She sighed. “Why is it always Lucas? Press pause, Hollis.”
I stared at the app. “I don’t know how to press pause.”
“Well, then finish the Stanford story, because I have to rescue my kid from my husband’s brainiac friends.”
She stormed outside while I clicked around, looking for a pause button. Instead, I just ended up stopping the recording altogether. “A minisode,” I said to myself, and then followed her out.
I wasn’t three steps across the lawn when I saw Brooks.
He had parked his car at the curb and was heading toward me. I groaned. “They called you?”
He looked confused, then noticed the scene in Daisy’s yard. Daisy had one foot planted on the inflatable and was tugging Lucas’s feet with all her might, hopping along as the only movement she could seem to get was the ball turning.
“No, it looks like they have that under control,” he said.
The ball caught the downside of a little hill and took Daisy with it as it rolled to the curb. Lucas shrieked with hilarity. “I’m not so sure about that,” I said.
“Regardless, I’m here to see you.”
I noticed then that he was not wearing his uniform, but instead a stiff-looking pair of jeans with a pale green polo shirt. His hair was combed neatly, as if he’d paid it close attention. “What’s going on?” I asked warily. “I haven’t followed Paulie all day.” Because I plan to follow him tonight, I didn’t finish. There were just some things Brooks didn’t need to know.
“I’m not here about that, either,” he said.
“Okay. Then…why are you here?
He scratched one bicep, and then crossed his arms, tipped his chin up. His face was flushed—was he sweating? I fought the urge to grin. Why was he so darn cute?
“I’m here to ask you to dinner. Off the record. To make up for the one at FastNHotz.”
“You’re asking off the record, or dinner will be off the record?”
“Uh, both, I guess,” he said. He’d put product in his hair. And I was pretty sure he was wearing cologne.
“Why?”
He looked like he didn’t know how to answer that, which was fair because I didn’t know why I’d asked.
“What I meant to say was, where?”
“I was thinking Chinese,” he said. “Unless you don’t like Chinese food.”
“I do.” And I hadn’t had it since moving to Parkwood. An egg roll sounded as good as that cake inside. “When? Now? I don’t think I can—”
“No, I was thinking maybe Saturday.”
I chewed my bottom lip. Daisy had extracted Lucas, who was sweaty and breathless with laughter, but now Jake had jammed himself inside one upside down and was walking himself around the yard on his hands.
“And the why is because I don’t like the way we ended at FastNHotz the other day. I feel kinda like I owe you.” He spread his hands across his chest. “I’m not a bad guy, Hollis. I don’t like you thinking I am.”
“Mike Mueller, you’re in so much trouble,” Daisy seethed, rushing off to stop Willow from getting into a ball.
“And this is to talk about the case?” I asked. “Off the record, like you said, of course.”
He thought about it, then nodded. “Yeah, sure. If that’s what you want.”
Every cell in my body told me this was a bad idea. Having dinner with the enemy could only end with the enemy learning my battle plans and adjusting his troops accordingly.
At the same time, this was Brooks we were talking about—there were no battle plans to be found there. Even if the chief had some—and I doubted he did, beyond keep her out of my hair—Brooks was way too open to hide them from me successfully. Besides, he didn’t necessarily feel like the enemy. Not anymore.
I could learn a lot about the case.
I could learn something that would help me break it wide open.
I could report that I had an anonymous source and break the case wide open and establish myself—and the Knock ‘em Dead podcast—as a serious news outlet. A podcast to be reckoned with.
“I’ll pay for myself,” I said.
He looked a little crestfallen at that idea, but quickly recovered. “Okay. Seven?”
“I’ll be here.” And then for reasons I didn’t understand, I held my hand out.
Warily, he took it and shook it.
“I’ll see you on Saturday, then.”
Chapter 15
Mary Jean was back in the office the next day, and she looked horrible. She was pale and damp and her nose was red and raw. She winced every time she swallowed or yawned and kept patting her forehead with a tissue.
“Are you okay?” I asked as she suffered through the final draft of my hot dog roller story. “Maybe you should go home.”
She waved a tissue at me. “I’m fine. It’s just a little sore throat, and copy is due to printing by lunchtime. Can’t afford to get behind.”
“But you’re miserable. I think you may have the flu.”
“The news doesn’t get the flu.”
Fair point. The news doesn’t was a mantra among my colleagues in Chicago. The news doesn’t cry. The news doesn’t worry about blood. The news doesn’t get himself tossed from the President’s press conference for muttering unsavory nicknames loudly enough for the president to hear, Jimmy. I was definitely not one to criticize anyone for being single-minded in their pursuit of a good story.
“This will do,” she said at last. “I can tell you’re listening to yourself more. Email it. Have you seen Ernie?”
Yes, I had. Out in the parking lot, asleep in his car with a hoagie balanced on his stomach. “Nope. I think he’s out on a story.” You so owe me, Ernie.
“I don’t recall assigning him a story.” She scrunched her eyebrows together, then gave her head a slight shake. “I’m sure you’re right. Concentration is not my strength right now.” She opened her drawer, then wrestled unsuccessfully with the lid on a bottle of Tylenol.
“Looks to me like strength isn’t your strength today, either,” I said, taking the bottle
