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“What was your intent?” Hunter’s voice was deceptively soft, with the same steely tone as when he’d faced the threat in the alley. “To lose our bet?” he said.
Her smile grew tight. “I’m sure the money your app is now making will make up for today’s below-the-belt punch.”
“Except now I’m getting called by every journalist in town,” he said, and then he lifted a brow with the first hint of amusement of the evening. “And it’s not my fault your efforts have shot the app sales to number ten.”
“Eight,” she said.
He hiked a brow. “Even better.”
Oh, he knew the number. Carly’s lips flattened, which made maintaining her fake smile difficult. “I should probably thank you for the flowers you sent me today, expressing your appreciation.” When the delivery boy had dropped the bouquet off at work, there had been no way Carly could receive the smugly sent flowers without retaliating via her blog. “But I won’t.”
Hunter’s eyes lit with full-on humor now. “I hope the orchid and miniature bamboo arrangement I sent was unique enough for you.”
Her mouth tightened. He would remember her words and get it just right. Just like he’d remembered her mention of tonight’s pageant. Boy, he was the first man in her life to really muck with her mojo. Carly’s lips compressed further, practically blocking bloodflow now, but she managed to bite out, “They were beautiful too.”
As Carly maintained Hunter’s gaze the tension blanketing their small foursome reached a smothering capacity until Abby broke the spell.
“Hey,” Abby said, “you two are killing my end-of-the-workday happy place.” With a less than happy frown on her black-lipsticked mouth, Abby turned to Pete Booker. “I’m going to enjoy a drink at a table that just opened up. You can join me if you want. And when you say no could you at least send the message via The Ditchinator to [email protected]?” With that, Abby headed toward the empty table.
“Uh...” An awkward expression crept up the brown-haired man’s face, and his gaze shifted from the back of Carly’s creature-of-the-night friend to Hunter, and then to Carly. Most likely he was trying to decide which was worse—sharing a drink with a pessimistic lady simply dressed like a vampire or the two people who were actually going for each other’s throats. “Excuse me,” he said, and then headed off to join Abby.
Hunter watched the two with curious interest. “She doesn’t bite, does she?”
“Trust me,” Carly said, maneuvering into the empty spot at the bar left by Hunter’s partner. “She’s all doom-and-gloom bark on the outside and no bite on the inside.”
“Does she write for the lifestyle section too?”
“No. She’s an investigative reporter. Me...” Carly gave a slight shrug. “I find people more interesting than facts.”
“Like the renowned photojournalist turned California State Senator Thomas Weaver?”
The name cuffed her on the cheek with all the force of a full-on slap, and Carly’s face burned. “You’ve been checking up on me again.”
“You haven’t left me any choice.” His face had an expression she’d never seen before: curiosity. “The news media speculated you fell for the senator and gave him a free pass in your article. Is it true?”
Guilt and humiliation resurfaced, and she curled her nails against her palm. She hadn’t completely fallen under Thomas Weaver’s spell, as accused, but she’d cared about him. Had her actions been unethical? Technically, no. Her story had been done and published before they’d gotten involved. Inappropriate? Probably. Stupid? Most definitely. Because she should have avoided even the appearance of a conflict of interest. Something William Wolfe, founder and CEO of Wolfe News, Broadcasting—procreator and father of Carly Wolfe, The Disappointment—never let his daughter forget.
“I didn’t fall in love.” She hiked her chin. “It was closer to a very intense like.” He tipped his head in humor, and she went on. “And I didn’t give him a free pass.”
“I didn’t think so.”
She was surprised and pleased he believed her, but the feeling of validation ended when his enigmatic smile returned.
“Did you sleep with him before or after you got his story?” he said.
Her angry retort was cut off when someone squeezed into the space behind her, pressing her forward...and against Hunter’s hip. A firestorm of messages bombarded her: heat, steel and a hard-edged awareness. A faint flicker of eyelids was Hunter’s only reaction.
