She was thirty-two, not a rookie anymore. She’d interviewed her fair share of famous people. Well, semi-famous people. Mayors, politicians, minor pop stars, and the occasional television celebrity chef. One of them had even hit on her, despite the fact that he’d brought his wife along to the interview. She never got bent out of shape about talking to people who were famous. Until now. Until Chris Malone. That had to be the explanation for the half-sick, half-thrilled feeling that was coursing through her veins and moistening her brow. She’d just spent an hour-long flight, thigh-to-thigh and shoulder-to-very-broad shoulder, with Chris in what felt like the world’s smallest plane. There was barely any room in front of the seat for his long legs so he had to spread them wide to fit into the tiny space, which meant he’d been forced to nudge up against her the whole flight. He smelt good, he felt good and, oh boy, did he send every nerve ending in her body thrumming louder than the plane itself.
