“Oh, isn’t it obvious? The company. Not sure Bishop is capable of meaningful human interaction.”
She was too relieved to respond.
“He requested you.”
“He what?”
“He requested you. You’re doing the interview. I didn’t even question it. When an ungettable guy agrees to something like this after nearly two years of trying, I don’t care if he wants the Ghost of Christmas Past doing the interview.
No. Fucking. Way.
Her mind was going in a million different directions, so she kept it simple.
“Why?”
“I think it’s obvious.”
The color left her face. Normally, she was the first person to think her looks were the reason for something, but this was Nathan Bishop. The most recent photo on his image search was of him with the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition cover model. This wasn’t about Emma’s looks, but it couldn’t be.... She huffed a breath and sat back in the unsteady chair.
“Why?” she repeated, feeling ridiculous.
“Um, because he has eyes in his head. And if this were still just a nickel-and-dime blog, I would add ‘and a dick in his pants.’ But we aren’t, so I can’t.”
“So, no illusions that I’m a talented upstart,” she replied blandly. In a strange irony, sometimes her looks were a blow to her ego, something Caroline deftly referred to as “the problems of the pretty.” She usually added a dramatic boohoo to emphasize her point.
“You are talented, but I doubt Nathan Bishop read your piece on arsenic levels in Sheepshead Bay.”
Emma shrugged her acknowledgment.
“Look, everybody has a way of getting their foot in the door. Me? I’m willing to risk a restraining order. You? Well...” he trailed off.
“So, take advantage of the fact that I’m attractive and go get the story of the summer?”
“Attractive isn’t even close to the word I’d use, but yes, take advantage of... this.” He gestured to her from head-to-toe and turned to his tablet. “And if you want to sue me, I’ll add your lawsuit to the pile. He wants you at,” he paused as he scrolled through the email, “noon tomorrow. Lunch in his office. If tomorrow is like every Friday, he will just be back from his weekly squash game—no doubt sweating out a hangover and sabotaging some unwitting political campaign.”
“I’ll be there.” She ignored the rest of Farrell’s comments, not because they bothered her, or even because she thought they were absurd, but because the first thing he said was ringing in her ears so sweetly that she didn’t want to let the sound go: he wants you.