He was an inferno of carnal appeal, every ounce focused on her. Hair and eyes so dark brown they were almost sable, cheekbones so pronounced they practically left streaks in the air, and an attitude so proprietary, he must have wandered off Wall Street.
This didn’t add up. Hair, check. Eyes, check. Extreme hotness, check. But he was watching her.
It was a record scratch.
Hot men didn’t stare at Brynn. No men stared at her. Striking men speechless wasn’t her thing. This was off.
So naturally Brynn blinked. Then she looked away. After a few beats, she verified whether he was still watching—he was—and then she messaged Corey frantically: The hottest man in the universe is in The Coffee Bar and he’s looking at me.
Pics or it didn’t happen. Presumably Corey meant pictures of his hotness, not pictures of him checking Brynn out, though both were equally surprising.
Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not taking a pic of a stranger. Setting the ethics aside, the logistics were impossible. His gaze was still on her, and she wasn’t that brazen.
So go say hi, Corey instructed.
OMG, no. Never.
You’re famous. He’s probably wants to meet you.
Brynn scoffed. The world hadn’t changed quite that much in the past year.
She ignored Corey, wiped up the rest of the coffee she’d spilled, and shoved her stuff back into her bag. Break time was over, and as novel as it might be to eye-fuck gorgeous men, she had sources to harass and stories to write.
The hot stranger sat down across from her. “Hi.”
Brynn’s hand twitched to reach for her phone because Corey wasn’t going to believe this. Except if Brynn composed a text right now, that would be odd.
“Do I know you?” Her question was flinty and rude, but she’d never been good at this—whatever it was.
“Do you assume you know everyone?”
“Only the people who sit at my table.”
His mouth changed shape, but she couldn’t tell if it was a half smile or something else. He brushed it off and asked, “How are you doing?” His tone wasn’t lascivious, it wasn’t a come-on, but she didn’t know what it was.
Which was why she responded, “That’s a terrible question, and you know it. No one in DC is legitimately ‘fine’ at the moment, and we don’t know each other, so I can’t answer honestly.” Under the deadlines and exhaustion, she wasn’t even certain if she knew how she was.
“Can’t?”
“Won’t. My response would be too involved and personal, so it amounts to the same thing as can’t.”
There it was again, that little move with his mouth, which indicated…what? If he were trying to hit on her, he wasn’t being very charming, but with a face like his, he probably didn’t need to be.
“Where does that leave small talk?” he asked.
“Dude, we don’t do small talk in this town.” Every conversation in DC served a self-interested purpose.
“That’s some categorical opposition to chatting right there.”
“I won’t act on a maxim I wouldn’t want to be universal.” She hoped that was the categorical imperative, anyhow. It had been a long time since she’d taken philosophy.
“Eh, Kant’s a jackass.”
She snickered, and several beats passed in which she watched him and he watched her back. He was ridiculously attractive.
But she didn’t have time for this puzzle, so she gestured at her packed bag. “While it was nice to meet you—” It hadn’t been nice, not really, but it had been interesting. “—I need to get back to work. Bad politicians to nail and all that.”
He hadn’t asked about her job, or indicated he knew who she was, but it wasn’t as though her identity was a secret, and she did in fact have bad politicians to nail.
She didn’t move, though. His gaze held her in place as surely as a pin in a butterfly at the Smithsonian. The corners of his mouth slowly, slowly ticked up, and a dimple cratered on one cheek.
Holy wow with sprinkles.
This was a graduate-level guy. Man. He was a man. And she wasn’t ready for him, for whatever he was thinking as he watched her. Maybe, when she wasn’t elbow-deep in corruption and difficult sources and a national scandal, she could be, but she probably needed to start with a less complicated model. That or get training wheels.
She stood and hoisted her bag across her shoulder. “I really do need to go.”
“See you around?”
“I kinda doubt it.” She left without a backward glance. Close but no cigar, buddy. Maybe when this is over, I’ll write a Missed Connection about it.
