Page 68 of Dirty Filthy Boy
"No. I had a salad."
"You should eat then. You need your strength."
She drops the napkin on her lap. "Ty?"
"Yes."
"I got an apartment."
Well, that answers the question of why she visited that building. "You did?"
"You remember Dotty? The receptionist?"
I nod.
"A friend of hers is moving to Florida for the winter. She needs somebody to watch her apartment for six months."
I jam a forkful of fajitas in my mouth. "You're not going anywhere. You're staying here."
"No, Ty. I'm not. This was never going to work."
I put down the cutlery. "Why the hell not?"
Looking down, she says, "Because I'm interviewing you. That's why. I have to be objective about you, and I can't do that if I'm living in your house."
"So your career is more important than me."
Her gaze bounces up. "That's not fair. We barely know each other. I have to think about my life, my future. Yeah, it's been fun, but a month from now you'll be itching to get rid of me. So I'm moving out before that happens."
I'll never 'itch' to get rid of her, that much I know. "When are you doing this?"
"Friday. The lady who owns the unit is leaving for Florida on Saturday."
"I want to see the place to make sure it's safe."
"You don't have to do that. It is. They have a doorman and a concierge desk. Nobody gets into the building without a code. It's in a great neighborhood. I researched it. It's a great deal for me, close to my job. And, depending on our schedules, Dotty and I can ride in together."
I continue to eat in silence.
"I've dodged a bullet so far, Ty. But if Mr. Bartlett found out I'd moved in with you, he would have taken me off your story, and I don't want him to do that."
"I thought your story was done."
"Not by a long shot. There are parts of your life you're hiding from me. You never opened up about college or your home in Texas. I need to know about that."
Her statement gives me the opening into the topic I intended to discuss tonight. "What if I asked you to drop it."
"I can't do that, Ty."
"Even if I asked."
"I'm a journalist, you don't get to pick and choose what I write."
I can see she's dug in her heels. I'll have to come at her another way. Done eating, I climb off the stool, and take my plate to the sink. While I rinse the dish, I ask, "Will you at least do me a favor?"
"It depends."
"Could you let me read your article before it gets published?"
"Why?"
"I want to make sure you have your facts straight." If nothing else, at least I'll know ahead of time before the paper hits the streets.
"I'm going to find out something, aren't I?"
"Just promise me you'll let me read it."
"Okay. I guess I owe you that much."
That night, she doesn't come to my bed. Doubt she's getting much sleep. Sure as hell, I'm not.
