He froze for a second, for a blink, his whole body going so still that it felt like a glitch in the matrix. Then, as if he was rebooting, he smiled at me. A shallow, empty kind of smile.

I wasn’t expecting that.

“Of course,” he said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

It almost sounded like he had forgotten.

But just as quickly as that apparent glitch had appeared, it was gone.

“Okay.” Gabe cracked his knuckles. “Hit me.”

I looked down at my notebook.

I’d spent all of yesterday preparing. I’d read existing profile pieces, I’d watched old interviews.

But I realized, sitting here, in front of Gabe, looking down at my notes, that what I’d really done was research him.

My questions—painstakingly written out—were ones that I could answer.

I stared down at my notebook, dread sitting heavy in my stomach.

Gabe cleared his throat.

“Or we could just talk,” he said.

I couldn’t tell if he was being nice or condescending. Either way, it indicated that he didn’t think I could do my job.

It was going to be okay, I told myself. When I’d interviewed Jennifer Evans, I’d started the interview asking about her hometown and she’d ended up talking nonstop for almost twenty minutes.

“Cooper, Montana,” I said.

Gabe raised an eyebrow. “That’s where I’m from, yes.”

“Good place to grow up.”

“Yep,” he said.

“You went to college there.”

“Yep,” he said.

“Did theatre. At JRSC.”

“Yep,” he said.

There was a slight curve to his lips, just the hint of a smile, as if he was enjoying this. Enjoying my completely incompetent attempt to interview him. Because so far, I hadn’t asked him a single damn question.

This tactic might have worked on Jennifer Evans, but it certainly wasn’t working now.

My ship was sinking and I needed to do something to right it. And quick.

The puppy shifted beneath the table, letting out the kind of sigh that was usually reserved for those contemplating the meaning of life. It was exactly the kind of sigh I had sitting at the back of my throat.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

Gabe looked down and a full smile bloomed.

“Haven’t decided yet,” he said. “I’m going to wait for it to come to me.”

“She looks like a teddy bear,” I said.

“She does.” He glanced up at me. “Were you the kind of kid who had a teddy bear?”

I blushed for no reason.

“Maybe,” I said.

He leaned back. “I knew it,” he said. “What was your teddy bear’s name?”

“Teddy,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I wasn’t a creative child,” I said.

“I don’t believe that.”

There was that sparkly, hot, live-wire feeling again.

“Were you the kind of kid who had a teddy bear?” I asked.