Hearts On Record

Sophie Rowan had stopped listening to breakup playlists two weeks ago, but only because she'd run out of tears, not because she was healing. Her Spotify algorithm, loyal to a fault, still served her slow, aching ballads like an emotional ambush. Every time Taylor Swift crooned about betrayal or being replaced, Sophie's chest tightened, her stomach twisting as if someone had reached inside and wrung her out like a cloth that had already given everything it had. The worst part was not the sadness anymore. It was the exhaustion. Grief had settled into her bones, heavy and dull, turning simple tasks; showering, answering texts, getting dressed; into negotiations with herself. She had not cried that morning. She took that as progress, even if it just meant the hurt had gone quiet and sharp instead of loud. She shoved her phone into her coat pocket as she stepped out of the rain and into the Manchester Gazette newsroom. The familiar hum met her immediately, keyboards clacking, printers sputtering, the low murmur of voices and the occasional dramatic sigh from an overworked editor. Normally, it grounded her. Normally, it reminded her who she was outside of being someone's almost-wife.

Today, it only reminded her she had not slept. Again.

Sleep had become something Sophie remembered rather than something she experienced. Every night she climbed into the bed that had once been shared, pulling the duvet up to her chin as though it could fill the space her fiancée had left behind, only to spend hours staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling. The silence was unbearable. There was no soft laughter drifting in from the bathroom, no absent minded hum as someone brushed their teeth, no warm body reaching for her in the dark. Instead, the flat settled around her with unfamiliar groans and creaks, each one sounding louder in the early hours. Her mind replayed the final weeks of their relationship with relentless precision; the unanswered messages, the strained conversations, the engagement ring left sitting on the kitchen counter like an accusation, and the moment she'd discovered that the woman she'd planned to marry had fallen in love with someone else. Every memory arrived uninvited, sharp enough to steal whatever exhaustion she'd managed to build throughout the day.

By three in the morning she would usually surrender, padding barefoot into the kitchen to make tea she rarely drank, watching rain slide down the window while the city slept without her. Dawn always came too soon, washing pale grey light across the room and reminding her that she'd survived another night without really resting at all. She'd become an expert at hiding the evidence — concealer beneath tired eyes, coffee replacing breakfast, a practiced smile for colleagues; but beneath it all she felt permanently exhausted, as though grief had settled into her bones and refused to loosen its grip. Every sleepless night convinced her a little more that this was simply who she was now: the woman left awake long after the rest of the world had found peace.

Her blonde bob was still damp from the rain, curling slightly at the ends the way it always did when she didn't bother with a hairdryer. Her blue eyes were shadowed, bruised with fatigue, but there was something stubborn in them too. Determined. Defiant. She'd promised herself she would stop looking like someone had taken a sledgehammer to her heart. If she could just look normal, maybe she'd start to feel it.

She made it halfway to her desk before the ache flared again, uninvited, an image of a ring box, unopened, still tucked in the back of her bedside drawer. She'd never thrown it away. She wasn't ready to decide what it meant yet.

She'd just sat down when her editor, Marla, came striding out of her office like a storm front in sensible heels.

At 9:00 a.m., especially for a feature journalist like Sophie, she'd likely already be settled into her morning routine before being interrupted. She'd have checked emails, scanned the news wires, looked through the day's diary, spoken to colleagues over coffee, and started researching or writing her next feature. Since she's portrayed as organised and dedicated, Marla interrupting her routine makes the assignment feel even more urgent.

"There she is," Marla announced, her voice bright enough to cut through the steady chorus of tapping keyboards and ringing telephones. "My favourite journalist who owes me a story."

"I turned in the charity gala piece yesterday," Sophie said, reaching for her cooling mug of coffee.

"Which was excellent," Marla replied, stopping in front of Sophie's desk with the unmistakable expression that meant she was about to ruin someone's carefully planned morning. "But I need you to take a last-minute assignment."

Sophie glanced at the digital clock glowing in the corner of her monitor.

**09:02.**

She raised an eyebrow.

"It's nine in the morning."

"Exactly."

"Which means I've barely had enough coffee to deal with the assignment I already had."

Marla's grin wasn't smug or self-satisfied; it was knowing. The kind of smile Sophie had learned to both dread and adore over the three years they'd worked together. It usually meant one of two things: Marla was about to hand her an impossible deadline or a story that would make Sophie remember exactly why she'd fallen in love with journalism in the first place. More often than not, it was both.