But she wouldn’t. She’d buried her heart deep when this administration had started, and she didn’t have the time or inclination to dust it off.
2
A week later, Brynn managed to wrangle her presidential personnel dust-up story into something good. Well, printable anyhow. The scope of it was narrower than Grace would have liked as it mostly focused on the president’s assistant, but it was another step toward the truth.
To celebrate, she’d agreed to meet Corey for a lunch-hour pedicure. Brynn had already been at work for six hours and she was looking at another six at minimum, but this was about as much self-care as she allowed herself. She didn’t allow hot men to pick her up at coffee shops, sadly—which she’d been regretting. Life in this administration was such a drag.
She waved to the security guard on her way out and started the trek to the salon. It was a gorgeous November day, crisp and sunny. It was still strange the weather could be nice when the world was so screwed up.
At the salon, Corey was chatting with the receptionist, but at the jingle of the bell on the door, she gestured grandly at Brynn. “Here comes Woodward! Or are you Bernstein?”
Everyone in the place was watching, and recognition flashed on several faces. That increasingly happened these days, which was part of why Brynn had turned into a hermit. She needed to stop going on television, but every time another story of hers dropped, the requests poured in. Her editors liked it when she took them, and her mom kept reminding her she needed to make this moment last, to turn it into a career. It wasn’t that Mom was wrong—her mother was rarely wrong—but the adulation felt misplaced. It wasn’t why Brynn was doing this.
Brynn turned to the tray of nail polish bottles on the counter to hide her blush. “I prefer Nellie Bly.” Except she was too big a coward to do any proto-gonzo journalism or get herself committed to a mental institution to chase a story. She had limits.
“Maybe you’ll have to settle for being Brynn Allen.” Corey made it sound flashy, aural jazz hands.
Brynn had never felt less flashy in her life. “Hmm.”
“Can I talk you into a facial? Or a manicure? You look all shadowed.”
“Then I’ll have to live all shadowed. I only have time for toes.” Waiting for them to dry was going to be a close thing as it was.
When they were settled in the chairs with their feet soaking, Corey asked, “So is it more helpful to talk politics or should we pretend we’re on the alternate earth timeline where we can care about other things because we’re not about to die?”
“The latter. Tell me what’s happening on TV.”
“Well, the late-night wars are continuing, but the interesting part is…” Corey was one of the pop culture critics at the Chronicle. She wrote reviews, morning after episode summaries, and long-form analytical pieces. She’d had one last month about the evolution of women in business in entertainment that had been quite brilliant as well an excellent excuse to watch 9 to 5 gifs for an hour.
She told Brynn about the machinations in late night, the For Your Consideration movie screeners she’d been working through, and reality TV feuds, and Brynn could feel the knots in her shoulders relax if not release.
They’d been friends since a summer internship at the Chronicle what felt like three lifetimes ago. Corey was funny, smart, and loyal; she wrote incredibly fast and she was a great editor. She knew
seemingly everyone inside the Beltway, but she wasn’t political and she wasn’t looking for a quote. She could turn that part of herself off. There was no way Brynn would have gotten through this with as much of herself intact as she had without Corey.
Who was now regarding her skeptically. “Are you listening to me?”
“Uh, no.”
“Distracted and you’re not even staring at your phone? That’s a first. I was saying you ought to tell me the identity of your sources. As, like, a stop-gap.”
“Against what?”
“Extortion.”
Everyone with half a brain knew Brynn had a major, secret, high-level source. They didn’t know it was Hadley Ellis Darlington, the Assistant Attorney General. Hadley, or Lee to her intimates, was fifteen years older than Brynn. Their moms had roomed together at Mount Holyoke; Lee’s had started having kids right away and supporting her husband’s career as the highest profile trial attorney in Manhattan, while Brynn’s had gone to work at newspapers and only remembered to have a baby when she was forty. But despite the gap in their ages, Lee had babysat Brynn during shared family summers on Nantucket and they’d maintained a sisterly relationship.
