I grasp her hand. It’s warm, maybe slightly sweaty. She does seem dressed a bit too warm for the weather. Combat boots, jeans, a white tank top and a leather jacket. She also doesn’t look like any writer I’ve come across. “A writer for who?” I ask.
“For whom,” she corrects. Then laughs, looking away as she pulls her hand back. “Sorry, I know English isn’t your first language. I must seem like such a brat.”
“You’re not and don’t be sorry,” I tell her and then gesture to the seat beside me. “Please, have a seat.” I pause and watch as she plops down beside me, immediately putting her boots up on the back of the chair in front of her.
“This is nice,” she says, hands folded behind her head and completely at ease. She looks around idly. “Do y’all always hang out here?”
She’s a curious young thing. “In the stands?”
“Yeah. Most interviews I’ve done have been in an office, maybe the locker room or media room.”
I study her. A button nose, full lips painted red, making her wide mouth the focal point. Pale skin that glows against her dark hair. “How many interviews have you done, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She rolls her eyes. “Why? Because I look too young to have any experience? Or because I don’t look like your typical sports journalist?”
“Both.”
She laughs, a hearty guffaw that comes from her belly. It makes me smile.
“I like your honesty. That will be good for the interview, at the very least.”
“So what publication are you with?” I ask her.
For a moment she looks sheepish, or maybe shy, though I already can’t imagine her ever being the latter. “My own, actually. I decided to start my own sports blog, focusing on travel and football. In fact, I only got to Portugal a week ago.” She pauses, meeting my eyes and holding them for a long second. “You’re my first interview.”
My brows raise.
She places her hands on my knee, just for a second, as she leans in, as if she’s confiding in me. Her hair swings in front of her face and I have to keep my eyes glued to hers so I don’t look down her shirt.
It’s extremely hard not to.
“Listen,” she says quickly, “you’re my first interview for the blog. Not in general. I went to the University of Houston, wrote tons for the sports paper. I’ve done all the stuff I needed to do. But, see, soccer…sorry, football, is my life and it’s just not taken seriously enough back home. I needed to come to Europe. I needed to find my own opportunities.”
“That’s very admirable.”
She laughs again and leans back. “Yeah. Or stupid. But either way, here I am.”
“Here you are,” I tell her.
It’s rather amusing because my brother has only recently started acting as my agent, and he’s been adamant about getting me only the best opportunities. This means big publications and appearances at key events and talk shows, etc. It doesn’t mean first-time blogs with someone fresh out of university.
But looking at Ruby, I know exactly why Marco said yes to her.
Because my brother is a womanizer and Ruby is young and gorgeous.
Because I know he’s already asked her out and if he hasn’t, he’s going to do it right after this interview.
I would have a word with him about that but, since I actually don’t mind being in Ruby’s company, I decide to let it go.
Until the next time he does this.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, squinting her eyes as she studies me. She’s leaning forward again, elbows propped on her knees, really looking at me, like she’s trying to read the truth.
“Not at all.”
One final squint and then she nods, smacking her palms against her thighs.
“Okay! So, let’s get rolling.” She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out an iPhone, putting on a microphone app. “Tell me, Luciano Ribiero, where were you born?”
I bristle slightly. We’re going way back here. She should know enough about my past to not need to cover it.
“Is that a bad question?” she asks, frowning.
“Have you done any research about me at all?”
She smiles and it makes my dick move.
Shit. This couldn’t be more inappropriate.
“Done any research?” she asks. Her voice becomes even throatier. “I’m your biggest fan.”
Now I have to laugh. “You are not.”
“I am. I am. I swear on my mother’s rosaries, it’s true.”
“Your mother’s rosaries?”
“She was hugely Catholic. Before she started doing meth. She’s in prison now but I’m not ready to call her a relapsed Catholic just yet. Not sure if there’s anything besides God in jail.”
I start to smile, because surely she must be joking, but she looks completely serious. I stop myself.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She waves her hand at me, her chipped red nail polish catching the last rays of the sun. “This is about you. You were born in Lisbon, right?”
“Yes. Technically Cascais, just outside. Have you been?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ll have to go. It’s beautiful.”
“Maybe I will.” She pauses and gives me such a loaded look that I can’t tell if this is her way of getting me to tell her I’ll bring her there, because it won’t take much coaxing. She clears her throat and gives me a quick smile. “I have done my research about you, I just like to hear it from your mouth. You’d be surprised how often the internet is wrong about everything.”
“You can say that again.”
Another soft smile. “So, you were born in Cascais, to Alice and Duarte Almada.”
A smile before the blow of my father’s name.
“Don’t worry, I won’t talk about your birth father,” she says. “I know that must be uncomfortable for you. He left when you were, what, six?”
“Four.”
“That must have been hard.”
I stare at her. Usually when we go down this path in interviews, the journalist has to fake sympathy. Not so much
