“A reporter?” he asked. I blinked at the cynicism in his voice. It hurt. Okay, not really, but it did leave me flummoxed. And I wasn’t easily flummoxed. Ye of little faith. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t want to be just a reporter. I want to be an investigative reporter.” He fought a sexy grin that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “So, being a private investigator, the owner of an apartment complex, part owner of a bar and grill, a consultant for the Albuquerque Police Department, part-time bartender, and the only grim reaper this side of the universe isn’t enough?” Ah. Suddenly, I understood his doubts. His misgivings. I put down my pen and notebook, placing them carefully on his slate coffee table, and turned back to him. This would take some explaining. Some finesse. And some more coffee because my cup was almost empty. “That’s my professional life. Professional.
