“But you were the foreigner.”
“Exactly. Everyone there treated me as a curiosity. I asked them about their foods and other customs, and they were all eager to repair my ignorance. But really, just seeing where Dad came from—the people he looked like, the places he’d known before—gave me a sense of connection to that other half of me.”
I didn’t know how he was doing it. I’d never talked so much about my dad to anyone but Zion. But Micah seemed genuinely interested.
“I’ve never been to India. What was it like?”
“Beautiful. Dad showed me around his city and took pictures of me in front of this amazing temple. And he showed me these gorgeous beaches on the Arabian Sea. We drove up into the Pon-mudi hills. There’s a reason Kerala is known as God’s Paradise. I fell in love with the whole region.”
I left out how much I wanted to stay and grow up with a true dual heritage. And I left out the fact that the whole time we were there my grandfather, a man so stern I never could call him the more familiar Acha-cha, didn’t look me in the eye once. I could hire a therapist to talk about all that. It was nice to remember there had been some good times, too.
“You make it sound irresistible. Now I’d like to see it for myself.”
“It is. I can’t believe you dragged all that out of me. Are you sure you’re not a reporter?”
He laughed. “I’m naturally curious.”
“My coworkers all told me you were easy to talk to.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Did they? What else do they say?”
I hedged. The answer to that question could get ugly. “Leonard says you’re cagey.”
“Oh, cagey. I kind of like that. I always figured that, behind closed doors, they’d say I’m easy prey.”
“Yeah, kind of. But in a good way.”
“There’s a good way to be easy?”
I adjusted my seat belt. He waited, so I expounded as sweetly as I could. “Andy says you’re savvy because you’re so open that anything you say loses value to any specific outlet. And yet, they obviously still all seek you out.”
He considered a beat. “So tell me this. Why’d you decide to become a pap?”
“Oh. Well . . .” I wasn’t expecting a sort of Spanish Inquisition.
“I mean, I don’t mean to judge, but you haven’t been here that long, so I was wondering if you came up here specifically for that job.”
I cleared my throat. “I did try to find other jobs, but the market for straight journalism is tough right now.” I looked down and picked some invisible lint off the end of my shirt. “But a friend of mine from college works there and got me an interview.”
“Ah, nepotism,” he teased, not condescendingly. “You just wanted to work in New York City, eh?”
I nodded. “I need the job. It pays the bills. It beats flipping burgers.” The statement hung in the air, and I thought Micah couldn’t have forgotten what it was like to be broke and barely making it. “Can I ask you a question?”
He smirked. “I thought you were off the clock.”
“I am. But I’m curious. What went down between Eden and Andy? It must have happened before I got here, and nobody’s ever mentioned it to me.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure that for Andy, it’s hardly memorable. But for Eden . . . Let’s just say that she and Adam are still together despite the articles he ran about her.”
“Oh. That bad, huh?”
“Eden thinks so. She fails to remember that Andy couldn’t have reported dirt if she didn’t have anything to hide. And it all worked out, right?”
“You approach things entirely differently, don’t you? I mean, I’m here with you now, so you clearly aren’t afraid of the media.”
He shrugged. “Eden holds a grudge, but I figure it’s the times we live in. Tabloids aren’t going away, so why not just be up front and open?”
I could never resist playing devil’s advocate, and he’d taken my position, so I rebutted with Eden’s point of view. “That only works until you have something you want to keep private. Maybe you’ve never had a secret? What would you do if you did?”
“That’s the thing. I live under the assumption that there are no secrets. It will all come out. I might as well be the one talking about it first, right?”
That gave me a perfect opening for the so-easy-anyone-could-have-gotten-it story I’d failed to get earlier in the week. “So whatever did happen with your last girlfriend?”
His smile disappeared for half a second, and I realized I’d taken him totally off guard. But he recovered fast. “I guess I can’t ask you to turn your work off, huh?”
Busted. Any reporter worth her salt would have pressed the point and gotten something to print in the morning paper. I, however, took in his disappointed slump and his guileless blue eyes, knowing I could take advantage of his openness, and I caved instantly. “What? No, sorry. I was asking off the record. I’m sorry. Consider it a residual echo. I’ll shut up, now.”
He sighed. “First of all, she wasn’t my girlfriend.”
“No? But you were linked with her for the past month.” I’d done my research. In every article, she’d been listed as “Micah Sinclair’s girlfriend, Isabelle Montreuil.”
“Because tabloids are so accurate.” He rolled his eyes with a laugh. Not for the first time, I wondered what it must be like to be on that side of the camera, always misinterpreted with no way to put a shattered reputation back together or fight the stories manufactured for someone else’s profit.
“So what then? Didn’t you break it off with her?”
“Don’t you read the gossip pages?” He chuckled at that, and I exhaled, relieved I hadn’t offended him.
I had read them. Of course I had. It was like salt in the wound to see other papers easily getting the information I could have had if Micah hadn’t flummoxed me. “You said you’d had fun together, but it was never serious.” No wonder he had a reputation as a mimbo.
