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You’ll need to do better than this, my eyes shoot back.
His mouth hitches up. Game on.
“What would it take to get you back?” he asks, leaning in, filling my vision with his broad shoulders and his perfect face. All I smell is him—his cologne and his expensive body products. I want to press my face into his neck. Shit.
“Change,” I say. “Real change.” I’m not giving him more than that. He can figure out how to change on his own.
“All right, Thompson.” He gives me a cocky grin. “Tell your boss everything is on me for the rest of the day.”
“You’re very annoying,” I grumble.
“Mmm. I know you hate me. Tell me more.” He leans in again, his eyes sparkling with happiness. “Tell me how much you hate me, Callie.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him, but it would be a lie. So instead, I awkwardly clear my throat and say, “You’re not going back to work?”
“I’m working from home. Something I’m trying.” He shrugs elegantly. “I’ve been talking to Christine and once the baby is here, I’m going to be in New Jersey more. I’m learning to be more, ah, flexible.” He fiddles with a sugar packet. “Anyways, here’s my credit card.” He hands it to me and picks up his tablet. “I have another twenty minutes before I have to log in. These back issues of your paper are interesting.”
“What?” Surely, I didn’t hear that correctly.
He raises his tablet in the air with a half smile. “I have the back issues of your paper. I started with the first issue published after you got involved.” He glances down. “This is the August 3rd issue from three years ago. I’m not even in here, Thompson. I’m offended.”
My mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out.
“Looks like it was a slow news week that week.” He frowns down at the tablet. “Though I remember this building being demolished on 87th street. I didn’t realize you were the one who broke the news about the building permits being falsified. Nice work.”
“There must be hundreds of issues,” I say inanely.
He glances up, with a small crease between his brows. “Two hundred plus, I should think. I’m a fast reader. Don’t worry about me. I have more free time now that I’m not going to the office.”
“You’re reading all of them?”
“That’s the plan,” he says lightly, but his gaze is steady.
“Why?” I whisper, my pulse thudding.
“Because you matter.” He speaks with quiet intensity. “I want to understand what you do. I dismissed it before. I won’t make that mistake again.”
He picks up his tablet and raises a brow. “See you at lunch, Thompson?”
And despite my better judgment, I say, “Yes.”
* * *
“A scholarship to Columbia journalism? Really? I told you it couldn’t be solved with money.”
Jonah’s black eye is fading, slowly. He looks almost casual today, in a cashmere sweater and wool slacks. Suede loafers complete his professorial look. He’s back at his table, like he has nothing better in the world to do than to wait for crumbs of my attention. It’s flattering. I shake myself. It’s fucked, is what it is.
“Read the rest of the press release.” His voice is silky, his eyes glinting.
“Fine.” I huff and drop into the chair, scrolling on my phone. Columbia’s journalism department blasted this message out to us this morning. The largest donation ever made to the school. The scholarship will be named…for my father?
“Really?” I raise my eyes to meet Jonah’s. “You named it for my dad?”
He nods. “He instilled a love of journalism in you. I figured it was only fitting. You were a scholarship recipient, right?”
I nod mutely.
He gestures at the phone. “They told me this scholarship would provide tuition for five students per year. Preference will be given to students who are from the five boroughs. And preference will be given to aspiring female journalists.”
