David had never, not once in his life, encountered a human Muppet.

But there she was, waiting in the lobby of Bigelow Tower as she’d promised, golden brown curls dancing around her face. She was scanning the crowds, her head tilted and her brow creased in concentration as she bounced a little on the balls of her feet.

No attempt to appear calm. No pretense of sophisticated detachment.

Interesting.

The open neck of her paint-splattered olive coveralls revealed a white tank top and a hint of pale cleavage. Battered Chucks—also covered with drips of colorful paint—peeked out beneath the frayed hem of those coveralls.

As that oddly distracting cleavage indicated, she was clearly a human adult. But at first glance, she appeared to have no sharp edges to her, despite her slim frame. And all her features seemed just a bit too big to fit that expressive face.

A Muppet. Definitely a Muppet.

A wide, guileless smile plumped her cheeks as she caught sight of him, and she waved with great enthusiasm. Apparently, his ball cap and casual outfit had only served to disguise him from the doormen directed to eject him from the premises. He hadn’t fooled her for a moment.

No doubt her artist’s eye helped in such matters.

“Hey!” She rushed in his direction. “Mr. R—”

He held up a staying hand, tilting his head toward the nearest hotel employee. “Let’s talk somewhere else. Somewhere more private.”

Her pale blue eyes rounded into absurdly huge, bright orbs. “Of course. Let’s go to my room.” She wrinkled her nose, looking apologetic. “I wish we could meet outside the hotel, given the situation. But I got another Artify Yourself! commission this afternoon, and I need every spare minute to paint. No time for going somewhere else.”

As far as he knew, guest suites in Bigelow Tower weren’t surveilled in any way. Still, meeting in her room seemed…intimate. More than he’d anticipated. Maybe more than was wise.

“Are you sure? We can go to a nearby restaurant, or—”

She frowned. “You haven’t eaten? It’s almost nine at night.”

“No, but I’m fi—”

“We’ll get room service.” She nodded to herself, grabbed his arm, and began towing him to the elevator. “That’s the quickest way to get you fed.”

More paint on her fingers. He shouldn’t find those splotches of pink and green and yellow as charming as he did. And he definitely shouldn’t feel the imprint of each fingertip against his arm on a cellular level. Like she was changing his DNA with a single touch.

He didn’t manage to gather his thoughts enough to speak again until the elevator doors were closing on them. “Let me show you some identification before you take me to your room.”

She shook her head while he fumbled in his messenger bag for his wallet. “I know you.”

Did she? At the moment, he wasn’t entirely certain he knew himself.

“Still,” he said. “For safety’s sake.”

He showed her his badge from the Chronicle, and she took it from his hand. Not to compare the picture on it to his face, which was still shadowed beneath his ball cap. But to critique his identification photo, of all things.

“They had you standing in an awkward position.” One of those short, stained fingernails tapped against the picture. “You can see the tension in your neck. And the lighting…” She tsked. “That’s not doing anyone any favors. As handsome as you are, even a simple ID photo should make people slip in their own puddles of drool.”

Heat rose in his cheeks. Shit, when was the last time he’d blushed?

Had he ever blushed?

He cleared his throat and retreated to the familiar safety of his work. “Thank you for meeting me tonight. I apologize for not being able to arrive sooner.”

“No problem. You were busy. First you had a meeting with…him.” Her nose wrinkled. “And then I guess you probably had to write your article about the interview.”

He dipped his chin, considering the extent of her knowledge. Yes, she’d clearly had some recent contact with Bigelow. Only the man, his closest advisors, David, and David’s editor had known about that meeting beforehand.

“You discussed the interview with him?”

Those enormous eyes rolled to the ceiling. “He mentioned it, but we didn’t discuss it. Do I seem like the sort of person who’d strike up casual conversation with a man who wants to strip away my healthcare and deport my friends?”

The doors opened on the floor she’d chosen, and she led the way down the lengthy hall.

“I don’t know.” He kept his voice neutral. “Are you?”

Her long stride turned into more of a stomp. “Rude.”

“I don’t mean to be impolite, but I need to know—”

“I thought you wanted privacy for this conversation.” She swiped her key card against a door’s sensor, and it flashed green. “Or did you forget?”

She sounded pleased by the notion. And goddammit, she wasn’t wrong. He had forgotten, and a hotel hallway wasn’t the place for this discussion.

How had she thrown him off his game so quickly after a decade and a half at the Chronicle? He’d interviewed difficult people before. Hell, he’d done so mere hours ago. But even Bigelow’s bluster hadn’t shaken him the way Jenny Meyers’s breezy disposition did.