“To be honest, it would be more accurate to say she had her fun and was ready to move on. That’s what usually happens. I meet a girl, she hangs around for a while, and then she meets someone else, usually someone more famous, and climbs up.” This time his laugh rang a little false. The corner of his mouth twitched, and I thought I saw past the perpetually charming facade for a moment. “It’s almost like a business transaction.”
“That sounds so sad.” I faced him, looking into his eyes for any signs he was lying. “Why do you always say it’s your fault? You know you’ve got a bit of a reputation.”
“I never said it was my fault. I said it was a mutual breakup, but for some reason, that always seems to read as an admission of guilt.” He lifted his shoulders in a slight whatcha-gonna-do shrug. “But it can’t hurt my image much, right? I’ve already been cast as the partying bad boy.”
“Well, you do only seem to date party girls.”
“No. I’ve dated nice girls.”
“Really? I have a hard time believing I wouldn’t have read about them in the gossip pages.”
“Nice girls don’t like the paparazzi.” He winked.
“Like that would stop the paps.” I should know.
“I know.” He looked out the window. “That’s why those relationships don’t last.”
“So what? You just gave up?”
His shoulders sagged, and he faced me with the most serious look I’d seen on him. “I haven’t given up. Maybe I’ve taken the path of least resistance.” He leaned toward me. “Maybe I haven’t found the right girl.”
Was he smoldering? I groaned. “Does that line work on anyone?”
His face lit up in a playful smile. “You’ll have to let me know.”
“You sure are a smooth operator.”
“Nah. Just direct.”
I laughed. “Hardly. Interviewing you is like trying to catch a greased pig.” He snorted at that, and I considered him, sitting there with his cocky grin. “So why are you telling me all this?”
“I don’t kn
ow. I probably shouldn’t. I can see the exposé tomorrow. However, you did say my three favorite words: off the record.”
“I honestly don’t know what to make of you.”
He scooted closer and brushed against me. He’d never strapped on his seat belt. “Copy that. I’ve been trying to figure you out all night.”
“Me?”
Ignoring my mostly rhetorical question, he reached up and pinched a strand of my hair, sliding his fingers down before letting the lock drop onto my shoulder where it sprang back into shape. “You really do have beautiful hair.”
I shook off the mini-thrill his touch sent through me. I didn’t want his flattery to take me in. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Journalist, through and through.” He took my hand, so gently it was as though he were afraid it would detonate any minute. “And yet, I can tell your curiosity isn’t cynical, not yet.”
I felt the rough calluses on the tips of his fingers, and as he squeezed a little tighter, his pulse and mine became an interchangeable rhythm against my own fingertips. I concentrated on holding still, afraid to encourage him to move any closer, afraid he’d pull away.
The cab was dark, and I spoke softly. “Tell me why you picked me out of all the other photographers there.”
“It’s not that easy, Jo.” He sat quiet, and I waited for him to collect his thoughts. “Eden gives me a hard time for running mostly on instinct. But even she grudgingly admitted I may have been right about you. You’re like the sheep in wolf’s clothing.”
I didn’t laugh. “You don’t think I can do my job?”
“I didn’t say that. Eden praised your photography skills. And you’ve got me here alone, sharing my secrets.”
“Because it’s off the record. And you don’t think I have it in me to take advantage of that information.”
He ran his thumb along the back of my hand, and I couldn’t contain the ensuing shiver. His lips curved in the slightest knowing smile. “I think you have it in you to be an amazing journalist. But no, I don’t think you’d pass the tabloid journalist aptitude test.”
I snatched my hand away, indignant. “So you plucked me out of the paparazzi pool to take pictures of your party because I’m so bad at it?”
“I never asked you to take pictures. I offered so you’d agree to come in.”
I replayed his invitation, his promise that I’d get better pictures inside, his reaction to finding my camera on after he’d left me alone for a few minutes, his sudden announcement to the party guests. “Oh. I assumed.”
He’d slowly moved closer as we talked, and now his face was mere inches from mine. It would take so little to lean forward and taste his lips. A butterfly twisted in my gut at the thought of kissing Micah. If we took a sharp turn or hit a pothole . . .
But this was Micah Sinclair. Micah Sinclair. He’d probably seen the longing in my eyes on the faces of a million other girls. I scooted another inch away. “Do you always pick up girls from the paparazzi pool? Or only the incompetent ones?”
He licked his lips, and my first traitorous thought was how much I wished I could do the same. I swallowed. I didn’t want to become a notch on his belt.
“I’m sorry.” He had the audacity to smile that charming half smile—more mocking than sincere. I nursed my wounded pride. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Honestly, I do sometimes invite photographers into our parties, but when I’ve invited Wally Stephens inside, I never had any thoughts of doing this.”
He closed the gap and brushed his lips against mine. He smelled slightly of cigarettes and tasted of liquor, two vices I denied myself. I drew back and sucked the air into my lungs. He gazed into my eyes, so close, my rapidly blinking eyelashes butterfly kissed his. A million and one questions exploded in my head, all of them screaming, “What does he want?”
