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Buzz blinked once and then admitted, “I was, but not anymore. I can’t catch a break.”
“So, you decided to come here undercover? Can you even cook? You can’t, can you?” He knew she couldn’t. Not once had she even pretended to cook a meal in the kitchen. Everything was prepackaged, or she’d bought it on the way over, yet he had never questioned it—until now.
“Uhm, I-I can explain,” she stammered.
“Go ahead. Explain why you’re pretending to be a chef when you can’t even cook. It isn’t to get a story?” he demanded loudly.
Buzz looked at him, then at Louisa and back to him, “It wasn’t for a story.” Her voice was quiet as she said it.
“Not for a story? Then why? What reason did you have to pretend to be a chef?”
“It’s not about you. I didn’t even know you were here,” she reminded him. She had been just as surprised as he was when they had met in the kitchen that day.
“How did you know there was even a story here? Long enough ago to lie on your resume to get a job here a week ago, apparently. Only a handful of people knew. How did you know?” he asked. When she was in his closet, she’d been a reporter—an unethical one.
She backed away from him. “I have to leave.”
“No way, lady. Tell me how you know. Wait, what were you doing in that closet? Was that for a story? Was everything for a story?” He needed her to say it. Or, more importantly, to explain that it wasn’t for a story and that it had all been a mistake. There had to be an explanation for it, any explanation.
Straightening her back, she answered, “Yes. I mean, no. I was trying to get a story, but I failed. And got fired for it.”
She had admitted that she had only wanted a story. All of this had been for a story. He had fallen for her, but she was there for a story and nothing more. He had been a fool.