Sophie couldn't help the small smile that answered it. For all the dramatic sighs and playful complaints she offered whenever Marla appeared at her desk with that look on her face, she adored her editor. Marla had been the first person at the Manchester Gazette to believe she was capable of more than council meetings and community notices. She'd fought for Sophie to cover bigger stories, trusted her instincts when others questioned them, and never hesitated to challenge her when she knew Sophie was playing it safe. There were days Marla drove her to distraction, piling work onto an already overflowing schedule or calling just as Sophie was about to leave for the evening with the words, "One quick thing." Yet there was never any malice in it. Everything Marla did came from an unwavering belief that Sophie could handle more than she realised herself. That grin, as infuriating as it sometimes was, had become something Sophie associated with opportunity. It was the look Marla wore before assigning her stories that scared her, stretched her, and ultimately made her a better journalist. So although Sophie rolled her eyes for effect, she could already feel the familiar spark of anticipation beginning to replace her irritation.

"What is it?" she asked, trying—and failing—to sound reluctant.

Marla's smile widened.

"There she is," she said. "That's the reporter I was hoping to see."

Sophie sighed dramatically, though the familiar flutter of curiosity was already beginning to replace her annoyance. Marla only wore that smile when she knew she was about to hand Sophie a story she wouldn't be able to refuse.

"There’s an interview at eleven. So drink a coffee, or two, and get to work."

Sophie's shoulders tensed. "Interview with who?"

Marla's mouth curved into that grin again, the one that meant you can protest, but it won't matter. "Jane Vale."

Sophie nearly dropped her coffee. The lid rattled dangerously. "The Jane Vale? Internet phenomenon, queen of unfiltered vlog confessionals and dry humour? That Jane Vale?"

"That's the one," Marla said. "She's in Manchester for a live event tonight. Publicist approved one interview, and you" she poked Sophie's shoulder "are going."

Sophie swallowed. Heat crept up her neck, a mixture of nerves and something sharper. "Marla... I'm fine, but-"

"I know you've had a rough month." Marla's voice softened, just a fraction, before snapping back into professional efficiency. "But you're good at this. And this could get you out of whatever swamp of emotions you've been drowning in."

Swamp was generous. This felt more like quicksand.

Sophie opened her mouth to argue about the timing, about the fact she'd barely slept more than a few hours in weeks, about how her concentration had become a fragile thing that disappeared the second her mind wandered. That she was surviving on coffee and stubbornness, and neither were proving particularly effective. Sophie wanted to volunteer anyone else to do the interview but her.

Her mouth remained slightly open; the argument poised on the edge of becoming words. But then she looked at Marla.

Her editor wasn't tapping her foot impatiently or checking her watch. She was simply standing there, coffee in hand, watching Sophie with quiet understanding. There was no frustration in her expression, only the gentle patience of someone who knew grief didn't keep office hours.

The fight drained out of Sophie before it had even begun. She closed her mouth again and let out a slow, tired breath through her nose.

"Where?" she asked instead, because asking anything else felt too close to breaking.

"Hotel Aurelia. Penthouse suite." Marla winked. "Don't fangirl. Please."

Sophie groaned weakly. "I don't fangirl."

