo Chiquito and some of the other reception staging areas.”
“I’d like to read that article,” I told her honestly. “And you’re right. If you’re a writer, that’s probably the best outlet for you. Especially considering the topics you cover. I’ve marveled over every story you’ve ever told onDeadline America, Vanna, so I can only imagine how incredible those stories would be if you were writing them exactly the way you wanted.”
“You can’t possibly have seenevery single episode,” she scolded.
“Actually, I have. Even the earliest ones. I’ve also bragged to anyone who will listen about the fact that I’ve known you since you were a kid because I’ve always felt honored to know you. Maybe we haven’t seen each other that much over the years, but I never stopped thinking about you,” I confided.
Strangely, that was a fact I couldn’t deny.
Maybe I’d never woken the fuck up enough to admit that I felt more than just friendship for Vanna, but subconsciously, I’d probably always known it. Most likely, I’d stayed in denial because I knew Vanna would always be the unattainable for me. My little sister’s best friend. It had been a hell of a lot easier when I’d simply seen her as a challenging debate partner and a family friend.
I’dnevermissed a single episode ofDeadline America. If I knew I was going to be away, I’d record it.
Granted, it was a riveting program, and Vanna was one hell of an investigative journalist, but I knew now that I’d been anal about watching because of…her.
Because of Savannah.
“I thought about you, too,” she said hesitantly. “And I worried when you were flying in the military. Torie kept me posted about you and Wyatt.”
Wyatt? Fuck Wyatt. Yeah, I loved my older brother just as much as Torie did, but I would have much preferred that Vanna was just thinking about…me.
For some reason, this was one instance when I didn’t really want to be paired with my brother. That made me justthe otherfamily friend she was worried about.
Okay, back to our previous conversation. The last thing I wanted to focus on was what Ireallywanted from Savannah Anderson. “So why not give upDeadline Americaand just write freelance about whatever you want?”
Her eyebrows furrowed as she said contemplatively, “I’m not sure ifDeadline Americawas a blessing or a curse in that respect. My name is definitely known, but I’m not in the upper echelon of serious investigative journalists who win Pulitzers. And I don’t have creative freedom in my job. I write the stories, but they’re torn apart to make them appropriate for television.”
“Vanna, nothing you’ve ever done is pure fluff. If you wanted to make that transition, I know you could. Your name is respected. Hell, I respect you. It takes some major balls just to be in some of those locations.”
Isn’t that the truth?
I’d cringed repeatedly as she’d trudged through some of those deadly geographical hot spots without a thought for her own safety.
She batted her eyes playfully. “So you weren’t watching just to check out how sexy I was in rubber boots and a sun hat?”
Shit!It didn’t matter what she was wearing.
“How do you know I don’t have a thing for women in mud boots?” I asked lightly.
To be honest, she looked sexy in anything she wore, mud boots included.
Didn’t matter.
Makeup or no makeup.
