EMMA
I drag Thatcher Stag through the office by the lapels of his blazer, only partially wondering why he's more dressed up today to come to the Post's headquarters than he was at his damn art opening. Once we reach the lobby, I let go of him and start laying into him. "Look, I don't know what you heard or what you are thinking, but you can't be here right now. I'd prefer if you left."
The asshole grins at me. "From what I heard, your boss wants you talking to me. Pronto. Asking me in depth questions. Sounds like it could take hours…"
I can only roll my eyes. Because of course he's right. I stomp my foot in frustration. I need to talk to this dickhead. At least he smells amazing, I think, immediately angry at myself for noticing. "Look," I say, "there's no place here to do an interview and I'd feel safer speaking with you in a public place. Can you meet me in the library on Federal in a half hour?"
"No." He smiles.
"What do you mean 'no'? I thought you just said you were here to talk to me."
"I've got conditions," he says.
I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms. "I'm absolutely not sleeping with you, so you can get that out of your head right the hell now."
He laughs. "Nothing like that, doll. I do need a favor, though."
I glance over at reception to see if Mindy is listening. Of course she is. Thatcher notices this, too, and says, "Walk me to my truck and I'll tell you what I have in mind."
I think about it for a few minutes, while watching him grow visibly uncomfortable. Before I open my mouth to talk again, he holds out a cardboard box. "I brought you something," he says. "By way of apology for my behavior last night."
Well, this is unexpected. "Thank you," I say. I crack open the box, peering past the lid, and then I gasp as I pull out a glass cluster of neurons. The work is exquisite, delicate. The bundle of nerve endings splays out blue and black from the stem in the middle. This is exactly how I always imagined things looked inside me. Exactly! How could he possibly know to give this to me? "Who told you about me?" My voice quivers more than I intended, and his face softens.
"Nobody said anything about you, Emma. I just thought you'd like this enough to accept my apology and hear me out. So will you walk with me a minute?" He rubs a hand through his beard, nervously.
I can only nod, tucking the glass back into the box. "Can I go stick this on my desk? I don't want to drop it and break it."
"So you like it then?" He raises his eyebrows, hopeful, and I can't help but smile. He looks like a kid who just made something for his parents. It's endearing to me that he cares whether I like his art.
My voice is a whisper when I tell him, "I love it, Thatcher." I rush off down the hall and slide the box across my desk. I grab my messenger bag and shove my laptop and digital recorder inside. I nod toward the doors and Thatcher walks with me.
Once we're outside, he leans against a battered old truck and says, "So here's the thing." He runs his hands through his beard again. "I'm in some deep shit with my family…and I'm just going to cut right to the chase. I need someone to pretend she's my fiancé until after my brother's wedding."
I wait a beat for him to laugh, tell me he's joking. Get to the real favor. He doesn't. "So…what now? You want me to pretend I'm going to marry you?"
He nods. "I promise I will give you unfettered access to me, and my studio, and I'll answer your questions without cracking jokes. You show up to, like, 2 family dinners with me and be my date for my brother's wedding and we'll call it even."
"Are you serious right now? That plan is absurd. And besides, a month of acting like I can tolerate you is way more effort than you answering my questions about glass in the gardens."
Now the mischievous grin returns and I feel myself wanting to slug him again. "It doesn't sound like your boss will like it very much if I clam up and refuse to talk to you."
Shit. He's right. I'm in deep trouble with Phil. He made that pretty clear in his office. I exhale slowly through my nose and Thatcher just stares at me, like he's studying me, and it makes me uncomfortable.
"I'll tell you what," he says. "I'll get you an in for another story that would be great for the Post, and I'll make sure you're the only reporter with access."
"What story is that," I ask, chewing on the inside of my cheek. He tells me that the woman his brother is going to marry is an Olympic gold medalist for rowing and that she has helped shift the mission of his other brother's law firm. "How many Stag brothers are there?" I ask, trying to keep it all straight. He grins and holds up 3 fingers.
"Tim is the oldest and runs Stag Law, which represents professional athletes and helps fight for equity for women in athletics, the arts…anywhere that gets federal Title 9 funds. And if you want to know more you'll have to agree to help me and talk with Juniper, because that is all I understand about what she does." He sticks his thumbs in his belt loops, looking like he's none too comfortable. What he's proposing sounds absolutely crazy…but he's right that I need this story. And it sounds like this pitch about his sister in law would be amazing to research and write.
I sigh, letting the air and frustration out of my entire body, and groan. "All right, Stag. I'll do it."
"Oh thank god," he says, visibly relaxing. He hands me his card with the address for his studio. We make a plan to meet there a bit later, and I text Phil that I'll have the revision for him tomorrow. Thatcher says we can hammer out the details for our pretend engagement over dinner later, and I agree to let him buy.
"But I am not sleeping with you. We need to clear that up right away."
He laughs. "I promise I will be on my best behavior." He opens the door to his truck and swings in, then rolls down the window and leans out halfway. "Unless you want me to misbehave." He winks, and I wish I had something to throw at him. But my imagination also flashes to images of Thatcher misbehaving with me, and I feel a flutter in my tummy.
"Get the hell out of here," I yell after him as he peals out, laughing. This is going to be a long month.