"You absolutely do."

~~~

Hotel Aurelia was the kind of place that made Sophie feel underdressed just by existing inside it. The marble floors gleamed beneath warm amber lighting, polished to such a perfect shine that she could almost see her own reflection beneath her feet. Everything smelled faintly of expensive perfume and fresh lilies arranged in towering crystal vases throughout the lobby. Gold accents framed doorways and mirrors with an elegance that somehow managed to feel tasteful despite being undeniably extravagant. Somewhere nearby, a pianist drifted through a slow jazz standard, the notes soft enough to disappear beneath the muted conversations of impeccably dressed guests. The chandelier suspended above the reception desk looked like it cost more than her yearly salary. Possibly her emotional stability, too.

Bellhops glided across the lobby with effortless precision, wheeling designer luggage behind them while reception staff greeted guests with smiles so perfectly rehearsed they bordered on theatrical. Sophie had never really thought about bellhops before. In fact, she wasn't entirely sure she'd ever actually seen one in Manchester. She'd stayed in plenty of hotels for work—usually the sort where the receptionist handed you a key card, pointed vaguely toward the lifts and hoped you'd remembered to ask about breakfast—but this was different. Here, people appeared the moment you looked even vaguely inconvenienced, ready to carry your bags, open doors, call cars and somehow anticipate needs Sophie hadn't even realised she had. She watched a man in a perfectly pressed uniform sweep past with three enormous suitcases stacked on a trolley, each one looking as though it cost more than her entire wardrobe.

Bellhops.

Apparently, they were a thing.

She wasn't sure whether to be impressed or slightly embarrassed that she found the whole concept fascinating.

Even the air-conditioning felt expensive. It wasn't simply cold; it was cool in a carefully controlled, luxurious way, carrying the faint scent of white flowers and something citrusy that Sophie suspected probably had a name far more sophisticated than lemon. The temperature was perfect, the lighting flattering, the carpets immaculate.

Everything about Hotel Aurelia seemed designed to quietly remind Sophie that there were people in the world who lived very differently from her. And, apparently, Jane Vale was one of them.

Sophie tightened her grip on her notebook. She'd interviewed politicians in Westminster, grieving families in cramped terraced houses, charity organisers working out of church halls and CEOs whose offices overlooked the Manchester skyline.

Yet somehow luxury hotels always unsettled her. Everyone seemed to know exactly how they were supposed to behave except her.

She caught her reflection in the mirrored wall beside the lifts. Dark blazer. Cream blouse. Black tailored trousers. Sensible ankle boots. Professional. Respectable. Entirely appropriate. If you ignored the way her shoulders curved inward ever so slightly, as though some part of her was still expecting another blow.

Another conversation ending with I'm sorry. Another person choosing someone else.

She inhaled slowly and rolled her shoulders back. Appear confident. Even if you have to fake it.

The lift doors opened with barely a sound.

Inside, the walls were mirrored, making the small space feel impossibly large. Soft instrumental music drifted through hidden speakers as the doors slid shut and the lift began its smooth ascent toward the penthouse suite. Sophie pulled her notebook from beneath her arm. Not because she needed it, but because routine was comforting. Research was comforting. Facts were easier than feelings. She flicked through the pages she'd filled over the last hour.

Jane Vale:

• Age twenty-eight.

• Internet star.

• Twenty-three million followers across multiple platforms.

• Athletic.

• Funny.

• Five-foot-ten.

• Tall enough to dominate every photograph without ever seeming to try.

• Famously private.

Which, Sophie had discovered, was almost laughably contradictory.

Jane posted something nearly every day.

• Morning gym sessions filmed through fogged mirrors.

• Coffee runs where she chatted absent-mindedly to the camera like she was calling an old friend.

• Behind-the-scenes snippets from photoshoots.

• Failed baking attempts that ended with smoke alarms and helpless laughter.

• Travel vlogs.

• Workout routines.

• Book recommendations.

She invited millions of people into carefully curated moments of her life. And yet...Nobody seemed to know her.

The more Sophie had researched, the stranger it had become. Every interview reached the same conclusion. Jane had mastered the impossible balance of making people feel close to her without ever allowing them close enough to hurt her. There were no public relationships. No tabloid break-ups. No family scandals. No drunken nights out caught by paparazzi. Whenever interviewers edged toward questions about romance or her private life, Jane smiled, that slightly crooked smile that had become almost as recognisable as her name and redirected the conversation so gracefully that people rarely realised she'd avoided answering altogether.

One article described her vibe as "soft chaos meets seductive enigma."

Sophie had actually laughed out loud when she'd read that.

What does that even mean?

She'd read on anyway.

Apparently, it meant someone capable of posting a video of herself accidentally setting fire to garlic bread one day before appearing at Paris Fashion Week in an impeccably tailored black suit the next, looking like she'd stepped straight out of a film.

Another publication compared her to Carmilla Karnstein from the cult web series.

Mysterious. Darkly charming. Magnetic. A little dangerous.

Sophie had rolled her eyes.

"Dangerous," she had muttered to herself in the newsroom. "She posts workout videos and cries over rescue dogs."

Still... She couldn't entirely dismiss it.

There was something undeniably compelling about Jane, even through a phone screen.

The photographs all captured the same thing—that quiet confidence that never tipped into arrogance. She looked comfortable wherever she was. Like she belonged equally in luxury hotels, crowded gyms or sitting cross-legged on her kitchen floor eating takeaway after midnight.

Dark hair brushed past her shoulders in loose waves. Sharp cheekbones softened by an almost permanent look of amusement. Tattooed forearms that appeared and disappeared depending on whether she wore rolled-up sleeves or fitted jackets. And those eyes... Even in still photographs they seemed alive, always fixed on something just outside the frame, as though someone had just said something that genuinely amused her.

The internet knew what coffee she ordered.

What trainers she wore.

Her favourite gym.

The songs she listened to while running.

But nobody seemed to know who she called when she had a bad day. Whether she was afraid of anything. Whether she ever got lonely. Whether the woman who laughed so easily online was the same woman who existed after the cameras were switched off.

For someone followed by millions... She remained an enigma.

The lift chimed softly.

Penthouse.

Sophie closed her notebook with a quiet snap and tucked it beneath her arm. She wasn't here to solve the mystery of Jane Vale. She was here to interview her. Though, as the lift doors slid open onto a silent corridor lined with plush carpet and oversized abstract paintings, she couldn't help wondering whether the woman she was about to meet would be anything like the one the internet thought it knew.

Great.

Her heart thudded, too fast, too loud. She stepped out and walked down the plush hallway, every step feeling like it carried more weight than it should. She raised her hand and knocked.

The door opened.

And there she was.