Lee was rich, that was the main thing people needed to know about her. The money was in her vaguely-Northeast, all-prep-school accent. It was in the tasteful, beautiful cuts of her cashmere suits. It was in her jewelry, her perfume, and her education—and there was no doubt that in addition to having dough, Lee was smart. She’d been an excellent Supreme Court clerk, an excellent US Attorney, and now an excellent Assistant Attorney General. But she was working for this president, and he infuriated her. She thought he was dumb and she thought he didn’t respect the law and she thought he was tacky—tacky above all.
So she’d started complaining and then leaking everything she could to Brynn, but Lee felt bad about it. Every meeting, every call, every set of documents was about Lee’s performance of frustration and guilt, and it was slowly draining Brynn to work with her even if the material was important. Brynn would love to hash it out with someone, but she couldn’t.
“How would that even work?” Brynn asked. “You’ve been watching too many thrillers.”
“That’s my job. And I’m saying someone should know your secrets in case you get disappeared.”
Brynn shook her head and then said to the woman painting her toes, “I’m sorry, my friend is highly suggestible and loves political thrillers.”
Julie, according to her nametag, looked up. “I don’t know, based on those articles you’ve been writing—”
“See, everyone knows who you are!” Corey sang out.
“—she might have a point.”
Not really, but all the same: “I bet you hear lots of good stuff here.”
Julie gave a smug smile. She didn’t say anything, but that was further evidence she might know a great deal.
“Maybe I ought to leave you one of my cards,” Brynn said. “Just in case. Call any time.”
Once Brynn was polished and had her top coat, she stood in the lobby with her feet under the blue light nail dryer. The clock was running down on the time she had blocked out for this, so she was checking her email and voicemail. What she wanted was one quiet news day. Maybe two for variety.
Next to her, but flipping through People instead of her inbox, Corey asked, “Are you headed back to the office?”
“Of course. You?”
“I have a screening.”
Brynn glanced outside. Clouds had swept in, and it was starting to—
She grabbed Corey’s arm. “There he is. The hottest guy in the world.” The only notable development in her personal life since before the Orange Menace had announced he was running for president had been meeting that guy a week ago.
“Drew Orlov?” Corey asked, peering out the window. “Yeah, he’s pretty cute.”
“Wait, that’s Drew Orlov?”
“Yeah, he works at MTL. He’s a beat reporter on the Hill.”
“I know.” At the very least, Brynn knew his name. She just hadn’t known the face that went with it.
Brynn’s ears were ringing. He hadn’t been hitting on her…which, of course. Of course he hadn’t been. He’d known exactly who she was, which meant he’d come over because he wanted something. Something like a lead.
“I’ll be back.” Without waiting for a reply, she marched outside. “Drew! Drew!”
The man in question was several storefronts down. At her shouts, he froze and slowly turned around. That probably wasn’t guilt on his face, but as he walked back toward her, his posture was stiff.
Catching him should have felt triumphant, but Brynn was suddenly, painfully aware that she was standing on the sidewalk barefoot with cotton balls between her toes.
He looked her over. Frustratingly, he was even more attractive than she’d remembered. “So we do meet again.”
“You’re a reporter? You’re Drew Orlov?” She was almost shivering with frustration—though that was also probably the fact the sidewalk was chilly. But how stupid, how foolish she’d been, and what a fucking mercenary this guy was.
His inscrutable expression went hard. “I never said I wasn’t.”
He hadn’t said much at all. “Are you stalking me?”
“No.” He lifted the dry-cleaning bag slung over his shoulder. “This meeting was entirely accidental, I swear. I was picking up my shirts.”
“The same way you just happened to show up at The Coffee Bar and then at my table?”
He grimaced, which was her point. Everything about this was gross.
