Page 13 of Personal Disaster

“No comment to that, too.”

“Is the communications ban still in effect?”

He gives me a wry half-smile. “No comment.”

“And off the record?”

He steps around me. “Let’s get some food first.”

The BBQ place is a walk-up counter in a strip mall, but it smells amazing, and there are a couple of small tables covered in plastic clothes. We place our orders, then I grab a table while Marcus buses our foodover.

“Ask me what I was doing this time last year,” he finally says, after I’ve watched him lick sauce off his thumb a few times toomany.

That shouldn’t behot.

There’s something seriously weird about the Colorado air. Maybe it’s that there just isn’t enough of it at this altitude. I’m lightheaded and hallucinating. Wait, that was a clue. “Ask you… Okay. What were you doing this time last summer?”

His mouth tightens as he leans back in his chair. “Not checking day site permits.”

“Who didthat?”

“Seasonal staff. Mostly students.”

That’s been covered reasonably well in the press, although I make a mental note to layer it into my story, too. The impact of the hiring ban is widespread. “Mostly? Who else gets hired as a seasonal employee?”

He glances out the window. “Locals.”

That twigs something for me that the Alt Park Service Twitter handle re-tweeted the week before. Local economies tanking because of cutbacks in federal programs. “Not enough people talk about that impact.”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Do you? Maybe secretly?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “On Twitter? Let me ask you this. Where would I get the time or information, when I spend all day on a mountain?”

Truthfully, my story had diverged from that lede over the afternoon. “My personal research shows you get excellent reception at that cabin.”

“That’s not your story, is it?” His jaw flexes, then flares as he grits his teeth. “I thought…”

“What kind of journalist would I be if I let my attraction to you cloud…”

His dark eyes glitter as he stares across the table atme.

Well, that was a dumb thing to confess. I drop my gaze to the leftovers I couldn’t finish—not because they weren’t delicious, but because the portions were insane. Now I’ve blown both my interview and what might have been the oddest first dateever.

Quality reporting, quality peopling, Poppy. “I apologize,” I say, still staring into the small dish of baked beans. “Let me back track.”

“No.” His hands appear in my field of vision, and he grabs my basket of food. “I think we’re donehere.”

I stand as he dumps our baskets on the counter, gives a curt “thanks” to the people in the kitchen, and pushes his way out the front doors.

I’m so glad I picked the flats.

It takes some good jogging to catch up, because his legs are long and his stride is fierce. “Marcus…”

“You should probably go back to calling me Mr. Dane,” he bites out when I finally get in front ofhim.

I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t think that will make a difference, doyou?”

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