~~~

Jane Vale stood barefoot on the plush cream carpet of the penthouse suite, dressed in black joggers and a fitted charcoal tank top that clung comfortably to toned shoulders and defined arms. She looked nothing like the polished celebrity Sophie had expected to find waiting behind the door.

There was no designer suit., no perfectly styled hair and no team of publicists hovering just out of frame. Instead, her dark hair had been swept into a messy bun that looked as though she'd twisted it up without ever glancing in a mirror, loose strands framing her face. A half-finished mug of coffee rested on the kitchen island behind her beside an open laptop and what looked suspiciously like the remains of breakfast. She looked real. Comfortable. Disarmingly ordinary. And somehow that made her infinitely more intimidating.

Jane was tall; exactly as the internet had promised. Sophie found herself tilting her head ever so slightly to meet her gaze.

Oh God. This was Jane Vale. Not through a phone screen. Not in carefully edited YouTube videos. Not smiling from magazine covers or frozen in Instagram posts. Standing six feet away from her. In bare feet. Holding her own front door open.

Her eyes were the first thing Sophie truly noticed.

Dark.

Sharp.

Impossibly attentive.

There was nothing superficial about the way Jane looked at people. She didn't glance politely before looking away again. Her gaze settled fully on Sophie, curious without being intrusive, warm without being overfamiliar. It carried the quiet confidence of someone entirely comfortable in her own skin. Amusement glimmered there too, dancing just beneath the surface, like she already knew every embarrassing thought Sophie had ever had and had decided they were somehow charming instead of mortifying.

Sophie suddenly became acutely aware of herself. Of the damp ends of her blonde hair after walking through Manchester's drizzle. Of the notebook tucked a little too tightly beneath her arm. Of the fact she had completely forgotten what she was supposed to do with her hands. Of her heartbeat. Her breathing. The embarrassing reality that she'd spent the entire lift journey convincing herself this was just another interview. It didn't feel like just another interview anymore. Jane wasn't the first famous person Sophie had interviewed. She'd spoken to actors promoting blockbuster films, politicians avoiding difficult questions, musicians on comeback tours and bestselling authors with carefully media-trained smiles. Most celebrities carried an awareness of their own importance into a room. Jane didn't. She wasn't demanding attention. She simply... held it without trying. Without saying a word.

"Hi."

Her voice was lower than Sophie expected.

Warm.

A little husky, as though she'd only recently finished her first coffee of the morning. Threaded with unmistakable mischief, there was something almost lazy about the way the word left her mouth, as though Jane had all the time in the world and wasn't standing in front of a journalist who had spent the entire lift ride trying not to panic.

Sophie suddenly became hyperaware of the quiet around them.

The penthouse seemed impossibly still after the muted sounds of the hotel corridor. Somewhere behind Jane, Sophie could hear the faint hum of an air-conditioning unit and the distant city noise filtering through the enormous windows. Traffic moved far below, reduced to a low, indistinct murmur. Sunlight spilled across the pale wooden floor, catching against the glass of a coffee table and throwing soft reflections across the walls.

"You must be Sophie."

Sophie's brain short-circuited completely. She had prepared for this. She had researched Jane's career, memorised the important details, read through old interviews and highlighted questions in her notebook. She had reminded herself repeatedly that Jane Vale was simply another person she was interviewing. A person. Not an intimidatingly tall, ridiculously attractive internet celebrity standing barefoot in front of her.

"I..." she managed brilliantly. "I am."

Wonderful. One whole sentence. She deserved a journalism award.

"Um... hi."

