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My spine straightens.
“So this is an interview?”
His smile appears.
Slowly.
Shit.
I walked directly into that one.
“I didn't say that.”
“You invited a journalist into your limousine for a private chat.”
“I did.”
“You're notoriously difficult to interview.”
“So I've been told.”
“You've turned down every formal request made from every news outlet for the last three months.”
“Also true.”
I stare at him.
He looks entirely too comfortable.
“So, what are we doing here?”
“Having a conversation.”
“About?”
“You.”
I blink.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
His brow lifts.
“No?”
“You don't get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn this around. I'm the journalist.”
“And I'm the man whose car you willingly climbed into.”
My cheeks heat.