“You’re right.” Over the years, that two-word sentence had ceased clinging quite so hard to his throat. It never got easy to say, but a man of almost forty either had to acknowledge his mistakes or risk remaining a boy in a man’s body. “Thank you for the reminder.”

She held the door for him. “After you.”

The barrier closed behind them with a quiet snick, and he took his time scanning her room. He couldn’t suppress a small smile at the sight.

Books everywhere. Some sort of bouncy, guitar-driven music playing on the clock radio. An occasional item of clothing tossed over a chair or table. Tarps on the floor. A folding easel and two canvases turned toward the wall. What appeared to be her painting supplies, including various cups filled with a million different, brilliant shades of purple and pink and green and blue and yellow and every other color under the sun.

She didn’t belong in this generic room, full of gilt trappings over standard hotel conveniences. He could see her in a loft with four roommates, or in a carnival of some sort. Hell, he could see her on a farm better than he could see her here, surrounded by the pretense of luxury.

If she was an associate of Bigelow’s, David would tear up his Harvard diploma.

But she’d been in close contact with the candidate in recent days, and he needed to know why. Needed to know what she’d learned and why she suspected the Bigelow Foundation of illegal dealings.

After slipping off her Chucks, she plopped down on the couch and arranged herself cross-legged on the cushion. Looking up at him, she beamed again and patted the seat next to her.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

But, helpless to resist the welcome in her eyes—Christ, those eyes. Had she stolen them from a cartoon princess? Because really, what the actual fuck?—he put his messenger bag on the floor, removed his cap, and settled next to her. Not touching, but close enough to do so easily if he chose.

Which he wouldn’t. He definitely wouldn’t.

“Here you go.” She pressed a menu into his hands. “Meal’s on me. Or, more accurately, Bigelow, since he’s paying my expenses.”

He kept his eyes on the cream-colored paper for a minute, but he wasn’t reading.

Had he mistaken the situation? Bigelow was known for his roving eye, but the women with whom he’d dallied in the past hadn’t resembled Jenny. Not in any way.

Time to act like the professional he’d been up until about ten minutes ago.

He set aside the menu and produced his iPhone from his pocket. “I’m going to record this conversation. Is that all right?”

“Ummm…” She stared down at the device, deep lines appearing between her brows. “Nope. Not all right.”

“Okay.” He put the phone down on the table in front of them. “Can you tell me why?”

“I want our chat off the record. Is that possible?”

Possible, but far from optimal. “Yes. Although I may try to persuade you to change your mind.”

The frown promptly vanished. “Really? That sounds exciting.”

He closed his eyes and prayed for strength.

“Mr. Redi? David? Are you okay?” Her warm hand skimmed his forehead. “You don’t feel hot.”

But he was. Incredibly, he was.

“Maybe you just need a standard grilled chicken sandwich that costs thirty-five dollars and comes in a monogrammed gold foil wrapper.” She lifted the receiver of a nearby phone and pushed a button. “I can supply that.”

He took the receiver from her hand as gently as possible and replaced it in the cradle. “I’m fine. Let’s talk first.”

“Are you sure?” She leaned close, scanning his face. “I don’t want you passing out on me. The Chronicle would probably raise my subscription rate if I let their star reporter swoon from hunger.”

He tried not to roll his eyes. “I’m not on the verge of swooning. And trust me, I’m no star reporter.”

“Could have fooled me.” She seemed to be staring at the line of his cheekbone, her gaze intent on that single feature. Picturing how she could paint it? “Your stories are singlehandedly responsible for that subscription I just mentioned. And lots of my friends subscribed because of your work too. The ones who didn’t subscribe just to stare at your byline photo longingly, that is.”

He licked suddenly dry lips, and her gaze lowered to his mouth.

Shit. He was in serious trouble.

Before meeting her, he’d located pictures of her online from a few years back. He should have known what to expect. But somehow, in person, the sheer force of personality that surrounded her like a magnetic field proved overwhelming in a way he hadn’t ever experienced.

She was beautiful in an entirely unconventional way. A long, prominent nose, a high forehead, and those enormous eyes dominated her face. She didn’t have the strongest jawline he’d ever seen, either.

But by God, he was orbiting her like a lonely electron.

Countless grueling months of covering the Bigelow campaign had clearly taken their toll on his equilibrium, because no woman had commanded his absolute attention or flustered him like this in years. He couldn’t explain it, and he definitely shouldn’t be enjoying it.

But he was. And that wasn’t professional of him. Not in the slightest.