The word sounded painfully inadequate the second it left her mouth. It was barely more than a breath, disappearing into the spacious penthouse almost as soon as she'd said it. Sophie immediately wished she could reach out and catch the word before it landed, replace it with something intelligent and professional—something worthy of the carefully prepared journalist she'd been five minutes ago. Instead, she stood in Jane Vale's doorway sounding like a nervous teenager meeting her celebrity crush.

Brilliant, Sophie.

Jane's smile spread slowly across her face, transforming it completely.

Not rehearsed. Not the perfectly curated smile Sophie had seen in countless interviews, where celebrities showed exactly enough teeth and held their expression for exactly the right amount of time. This one was different. This one reached her eyes. It softened the sharpness of her features and made something almost boyish appear in her expression. There was warmth there, genuine amusement, and a tiny crease at the corner of one eye that Sophie suspected no makeup artist or photographer had ever managed to capture properly.

"You can relax," Jane said with a quiet laugh. "I don't usually make journalists this nervous."

There was warmth beneath the teasing, enough to tell Sophie that Jane wasn't trying to embarrass her. If anything, she seemed genuinely amused by the situation, as though Sophie's nervousness was unexpectedly endearing rather than inconvenient.

Usually.

The word landed with far more force than it deserved.

Sophie mentally groaned.

Of course she'd noticed.

She could practically feel every awkward thing she'd done since arriving—the way she'd gripped her notebook too tightly, the slight stumble over her own introduction, the fact she'd been standing in the doorway for several seconds without remembering that people generally moved when invited inside.

She had spent years learning how to appear confident even when she wasn't. Apparently, Jane Vale had seen straight through her in under a minute.

"I-I'm not nervous."

The lie sounded ridiculous even to Sophie.

Jane raised one dark eyebrow. It was such a small movement, barely noticeable, but somehow it managed to say more than an entire sentence could have.

"No?"

The single word carried just enough amusement to make Sophie's stomach twist. There was a glimmer in Jane's eyes now, something playful and knowing. She wasn't challenging Sophie exactly. She was giving her an opportunity to admit it. Sophie looked away for half a second, pretending to adjust the recorder in her hand.

"...Maybe a little."

"A little?"

Jane repeated the words slowly, her smile growing.

Sophie could hear the smile in her voice. Sophie let out an embarrassed breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

"Fine," she murmured, finally looking back at her. "More than a little."

Jane's smile softened.

"That's better."

Something about the simple reassurance caught Sophie off guard. There was no judgement in it. No smugness. Just amusement and, strangely, patience. And for the first time since she'd stepped through the penthouse door, Sophie wondered if perhaps she hadn't been quite as foolish as she felt. Maybe Jane wasn't trying to make her nervous. Maybe she was simply trying to make her feel comfortable. Which, somehow, was even more dangerous.

Jane stepped aside, gesturing her into the suite. Sophie hesitated for half a second before stepping over the threshold. The space opened around her immediately.

It was enormous.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, flooding the room with pale morning light and revealing a sprawling view of the city below. The furniture was expensive without appearing deliberately showy—cream sofas, dark wood, soft throws, carefully positioned lamps. There were books scattered across one side table and a pair of trainers abandoned near the kitchen island. That small detail made Sophie feel strangely relieved. At least Jane left shoes lying around. At least something about her was normal.

"I've heard good things about you."

Sophie blinked, genuinely caught off guard.

For a moment, she wasn't entirely sure she'd heard Jane correctly. Of all the things Jane Vale could have said to her, that hadn't been on the list.

"You... have?"

There was something almost embarrassingly hopeful in the question, and Sophie immediately wished she could take it back. She wasn't supposed to care what Jane thought of her. She was here as a journalist. She had a job to do. She was supposed to be asking the questions, not standing in a penthouse feeling oddly flustered because the person she was interviewing had apparently heard of her.

"Your editor and my publicist spoke yesterday."

Jane's voice remained casual, as though this were the most ordinary thing in the world.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Jane's mouth.

"Apparently you're 'smart, professional, and not easily intimidated.'"

The words settled somewhere deep inside Sophie. She felt a strange little flicker of pride at that. Marla had said those words? About her?

For all the teasing and impossible deadlines, Marla didn't hand out compliments easily. When she praised someone, Sophie knew she'd earned it. She'd spent years trying to become the sort of journalist Marla could trust with the stories that mattered—the stories that required more than simply turning up with a notebook and asking obvious questions.

