The waitress set a pot of coffee in the middle of the table and disappeared.

“So, tell me about your family,” I said, pouring a stream of hot, black coffee into our mugs. At the back of my mind, Astrid Talbot’s remark about him playing with fire and “another reporter” still lurked there.

Flynn let out a groan. “Do I have to?”

That made me laugh. “No, of course you don’t have to.”

He stirred his coffee and cradled the mug in his hands. “I suppose we’re all so guarded in my family because of my grandfather.” He set the mug down in front of him. “We’ve been carrying this secret about who he is for so long that we’ve forgotten how to open up and trust people.”

His face darkened again. “I can remember both my parents warning me not to tell anyone about my grandfather’s big secret. Not easy when you’re a loud-mouthed teenager, desperate to tell anyone who would listen that your grandfather is the guy who’s been painting the Eiffel Tower on the side of bus stops at three in the morning.”

“That must have been difficult, keeping that quiet.”

“Oh, it was. I was desperate to up my street cred and impress young women, but couldn’t.”

“I’m sure you didn’t have to do anything to impress women…” Oh shit, Leonie. It was too late. The words shot out across the table before I could do anything. “What I meant to say,” I started, my tongue falling over itself and getting into a tangle, “is that I find it hard to believe you weren’t popular with women anyway.”

Christ! Everything that was tripping out of my mouth was worse than what came before. I reached for my glass of water and buried my face in it. Pity I couldn’t have shoved my head into the whole bloody glass and cooled it down.

He gave me a small smile. “I was warned about journalists in particular.”

I grinned back at him, setting down my glass of water. “Oh dear. And yet here we are.”

The waitress reappeared and delivered our lunch to us, which we tucked into with gusto.

What was it about this man that sent me into a tongue-twisted spiral of emotion? I was usually a pretty together sort of person, but whenever Flynn looked at me a certain way from under his spikey lashes or spoke to me in that deep rumble of his, I was becoming a blithering wreck.

I composed myself as he began to eat lunch. “You know you can trust me, Flynn.”

He sliced up a rasher of bacon. “Do you know something? I think I can.”

“Finally!” I joked with an exaggerated eye roll.