Drew jerked awake. Shit, what time was it? Was he late?

He was halfway out of bed when he glanced at his ancient clock-radio. It was Sunday and before 8 a.m.; he didn’t have anywhere to be until noon. With a grateful sigh, he flopped back down and pulled a pillow over his head to block the light.

Every muscle ached. The past two days had felt like some of the longest of his life, with writing, doing interviews, watching the world meltdown, and being, for the first time, truly at the center of it. The administration was having a conniption, probably because Hadley Darlington was poised, brilliant, and ruthless. Some people were always going to distrust a whistleblower, of course, but she’d been deposed by the special prosecutor before going public and now she was telling a rational, terrifying story about corruption to anyone who would listen.

From a professional perspective, the story and follow ups had been good for Drew. Personally though…he wasn’t sure.

He’d chased a blockbuster to impress Steven, but this story would’ve broken without him. Darlington had been planning to go public, so people would have known about it no matter what. If Drew wrote this kind of thing all the time, who would write about cuts to Legal Aid?

And why couldn’t he get Brynn’s eyes—angry, hurt, accusing—out of his head?

Knowing sleep was a lost cause when he was thinking about Brynn, he got up and showered. Since he had a byline on the front page, he walked to a coffee shop down the street to get extra copies of MTL. His mom would want one, so would some of his aunts. He bought a bagel and coffee while he was at it and settled in to read about the city council’s goings on.

As he finished, someone sat across from him.

“Morning.” Brynn, in workout clothes and without a speck of makeup. Her cheekbones, her jawline, and the slope of her nose were emphatic against the morning light. The declaration of her, the economy—that was where her beauty was.

“Hey.” He gestured to the Chronicle, where she had a byline on page one as usual. “I liked your piece.”

“Thanks. Yours too. I was…” She licked her lips and glanced out the window, seeming to search for words. He wanted to stay in this moment when he could pretend what she was going to say would be happy.

“I needed to clear my head,” she said finally. “I went for a walk. I knew you lived near Logan Circle. I didn’t mean to come this way, but seeing you, I think maybe I did it to tempt serendipity.”

He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, but it was way too early in this conversation to feel hopeful. “I’m glad. I was going to text you.” He’d wanted to see her when they talked and they’d been too busy; that was why he’d waited. “I wasn’t happy with how we left things on Thursday. I gave you the wrong impression when we met. I don’t care about your sources.”

“Anymore.” She was never going to let him live that down.

“And not again. Things are different now.” He’d gotten what he wanted, and he knew it didn’t satisfy him.

“They’re different in ways that make this impossible, even if I could trust you. What happened with Lee—it’ll happen again.”

Except it might not. “What if I wasn’t reporting on the Hill or the White House?”

“Pardon?”

The muscles in his shoulders and thighs instantly relaxed. He was right, this was right. No matter if she’d give him a chance or not, he wanted to change focus.

“I’m a reporter. I care about whatever my editor points me toward. But sometimes, I feel like my eye is drawn to smaller stuff.”

“Like the cuts in the omnibus?” Her question was still pointed, but no longer dismissive.

“Yeah, but not the special prosecutor—which everyone will write about—but Legal Aid or Meals on Wheels. They’re small dollar amounts in the District, sure, but eliminating that funding would hurt people’s lives in big ways. Or maybe I should write about the city council or the school board. The lower levels of government.”

“You’re not going to be able to avoid bigger stuff, not after this.”

Drew exhaled. “Sure, and I’m going to write about what I hear. But if Steven and I can work it out, I don’t think these kinds of stories—” He pointed to the papers still on the table to indicate the big stuff, the stuff she wrote. “—are me.”

For four heartbeats Brynn chewed on this. “Why?”

“Because it’s not the career I want to have.”

“What if it’s the only way to have a career?”

He affected the Majority Leader’s accent: “I won’t address hypotheticals like that.”

She laughed, and the space between them changed, became warm and filled with possibilities.

He started playing with his napkin so he’d have something to do other than reach for her. “I can’t guarantee it’ll work. I only know it’s what I need to do.”

“Does it feel like walking away from something?” From how she said it, it was clear that was how she would feel. But even if this story wasn’t over for her didn’t mean it wasn’t for him.

“No, it feels like running toward myself.”

