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CHAPTER THREE
REBECCA
The Wasson Way trailwound before me, dipping into the hillside and curving against the back of the Hyde Park County Club; thick, winding brush and tall trees hid the trail from the city streets surrounding it. As I ran, my gym shoes crunched the dead leaves littering the blacktop, and the hard air pushed against my lungs as my heart rate accelerated. Each step felt like a slog, but I tried not to focus on the tedium of the task, understanding I always went through that sort of mental block when I ran a long distance.
And it had been a long time since I’d done a run like this.
That had to change. I needed to prioritize my health and stop putting it aside to makeAmerican Profilegrow. Long hours and laser-sharp focus had turned into an extra five pounds before I knew it, and it had been too easy to justify spending another hour working instead of running or attending a hot yoga class. If I didn’t start taking better care of myself, there was no way I’d grow the business the way I wanted. As hard as this run was, it was necessary.
Mile one passed in a blur, mile two in a slog, and mile three with simplicity.
At the start of mile four, Siri came over my trusty ancient pair of AirPods. “Call from...”
Great.
I took the phone from my running fanny pack and glanced at the screen, my feet slowing to a fast walk. A number from Florida I didn’t recognize flashed on the screen and I decided it must be one of the many spam calls that plagued my phone most days. Somehow, I’d managed to land on almost every telemarketer list, and I had no idea how to remove my name—not even repeated sign-ups on the National Do Not Call Registry stopped their relentless badgering of my number. Once the alert faded, I resumed my faster pace, glad to hear my cultivated playlist of French house music return.
I was barely a tenth of a mile farther down the trail when Siri announced another call, her musically automated voice once again rattling off the same number. Frustrated, I stopped running altogether and accepted the interruption. “I’m sorry, but my car warranty—”
“Is this Rebecca Owens?” boomed a deep, robust male voice.
“Yes.” I took a deep breath to calm my heaving lungs and placed my hands on my hips as I kept walking. I couldn’t run and have a conversation at the same time, but that didn’t mean I had to stop moving. “Yes, it is.”
“This is Robert Yates. Do you have a moment?”
I started at the sound of his name, a small cry leaping from my mouth. He paused as if he recognized I would be surprised to hear from him.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I managed.
“As I said, I’m Robert Yates. With Sparks Innovation. Is this a good time to chat?”
I swallowed some of my shock and willed my breathing to regulate. “It’s a great time.”
Was there any other way to reply?Nope, not in this case.
“Wonderful. I know you’ve been in contact with some of the staff in our Public Relations office over the last few days.”
“Yes.”A series of emails I expected to go nowhere, but...“We’ve been chatting.”
“And you’re hopeful you can nail down something soon.”
“Certainly.”
Who wouldn’t be? Now that I’d leaped, I wanted the interview. Coveted it. Needed it. On my terms, of course, but I still did. My conversation with Oliva planted a seed that had only grown. An in-depth article with one of the richest men in the world would do a lot for my fledgling publication. There was plenty of upside. Landon was handsome, mercurial, visionary, and untouchable—the person everyone loved to hate and wanted to be. Even I had to admit it, despite my disgust with his politics and online trolling.
Landon was...hot.