He eased further away from her. “I don’t need dinner, although I appreciate the offer.” His cell phone was still sitting on the table in front of them, and he tapped the screen. “Why don’t you want this conversation recorded?”

“Those reasons are personal. And they’re not relevant to the information I have for you.” Her chin tipped up. “So do you want that information or not?”

He wanted to kiss that stubborn mouth until it unpinched and she was beaming at him again. Wanted to replace the wariness in those enormous pale blue eyes with pleasure. Wanted to unzip the front of her coveralls, find the other places paint had splattered on her pale skin, and lick every single spot.

Above all else, he wanted to forget his job and chase his own happiness.

But becoming romantically attached to a source with information about Larry Bigelow could destroy his credibility. The scandal-prone, demagogic presidential candidate and his followers hurled accusations of bias at David already, ones tinged with insinuations about how his race affected his reporting.

He needed to remain above reproach. Squeaky-clean.

Until ten minutes ago, that had never proven difficult.

Time to give in and move on. “All right. This conversation is hereby off the record. Tell me how you came to encounter Larry Bigelow, and why you think he’s misusing his foundation’s funds.”

“It’s kind of a longish story. Let’s get some food.” She handed him the menu again. “There’s a pizza that costs fifty bucks and has inexplicable flecks of gold leaf on the mozzarella. Or a standard burger with the initials LVB seared onto the bun and something called Bigelow’s Special Sauce on it. It’s white and creamy and potentially his sperm, so I’d definitely get that on the side.”

He choked and began to cough.

She patted his back and kept talking. “And they serve breakfast all day. I’m pretty sure my toast had his face on it this morning, although I could have been hallucinating that, like those people who see Jesus in their pita chips.”

Rising to her feet, she went to the mini-fridge and brought him a bottle of water with a gold seal. As he twisted open the top, she added, “It’s the Bigelow brand, but don’t worry. It tastes like normal water, only greedier and with more egregious self-tanner habits.”

Now he was choking on his water as he laughed and coughed at the same time. He had the distinct feeling that if he remained in Jenny Meyers’s company, he’d often find himself in a similar position.

Oh, Lord. No thinking about positions when she was so damn close, still patting his back and looking both pleased by his laughter and concerned by his coughing.

When he quieted, she removed her hand and tapped the menu. “Anyway, what would you like to order for dinner? I’m going to have the crab cakes, which feature neither Bigelow’s baby batter nor his face emblazoned on a bun. I know that for a fact.”

His job. He needed to do his job. But damn it, he was hungry. And if he paid for his own meal, even a stickler couldn’t consider that an ethical compromise.

He closed his eyes and made the decision. “Make that two crab cake dinners.”

“Awesome!”

That larger-than-life smile of hers nearly blinded him. She was the sexiest Muppet in the history of humanity, no doubt about it.

Still, when she grabbed the phone to order room service, he held up his hand. “But no charging our meals to the room. I have cash, and I’ll pay for us both.”

“Why would you pay? Like I said, Bigelow is picking up the hotel expenses.” Then realization seemed to dawn, and her eyes rounded. “Oh, wait. I didn’t even think about the conflict of interest angle. Yeah, you’d better pay for your own dinner.”

He inclined his head. “If I’m reporting on him, I’m not going to charge my meals to his account. And consider your meal a thank you for meeting with me so late.”

“Are you sure?” Her smile had softened and turned warm. “That’s such a sweet offer, but I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

Basking in the warmth of her regard, he smiled back. “You’re not taking advantage of me. Go ahead and make the call, Jenny.”

While she gave their order, he corralled his wayward thoughts, steering them toward business concerns. He’d eaten dinner with other sources before, and he would again. This meal was nothing personal. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that should worry him.

As soon as she’d replaced the phone in the cradle, he picked up a pen and the notebook he’d stashed in his messenger bag. “While we’re waiting, let’s get to work.”

That work had filled his days and so many empty nights for years now. Ever since the divorce ten years ago. Work never failed to distract him, and it never complained about his long hours. In fact, the more time he spent working, the more accolades he received.

His work was all he required for a contented life. Period.

Those pale blue eyes, crinkled at the corners with her smile, were trained on him. “Where do you want me to start?”

She was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, her knee a scant inch away from his. Close enough to feel her body heat. Close enough that he wanted to erase the distance, tug her close, and discover whether her promise of warmth was a tease or reality.

He knew better than to follow that impulse. Above all else, he was a professional.

But given his natural curiosity and need for answers, he couldn’t help but ask himself a simple question: If all he needed in his life was work, why did the mere presence of Jenny Meyers make that life feel so…colorless?