Smiling triumphantly, she kissed him—hard—then got up and grabbed her vinyl briefcase. Inside it was a handful of résumés printed on heavy ivory stock; several business cards that read, Tallulah Hart, TV news reporter; and a videotape of a story she’d done on-air for KVTS.

“Break a leg,” Chad said.

“I will.” She caught the bus in front of the Kidd Valley hamburger stand. Even though she was a senior, she hadn’t bothered with bringing her car to school. Parking was expensive and hard to find. Besides, the Mularkeys loved having her gran’s old land yacht.

All the way through the U District and into the city, she thought about what she knew about the man she was going to meet. At twenty-six, he was already a well-respected former on-air reporter who’d won some big reporting award during a Central American conflict. Something—none of the articles said what—had brought him home, where he’d suddenly changed career tracks. Now he was a producer for the smaller office of one of the local stations. She had practiced endlessly what she would say.

It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Ryan.

Yes, I have had an impressive amount of experience for a woman of my age.

I’m committed to being a first-rate journalist and hope, no, expect to—

The bus came to a smoking, wheezing stop on the corner of First and Broad.

She hurried off the bus and down the steps. As she stood beneath the bus stop sign, consulting her notes, it started to rain, not hard enough to require an umbrella or a hood, but just enough to ruin her hair and poke her in the eyes. She ducked her head to protect her makeup and ran up the block to her destination.

The small concrete building with curtainless windows sat in the middle of the block with a parking lot beside it. Inside, she consulted the tenant board and found what she was looking for: KCPO—SUITE 201.

She perfected her posture, smiled professionally, and went up to Suite 201.

There, she opened the door and almost walked right into someone.

For a moment Tully was actually taken aback. The man standing in front of her was gorgeous—unruly black hair, electric-blue eyes, shadowy stubble of a beard. Not what she’d expected at all.

“Are you Tallulah Hart?”

She extended her hand. “I am. Are you Mr. Ryan?”

“I am.” He shook her hand. “Come in.” He led her through a small front room cluttered with papers and cameras and stacks of newspapers everywhere. A couple of open doors revealed other empty offices. Another guy stood in the corner, smoking a cigarette. He was huge, at least six-foot-five, with shaggy blond hair and clothes that looked as if he’d slept in them. A giant marijuana leaf decorated his T-shirt. At their entrance, he looked up.

“This is Tallulah Hart,” Mr. Ryan said by way of introduction.