She'd worked hard for that reputation. Harder than most people realised. She'd fought for assignments other journalists had dismissed as too small or too complicated. She'd stayed late long after the newsroom emptied, staring at glowing screens while the rest of Manchester disappeared into darkness outside the windows. She'd chased sources who didn't want to talk, knocked on doors that had been slammed in her face, sat through hours of council meetings and learned how to find the one sentence buried inside a hundred pages of bureaucratic nonsense that actually mattered. She'd learned when to push. When to listen. When to stop talking. She'd learned how to walk into rooms where nobody expected her to belong and make herself heard anyway.

There had been moments when people had underestimated her because she was young, because she was blonde, because she looked softer than some of the journalists she worked alongside. She'd learned to let them. Then she'd proved them wrong. Being difficult to intimidate had become something Sophie was quietly proud of. It was part of the armour she'd built around herself. Especially lately. She'd spent the last few weeks convincing herself that she didn't need anyone's approval, that she could stand on her own, that nobody else's opinion had the power to determine whether she was good enough. And yet hearing Jane repeat Marla's words made something warm bloom beneath her ribs. A tiny reminder that beneath the heartbreak, beneath the exhaustion and the uncertainty, she was still Sophie Rowan. A journalist. A damn good one, if Marla was to be believed.

She straightened almost imperceptibly. Her shoulders pulled back. Her grip on the recorder relaxed. For perhaps three seconds, she remembered exactly who she was.

Then she caught Jane looking at her.

Her gaze travelled over Sophie for only a second; not lingering long enough to make her uncomfortable, but long enough to take her in. Her eyes flickered briefly over Sophie's blazer, the notebook tucked against her side, the slightly damp ends of her blonde hair, before returning to her eyes.

There was no judgement in the look. If anything, there was curiosity. Like Jane was comparing the journalist standing in front of her with the description she'd been given. Like she was deciding for herself whether Marla had got it right.

"I guess we'll see."

The words were light, almost playful. But something about them made Sophie feel suddenly determined to prove her wrong. Or perhaps prove Marla right. She wasn't entirely sure which. Either way, she lifted her chin slightly. The nervousness was still there. So was the flutter low in her stomach that she absolutely refused to examine. But beneath it, something else was beginning to return. Confidence. Just a little. And Jane seemed to notice that too. The corner of her mouth lifted again. Sophie had the distinct feeling that this interview was going to test just how not easily intimidated she really was.

"There it is," Jane murmured.

Sophie frowned.

"What?"

"Your smile."

Jane leaned lightly against the doorframe, folding one tattooed arm across her stomach.

There was something hypnotic about the casual movement. Sophie found herself noticing the black ink winding around Jane's forearm before forcibly dragging her attention back to her face.

"I had a feeling it would suit you better than that terrified expression you've been wearing since I opened the door."

Sophie groaned quietly. She could feel another laugh threatening to escape.

"Was it that obvious?"

"I've spent ten years reading people through cameras." Jane shrugged. "I've had practice."

Something in Sophie's chest loosened. Just enough. For the first time since she'd stepped into the penthouse, she felt like she could breathe normally. Maybe this wasn't going to be awful. Maybe Jane wasn't going to be some impossible celebrity nightmare. Maybe she could actually do this.

"Come in," Jane said, stepping fully aside. "And relax, little journalist."

There was something about the nickname that made Sophie glance at her.

Little journalist.

She shouldn't have liked it. She did.

Jane smiled again; that slow, devastating smile that somehow managed to be both playful and reassuring.

"I don't bite."

A beat passed.

Sophie watched the amusement deepen in Jane's eyes. Then, with impeccable comic timing, she added,

"Not unless asked."

Sophie's breath caught. For a fraction of a second, the room seemed to tilt. The distant traffic disappeared. The faint hum of the air-conditioning vanished beneath the sudden rush of blood in her ears. Her heart, silent and heavy for weeks, gave one sudden, traitorous thud against her ribs.

And now—

This.

A stupid joke.

A smile.

A pair of dark eyes.

It was ridiculous. She wasn't supposed to notice someone else's smile. She wasn't supposed to register warm eyes or easy laughter, or the way Jane's confidence felt inviting instead of overwhelming. She certainly wasn't supposed to feel the tiniest flicker of something waking up inside a heart she'd been convinced was still buried beneath the wreckage. She tightened her grip around her recorder. This assignment was going to be a problem. A very tall, very charming, deeply distracting problem. And Sophie Rowan—freshly heartbroken, emotionally threadbare, and determined never to let anyone get close enough to hurt her again—could already feel the careful walls she'd spent weeks rebuilding shift ever so slightly beneath her feet. Not collapse. Not yet. Just shift. Just enough for something warm to slip through the cracks.