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“Follow me please,” the hostess says cheerfully, startling me. Carson follows behind the hostess, and I hurry to keep up, trying to sort through my surprise. Obviously, there wouldn’t normally be anything at all worrisome about an incredibly attractive guy displaying affection for me in public. But…he’s the subject of a story that Devin is hoping will go national and I’m hoping to write without ruining my relationship with Carson. If people have seen us together like this, my integrity as a journalist is shot.
“Hey, Carson?” I ask carefully as we sit down. He slide into the peach-colored booth beside me and has a hand on my leg, sliding it up a bit higher than necessary, and I tingle at the nearness of his hands, at the knowledge of just how good he can make me feel with his touch—
Focus, Astrid, I scold myself.
“What’s up,” he says.
“People can’t know we’re together,” I blurt out apologetically. “Because of the story, I mean. If people see us together as a couple, then I write a story about you, no one will believe a word of it.”
Carson’s eyebrows lift, and I can’t tell if he’s surprised or angry at my words. He takes a breath, though, then pulls his hand from my leg and taps on the table lightly. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I say with a wince. “It’s not that I don’t want us to be seen together or anything like that. You can still…you know…” I say, glancing toward my lap.
“How long do we have to pretend we’re not together?” he says.
“A few weeks is the plan,” I say, just as my phone buzzes again.
Devin: We need to meet up tonight to discuss where things are! Call.
And it hits me that my life and this story has gotten way more complicated than I ever could have imagined…
I call Devin that afternoon, while I’m waiting for my comparative literature class to start and while Carson is at yet another team meeting (I’m beginning to think football players simply don’t attend any actual classes whatsoever). Devin answers the phone too-fast, and I can hear urgency in his voice.
“Astrid, finally. Look, what do you have on the Slate story so far? I hear the Atlanta paper is running an article about Sebastian Slate, and I don’t want them competing with us. Do you have anything particularly good on Carson and his father?”
“I— no,” I lie quickly. “No, nothing really strong yet.”
Devin groans. “Seriously? You’ve been running around with the guy for weeks now, and someone told me the two of you were looking pretty friendly at a coffee shop the other day. He hasn’t told you anything worth sharing?”
“I’m working on it, Devin. Really,” I insist in a rushed whisper.
“Come by my place tonight and bring all your notes. I want us to try and piece something together,” Devin says.
“I can’t. I have plans tonight.”
“Astrid, we have to get this story together,” Devin says firmly. “I gave you total freedom to pursue this story and handed off all your other assignments. Don’t drop the ball now.”
I press my lips together. Devin always sounds pretty serious, but right now, he sounds almost threatening. There’s an undercurrent to what he’s saying that screams there will be consequences for not meeting up with him and handing over my notes. “Fine, I’ll swing by. Can’t I just email you my notes?”
“Astrid—“
“I’m coming by,” I say. “Class is about to start— text me your address, okay?” I nearly hang up on him, though we manage to get out some short goodbyes before I weave into class and find a seat. I might as well not have come, to be honest, because I can’t focus to save my life. How could I? I lost my virginity in the most mind-blowing way to none other than Carson Slate. I heard him practically confess that there’s a strong chance his alibi is trash. And now my editor is demanding to see my notes on Carson, so he can help me put together a tell-all article that would undoubtedly wreck any shot for a future between Carson and I.
I can’t do it. I can’t betray Carson like this. Not because I’m sleeping with him, not because I want him, not because when I close my eyes, I can’t help but think of the way his arms feel around me. I can’t betray Carson because he’s a person, a person who opened up to me. A man whose family and personal life could be destroyed if I reveal what he told me last night while we were lying in bed.
I don’t want to be that kind of reporter. The kind who puts a story above a person. The kind that Carson had been avoiding for a year.
I open up my phone, and create a new file of notes on Carson— carefully editing out the information on the alibi.
