My smile suddenly fades. Interview Lachlan? “Can’t I just, you know, write about him without actually talking to him?”
He stares at me like I’m a moron. “How will you know what to write if you don’t know him at all?”
“I could ask Bram,” I say hopefully.
“No,” he says. “You have to interview the guy. Why is this an issue? You should be jumping all over this. And then him.”
I tug at my hair nervously. “Well, it’s just that…he’s not, like, super friendly. Or talkative. And I don’t think he likes me.”
“You mean he hasn’t fallen for your charm yet?” he asks caustically.
I give him all the glares. “Not yet,” I tell him. “But it’s not like I was even trying last night.”
He shrugs. “So go try. You want this story, you have to work for it. Looks like writing it might be the easiest part.” He wiggles in his chair, all self-assured, seeming happy that I’ll learn what a hard job he actually has. I won’t give Neil the satisfaction.
“Fine, I will,” I say, then strut back to my office. I hear him hollering “Good luck!” behind me.
It isn’t until I get back to my desk that the butterflies start swarming in my stomach, and not the good kind. The nervous kind. Ugh. This is so unlike me.
Before I can think it over, I dial Bram’s number and hope I don’t catch him in the middle of doing something with Nicola. You can never predict her hours, nor their horniness.
“Kayla?” he asks, obviously surprised.
I plop down in my seat and wheel it away from Candace who is pretending not to watch me. The girl watches everything I do, like she’s taken job shadowing just a little too far.
“Yeah. Hi, Bram.”
“Did you talk to your boss?”
“I did, but listen…I’m going to write the article.”
“That’s fucking fantastic.”
“But I have to interview Lachlan, not you.”
He pauses. “Lach? Why? What’s wrong with me?”
“Because you’re not newsworthy.”
“And my cousin is?”
“Well yeah. I mean, have you seen him?”
“Have you seen me?”
“I have Bram. Sorry. You’re not my type.”
He snorts in disbelief. “Anyone with a cock is your type.”
“Hey!” I yell into the phone. Candace jumps and a pen clatters on her desk. “I’m telling you how it is. Now give me Lachlan’s number or there won’t be any kind of story on your apartment at all.”
“Okay, okay, fine,” he says quickly. “Calm your tits.”
“You calm your tits,” I retort. He gives it to me, and I write it down. It’s international, obviously.
“Can I just text him, since it’s long distance?” I ask.
“Sure,” says Bram. “But I think you’ll get more out of him if you talk in person. He’s not very talkative on the phone.”
“You don’t say.”
“Aye,” he says. “But listen, whatever you guys end up talking about, don’t ask Lachlan anything too personal, okay?”
I straighten up, my interest piqued. “Why?”
He sighs, loud and exaggerated. “Just don’t, Kayla. I know you. You’re all up in everyone’s faces and privates lives, and we all think it’s cute, but he’s not like that. If you be yourself, you’ll just scare him. He’s a private person. He’s got…well, just be professional. If you dig too deep, he’ll probably snap at you and you won’t get anything.”
“Snap at me?” I repeat. “Is he a dog?”
Or a beast?
“Eh,” Bram says. “He’s just guarded, and he has no time for bullshit. So keep the focus on what’s important.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Which is…”
Those lips. Those hands. Those eyes. But I say, “The housing situation.”
“Correct. Hey, did I ever say thank you for doing this?”
“No. You didn’t.”
Then I hang up on him before he gets a chance to say anything. He deserves it for that dig about how I shouldn’t be myself around Lachlan, as if my personality is some sort of plague.
Before I lose my nerve again, I enter the long ass number into my iPhone and text him. Well, actually I stare at the screen for a few minutes, then I type a few different sentences and erase them, and then I stare some more. Everything that Bram said about him makes me even more anxious than I was before. I mean, I can handle people. Believe me. I’m not afraid. But I’m out of my element here. I’m not a journalist, despite what I learned in school, and suddenly I feel a whole load of pressure on my shoulders.
Finally I text him: Hey, it’s Kayla, Nicola’s friend. I met you at the bar last night. Bram wanted my weekly magazine to do a story on the housing situation and my editor thought it would be a good idea if I interview you. Is that okay?
And then I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait.
Hours pass.
“Expecting a call?” Candace asks a little too brightly.
It’s about 4:30 p.m. now and I just looked at my phone for the one millionth time. I’ve also rechecked the phone number I wrote down. I’ve barely done anything today except wait for that damn response. I’m not very good at multi-tasking.