She went on. “Did you go there because you thought I’d be getting files from Deep Throat? Do you think I’m dumb?”
Three seconds ticked by. “I don’t think you’re dumb,” he ground out.
“Only glaringly unprofessional? I have a breaking headline especially for you: I’m going to kick your ass every news cycle. I am better at this than you are, and I work harder than you do. I’m not some entitled pretty boy. Get used to losing.”
With as much dignity possible given that she was still trying not to smudge her pedicure, Brynn swished away.
Inside, Corey stood gaping. “Woodward and Bernstein don’t have a patch on you.”
“Damn straight.” Not only that, she intended to keep the promise she’d made.
Drew waited in a wide hallway immediately off the Senate chamber. This press conference was delayed. Since this wasn’t anywhere close to Drew’s first one, he didn’t expect it to begin on time, but he’d taken a bet it would start within a half hour. Drew hated to lose; the Majority Leader could give him this one thing.
Everyone in the gaggle was glued to an electronic device: drafting copy, emailing with their editors or sources, or—if you were the guy next to Drew—updating a fantasy football line-up.
A dead senator glared out of an ornate gold frame at them. Maybe he disapproved of all the technology, though he didn’t look like a dude who’d ever approved of anything; perhaps he hated the mint green wall he hung on.
There was a commotion, and finally the Majority Leader arrived. Several aides trailed him, one of whom was chatting companionably with Brynn Allen. Drew swallowed a curse, which wouldn’t have been audible over the shuffling of bags and the clicking of recorders anyway.
It wasn’t logical, but Drew felt kind of like a dick seeing her again. Last week on Conn Ave, she’d been justifiably pissed at and wary of him. Okay, so he’d looked like a stalker…which he had sort of been, but only the first time they’d met. Their second encounter had been unplanned and uncomfortable—and that was before she’d seen straight through him. Was he that transparent? Had his plan been that dumb?
Allen’s eyes shifted to Drew, rolled skyward briefly, and then her attention returned to Will Cormier, the senator’s press secretary and a real douche. Cormier laughed at something she said, which had probably been funny. She was funny.
The worst part was she’d made good on her threat, penning a series of smal
l and mid-sized articles on every aspect of the current administration’s wars on facts, institutions, and career civil servants. The pieces were replete with little scooplets, juicy quotes, taut ledes, and ironic closing lines. They were plain old good.
He’d had a decent week too…writing about congressional procedure, trying to shine light on administration fuckups that would hurt the little guy. The kinds of stories Allen probably didn’t care about at all.
For her part, though, she’d even named-checked him on This Week in Washington, saying Drew had helped her “clarify some things.” Except the moderator and panelists hadn’t known who he was, which had resulted in a series of texts from Steven asking why the deans of the DC press corps were unfamiliar with his work and how precisely he’d helped a rival reporter.
He’d responded, I’m not journalistic royalty, and I pissed her off, but it’d felt hollow, petulant. He was right, she was wrong, and he didn’t want to feel bad about it.
“Good afternoon.” The Majority Leader folded his hands on the podium, his expression slightly bored, slightly pissed off. “You have my statement on the omnibus, right? So let’s get to the questions. You there.” He pointed to Angela Morales, who’d been covering the Hill for twenty years but whose name he’d clearly never bothered to learn. “What do you want to know?”
It was obvious why the people of Tennessee had for decades returned this man to Congress.
Allen gave Cormier another warm smile and joined the rest of the reporters. Drew could see her notebook page was half-filled. She’d clearly been in a one-on-one with the senator, and now she was going to compare what he’d said to her privately with what he was going to say to the proles.
Drew pushed the thought aside and dutifully transcribed answers on the contortions the leadership was going through to finally, finally pass the budget they should have gotten done in September. It was now crammed full of various small initiatives meant to attract Republican votes from the right and the center—all of which would screw their voters—but no one knew if it could pass.
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