I shut off the protesting voices and looked into his intensely curious eyes. He was waiting for me to say something. Or do something. I leaned forward and pressed my forehead against his, closing my eyes, leaving the ball in his court. When my shoulders relaxed, he pressed his lips against mine again, harder, but still soft, and I couldn’t resist running my tongue across his lower lip. He pulled away and inhaled sharply. He looked back and forth between my eyes and must have seen how much I wanted him to do it again.
He ran his fingers through my hair, holding tight at the nape of my neck and drawing me toward him. When he kissed me again, everything I thought I knew about Micah Sinclair flew out the window. My hands lay flat across his chest at first, but I dared to reach up and touch the side of his neck and the tight muscle running along his back to his shoulder. He groaned, and my heart wouldn’t stop pounding.
The car came to a stop.
I glanced up. “Oh,” I croaked. We were outside my apartment building.
Micah’s breath came shallow and fast. He was looking at me more intently than any person had ever looked at me before. I shook my head to clear the confusion. Would he expect me to stay in the car or get out? Would he expect me to invite him up? Should I invite him up? What did he want from me?
Before things could get awkward, I gathered my camera and my things and opened the car door without waiting to find out what the driver intended to do.
Micah climbed out after me. “Jo.”
I could see a light on in my apartment, meaning Zion was awake.
Micah grabbed my shoulder and turned me toward him. “I’m sorry. Did I make a mistake? I shouldn’t have—”
“No. God, no.” The shaking started in my legs. I needed to bring up my blood sugar, but I thought I could make it upstairs—if I left immediately. I said, “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
I lurched away. My hands trembled as I punched in the key code outside the front door. Micah was still saying my name, but I was desperate to make it inside at least. The lock released with a sharp buzz, and I was in, thank God.
Chapter 7
The door clanked shut behind me as I collapsed on the bottom step with my head in my hands. I didn’t think I could climb the stairs, so I fumbled for my phone and texted Zion.
Downstairs. Help.
I laid my head down on the filthy step and hoped Zion would come quickly. A door slam echoed down the stairwell. Steps boomed closer. Zion was taking them two at a time, jumping over the last few to get to the landing. Then he was there. He picked me up and carried me up to the apartment where he laid me on the sofa. He grabbed a bottle of grape juice from the fridge, opened it, and handed it to me.
“Have you eaten anything tonight?” he scolded me.
“Yes.” I sipped on the juice, ignoring his skeptical expression. “I did eat something, but it was earlier. Then I sort of lost track of time.”
“That’s not like you.” He shook his head. “You’re lucky I was here. What were you going to do if I was out? Pass out in the stairwell?”
“I saw the light on. I knew you were here.” I swallowed the juice and closed my eyes, waiting for the dizziness to subside. “But thanks for coming to my rescue.”
He bowed deep. “Prince fucking Charming. That’s me. So how did you manage to get home like this? Did you take a cab? Should I go pay a cab?” He handed me a cold, wet cloth, and I laid it across my neck.
“No. It came on all of a sudden. And I got a ride home from Micah Sinclair.” I grinned at him and waited for him to give me the envious glare I’d hoped for.
“You bitch,” he said. But his envy quickly turned to curiosity. “Tell me everything.”
“It was an interesting night.”
“I wouldn’t mind five minutes alone with that hot man.”
“I don’t think you’re his type.”
Zion huffed. “I might be. His type is generally anything that moves.” He stepped into the kitchen.
I called over the back of the sofa. “That’s just a rumor.”
“Hey, rumors are often based in truth. You might be too new to the gossip pages to realize how often he sho
ws up with a new girl, right on the heels of ditching the last one.”
“But I think maybe the tabloids are creating that image of him.”
He returned holding my glucose meter out to me. “Why would you think that?”
I rubbed my thumb with an alcohol wipe and pricked it. The blood beaded, and I laid the test strip against it. “On the way over, Micah told me—off the record—that he’d rather take the rap for the breakups, but it’s usually him who gets dumped when girls tire of playing with him and move up the ladder.”
The meter still read below seventy, and Zion went to the kitchen and came back with a banana. “So Micah just happened to confide that to a girl who works in the gossip business? You don’t think he’s maybe trying to clean up his image through you?”
My stomach sank. “But it was off the record.”
“Yeah, but he has to know that information will color anything you write about him in the future.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
He peeled the banana and handed it to me. “Eat this.”
I concentrated on chewing and swallowing, more worried about getting my numbers up than about Micah for the moment. As soon as the banana was gone though, another thought occurred to me. “But then why did he—”
“Why did he what?” He dropped into the chair beside me, chin on his hands. He was a worse gossip than my mom. No wonder they got along so well. No wonder he was so much better at this job than me.
My face flushed with embarrassment at how easily I’d let Micah take me in. That kiss bamboozled me, and he’d known it would. “Nothing.”
“What happened?”
I flailed my arms. “I let him kiss me, okay? Oh, Lord. I’m such an idiot.”
He sat back, his budding afro snapping into place a microsecond later. “Way to bury the lede, Josie.” His eyes closed and then opened wide. “You aren’t serious.”
“Yeah.”
“You kissed Micah Sinclair.”
A Crazy Kind of Love Page 6