Page 4 of Personal Disaster

Chapter Three

Marcus

I tipmy cup against my lower lip, but it’s empty now. I’d forgotten that as I sat and stewed over the fact she’s still outside.

Well, coffee break isover.

I pick up my phone and scroll through the search results that came up when I typed in hername.

Poppy Lisowski is quite the intrepid reporter. I have no doubt she knows everything about me. Where I went to school, who I’m friendswith.

What my political affiliation is—registered independent, always have been, always will be—and how I like my pizza.

Extra pepperoni, green peppers, and onions. Always have, alwayswill.

The thing about me that Poppy Lisowski doesn’t know is that those two things are equally weighted in my world, but I’m not sure I want to tell her that justyet.

I’m not sure I want her to goaway.

I lift my cup again before remembering…

Ah, hell.

Duty calls.

I stalk to the door and swing it open. “I need to head out to check some day site permits. You want to come with me, ReporterGirl?”

Her back stiffens for a micro-second, then she scrambles to her feet. “Sure thing, RangerBoy.”

I force myself to keep walking and not stop and give her a reaction to that. But I see her, and hearher.

I’ll only call her a girl again when I want to get a reaction.

A better man would take the warning completely and not do it at all, but where’s the fun inthat?

We’ve got a three-hour slow climb up and down mountainsides in my truck ahead of us. We’re going to need to have a littlefun.

“Where is the campground?” she asks as I steer down the lane toward the road that will take us back to the highway.

“Which campground?”

“The one with the day permits you’re checking?” She pulls a notebook out of her bag, and then the recorder is back, too.

I glance at it. “Do you want to get the spelling and everything just right for your story?”

She ignores the barb and waits for me to answer.

I don’t.

“I’d like to return to the question about your friendships with Toby Hunt and Ben Russo.”

Ah. Now she’s dragging Ben into this. I grunt.

“Mr. Hunt and Mr. Russo haven’t always seen eye-to-eye on political issues…”

Now it’s my turn to wait, but she doesn’t finish the rest of that thought. “Is that a question?”

Because if it is, she’s wrong. I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about the political contributions my friends make, but I know enough about their business interests and their personal realities to know that whatever money they donate, wherever they donate it, that’s no reflection on anything.

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