“Are you sure? Everyone wants the bigger fish.” Her words were skeptical—but tender.

“If you need a public defender and there isn’t one, that’s a pretty big fish. Where are those perspective changes you want?”

“Touché. But what if you hear something juicy and decide to write it? What then?”

“I probably will someday. But I hope by then we’re secure enough to get through it.” That was what he wanted: to write his stuff and to have her and to cheer her changing the world.

Another pause. An endless pause.

Then she gave a firm nod. “Okay.”

Okay…what?

But before he could ask, she stood. “I have to go home and shower before going back to work. Walk me?”

“Of course.” He got up and set his hand on the small of her back where it fit perfectly.

* * *

Trust was extra-logical. It was probably secreted by some otherwise vestigial organ, and thinking had little to do with it. As a reporter Brynn had a trust deficit. Skepticism was her default setting.

When Drew declared he was going to pursue different types of stories, though, it tasted honest, and a teaspoon of conviction spread in her veins. Brynn wanted to believe him. In point of fact, she already did. She couldn’t logic through it; it was how it was.

It probably helped that when Brynn had finally talked to Lee on Friday night it was obvious Lee had never considered the implications of giving Drew the document. For her, the dam had been about to burst, and lots of people needed to be there to soak up the spillover.

Brynn and Drew stopped at a red don’t walk sign, and she glanced at him. Wind ruffled his hair and the sun painted across his cheekbones, and she felt a little breathless.

“You realize this and dinner with you is the most time I’ve taken off in months.”

He shot her a look. “Are you trying to say you don’t have time for me? I’m not clingy.”

“I don’t think I’m warning you off.” She actually knew she wasn’t. “It’s more of a realization. Maybe I need more balance. The first year of this presidency was…intense. But it’s not ending anytime soon. Maybe we all need to pace ourselves.”

“Maybe.”

They talked about nothing in particular as they strolled down the street ceilinged with golden leaves, but he kept brushing his hand over her back and along her forearm. She wanted to protect her heart, but it was already too late.

They walked through the lobby of her building, up the stairs, and to her door.

“So.” She wasn’t quite able to make eye contact. His face was merely a gorgeous smear on the side of her vision. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Having dinner with you.”

“Good.”

He set one hand on her hip. “Can I get a preview?”

Her nod felt clumsy, but she tipped her head back to meet his and when his lips brushed against hers, the kiss felt inevitable and oh so right.

When he’d been questioning the Majority Leader, she’d memorized the shape of his mouth. The way it transformed when he talked. The sharp attractiveness camouflaging his smiles. The way his lips twitched when he was deciding what to say. She’d studied every detail—except the feel and taste.

Now she knew kissing him was a slide into a hot bath. Creeping heat starting in her toes and spreading upward. Another brush of their mouths, and she felt it on the back of her knees. The inside of her thighs. The bottom of her breasts. Cell by cell, he twisted her inside out.

She parted her mouth, just a little, and clung to his bottom lip. His answering gasp filled her with still more trust. He slid his free hand up her side, under her jacket and shirt, and stopped abruptly. The skin-to-skin contact was unbearably intimate, and it seemed to surprise them both.

After an instant of still shock, his fingers dug into her. She could feel the question there: Is this all right?

In response, she wrapped her arms around his neck. It wasn’t enough merely to touch her lips to his. She needed the reassurance, the weight, of all of him.

Open-mouthed, needy, but still slow, their kisses left Brynn breathless. Their clothing murmured as their bodies grappled to get closer. Her heartbeat ticked everywhere, and she was doubly, triply, aware of her corporality. This was why she had a body. She’d been misusing it for years.

When his tongue at last stroked into her mouth, she whimpered with gratitude, and they stumbled into the wall. He caged her in his arms to stop her from being crushed, and once they’d settled, he kissed her urgently.

This was a fall down a well, dizzy and endless. There was only the taste of him—like coffee and darkness—and the pressure of his hands and the flex of his hips against hers. Drew was the beginning and the end and every note in between.

Finally, their mouths broke apart, but they stayed tangled up. The air between them was electric, and she knew in a minute, she’d find her keys and take him inside to bed.

Against her temple he whispered, “If that’s the preview, I might not survive the main event.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll take it slow.”

“But there’s a ‘we’?”

“Yes.” She kissed him again. “God yes.”