“Terrific,” she replied with a mirthless laugh. “I look like a malnourished meth head in summer.”

“I was hoping more for a Connie Chung, Lucy Liu look.”

“I’ll be sure to add Asian fetishism to your list of attributes,” she said. “What’s happening at the office? I saw the Washington Post has a story about Crusoe’s plan to increase oil imports from Latin America. We should try to get on that.”

“No go. Ryan is on the substance angle,” Matt said without a hint of irony, adding, “The Chief wants us to follow up on the mole.”

Natalie repeated his words in her head, trying to make sense of them. “How do you follow up on a mole? Especially one that’s been removed?”

“Great question,” Matt said. “But we’ve got to make a mountain out of it.”

She stifled a groan. She had important things to worry about, like how to make an impression with her journalism when the network wouldn’t let her cover actual news? Scanning the coffee shop, she searched for anyone here who could give her a hot breaking news tip—maybe a White House official, a First Lady confidante, someone with expertise in Latin American dictators or international oil politics, when she turned and spotted the man in line behind her. His liquid-green eyes met hers and she felt like she’d been tased.

She had seldom seen other men like this in DC. He was tall, African American, broad shouldered, with close-cut hair and a kind of hipster confidence that just emanated hot.

She smiled, and watched as he leaned toward her infinitesimally and—sniff, had he just sniffed?

“You smell like my aunt Mina,” he said with a one-dimple smile, as if it this was the most charming thing in the world to tell a stranger.

Feeling herself blush furiously, Natalie stared at him, torn between It Wasn’t My Idea and How Dare You.

“Excuse me?” she stammered out of sheer mortification. Yes, he smelled like soap and sweat and pure masculinity while she smelled like a morgue and looked like she’d been skinny-dipping in an oil spill. But, still, it was not cool to point that out.

“Sorry, I said that out loud, didn’t I? Bad habit.” His lopsided smile made her stomach tingle. “It’s to make your hair straight, right? You know they make it with lye.”

“Formaldehyde,” Natalie corrected him, hoping she sounded confident and affronted.

“Ah, you got the organic blend?” he said jovially.

She appraised him with his single dimple and eyes that seemed permanently set to mirth. His slim-cut pants hit him in all the right places and his white broadcloth oxford managed to appear sharp and casual at once. It was all definitely working for him.

“Lucy Liu? Connie Chung?” It was Matt’s voice in her ear. “You there?”

“I’m here!” she said, turning her back on Mr. Hot Dimple.