Page 38 of Captured By Fate

“So tell me what drew you into wanting to become a reporter?”

His question hangs in the air between us. Why the sudden interest in my life? Why so many goddamn questions? Is it possible he wants to get to know me better?

Doubtful. Very doubtful.

I want to know what he wants. I want to know why he’s suddenly so interested in me.

“Why do you care?” I ask.

I pick up my glass of Merlot and take a sip while I wait patiently for him to answer. He smiles cheerfully in response.

“Can’t a man be interested in a beautiful woman’s career choice?”

My cheeks heat at his reply, but I think it’s a crock of shit.

“If that were true, that would be great,” I say. “But I want to know why you really care. Maybe it’s your…unorthodox friends?”

His smile never wavers, giving me absolutely no indication on whether or not I’ve hit the nail on the head.

"Oh, my friends aren't so unorthodox, Kelley. They're just some of the most brilliant minds in this city," says Jackson, his voice brimming with pride.

"But to answer your question, no, it has nothing to do with them. I've always had an interest in your journalism, you know. Following the news, digging up stories... But if it makes you feel any better, I did hear about your work from someone else before I met you." He leans forward slightly over the table, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I found your reporting very compelling. Your writing style is sharp and direct, yet there's also this underlying sense of curiosity that comes through in every piece you write." The candlelight flickers across his face as he studies me intently. "It's captivating."

I find myself both flattered and wary of his compliments. People don't usually describe my work as captivating; they call it confrontational or even pushy at times. But there's something about the way he says it that makes me believe him - there's sincerity in his voice that I can't quite place.

"So what about you?" I ask cautiously, knowing full well he'll dodge the question or give some vague answer that won't satisfy me. But maybe if I keep him talking long enough, I'll find out more about what he really wants.

He smirks and runs a hand through his hair before taking another sip of his drink.

"Oh, you know - the usual," he says casually as though we were old friends exchanging pleasantries at a cocktail party. “I really want to know about you.”

I debate for a solid minute on what to tell him. I really don’t see the harm in telling him a little bit about my past reporting experiences. Some of it wasn’t even in the country. I shrug.

"I've covered everything from political corruption to environmental disasters. I've been shot at in South America while trying to uncover human rights abuses, and I've had death threats for digging too deep into a local crime lord's business interests in Asia."

My voice is steady, but there's an undertone of weariness that belies my years.

He listens intently, nodding along, asking probing questions here and there that make me pause for thought but never breaking our connection. His interest is palpable; it's almost as if he's living these experiences through the stories as I tell them.

When I mention an especially harrowing encounter with a rebel leader deep within a jungle stronghold, he leans forward even further, his brow furrowed in concentration. I watch as droplets of condensation form on the rim of his glass before rolling down its surface like silent tears. I wonder what kind of man could find such fascination in such horrors but also finds myself oddly flattered by his attention.

As I speak about my recent expose on political corruption at home, exposing powerful figures who'd been hiding behind their titles for far too long, I see him visibly tense up slightly at one point - perhaps recognizing some aspect of himself within those whom I’d unmasked?

Or maybe it's just empathy for someone standing up against such immense power? It doesn't matter now; I see that he cares about more than just small talk or superficial chit chat.

The waiter arrives with our dinner, placing steaming plates in front of us. The aroma of roasted lamb fills the air, mingling with the scent of rosemary and garlic that permeates everything. Jackson picks up his fork but doesn't immediately start eating. Instead, he leans back in his chair, his elbows resting on the table, and studies me intently across the table.

His hands twitch occasionally, fingers tapping against the tablecloth in time with some inner rhythm only he can hear before stilling themselves again. It's almost as if he's channeling something - some hidden energy driving him forward on this night out under the stars. The candles flicker shadows across his face, casting them into stark relief as they dance across his cheekbones and jawline before dying down again into soft warmth.

I lean forward now, my own cup forgotten as I fixate on him entirely. I cut through the small talk pressing him for what's really going on here tonight; why did he invite her to dinner?

My impatience is evident but doesn't seem to bother him one bit - almost as if he enjoys pushing limits like this under cover of darkness and privacy.

"You have so many stories," I say finally breaking their intense staredown across the tabletop "what is it about all this that fascinates you?”

He evades the question, like I knew he would, picks up his napkin and dabs at his lips. Then, he stands and offers me a hand.

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