He unbent and Natalie saw that he was tall, taller than she’d realized. His brown hair was a little too long and his mouth a little too small for his face, giving him the look of a naughty toddler. His lips were pressed together in a tight smile but he looked like he’d be more at ease with a smirk.

“It’s not my wedding,” she said. “It’s my mother’s. The dress is for me.”

“And therein lies a story,” he said, folding himself into the seat next to hers and immediately taking out his phone. “Don’t worry, I’m not asking to hear it unless it’s scandalous and on the record.”

Natalie stared at him.

He glanced up from his screen and held out hand. “Matt Walsh. Beltway dot com. Uh-oh. I see the nickel dropping. Now you’re thinking, ‘Ah, that explains the smell of sulphur in the air.’”

Natalie laughed but her guard shot up. Beltway. The website was the gossipy mean girl of the political set, bringing the same cannibalistic enthusiasm Us Weekly brought to uncovering affairs and baby bumps to its coverage of the Bubble. The Bubble being what Washington Insiders—the types who read Beltway—called themselves, as opposed to everyone else, whom they referred to with subtle condescension as “regular” or “real” Americans. That sorry-not-sorry superiority suffused Beltway. Written in the key of snark with an undertone of kissed-it-fucked-it-over disdain, the posts glorified the most banal aspects of politics, sucking any whiff of substance from a story with the efficiency of a college student taking a bong hit.

She was shocked when her first news boss had told her every important political reporter reads Beltway and if she cared to be one, she’d better start. The last Beltway story Natalie had read covered a White House meeting about the president’s energy goals as “Kiss My Fat Ass? Elizabeth Warren Eats a Cookie for the First Time in Six Weeks While Talking Solar in the Oval Office!”

What kind of reporter would do that, she’d wondered.

Well, now the answer was sitting right next to her. The man who had, in fact, written that very story. She was wary but fascinated, as if she’d found herself dining with someone who’d asked the waiter to remove his steak knife, explaining, “I don’t trust myself around weapons.”

She aimed for a warm but not too friendly tone and shook his hand. “Natalie Savage, ATN.”

Matt appeared impressed. “Any relation to the esteemed First Lady of News?”

“You mean Jessica Savitch?” Natalie asked, trying to keep the sound of her mental eye roll out of her voice. “No, we’re not related.”