Page 32 of Love Under the Microscope
“If he has anything. I’m a journalist. I don’t take the word of anyone. I look for proof I’m able to fact-check.”
“I want to find the proof too.” She wets her lip. “I know where to look.”
That sounds a bit convenient. I shoot her a look. “Then why are we here?”
“To attend the gala.”
“But why didn’t you look for proof before?”
She shrugs, but I get the feeling she’s not as indifferent as she’s trying to appear, given the way she keeps blinking. “I didn’t think Nigel had anything until talking with him just now. But if Zentello shows they have the original formula, then it’s over. Easy peasy.”
“And if not?”
“We need to stop him.” The hint of worry in her tone is so slight I almost miss it.
The imaginary alarm clock in my head ticks louder. I owe Drew the feature, so I don’t have time to waste. I need her to set up my interview with Mr. Z, which means I need to help her with this. “Let’s get out of here.”
I take her hand the way I had when I walked in and pull her toward the exit.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“A favorite bar of mine where we can talk without being interrupted. You’ll love it.”
Or maybe she’ll hate it, but I’ll be able to get a beer and talk to Zelda without Nigel or someone else trying to drag her away from me.
Half an hour later, Zelda and I walk into Pockets, a real dive of a pool bar, but I love the place. Admittedly, we look out of place in our fancy clothing, yet I’m still greeted by almost everyone in there. This bar is where I go when I can’t stand the quiet of my studio apartment any longer.
“Hey, Jack.” Skittle, the old bartender, throws a towel over his shoulder. “The usual?”
“Please, and…” I turn to Zelda.
“Beer, whatever you have on tap, please.”
Well, that’s a surprise—a pleasant one.
When Skittle nods, fills our pint glasses, and places the beers on the bar, I sigh with relief. No more fizzy perfume drinks. Thank fuck. We each take a glass.
“Come on.” With my hand on her lower back, I lead Zelda away from the bar to where we can find a seat. “Let’s grab a table.”
We take a booth near the back, away from the three-piece band playing rock ballads. It’s one of those corner booths with one bench seat that’s a semi-circle. Well, a third of one, so I’m sitting next to Zelda rather than across the table from her. Luckily, we’re a decent distance from the six pool tables full of guys cursing about getting drunk. They appear to be intoxicated enough, but maybe they want to get blackout drunk.
“I love it here.” Zelda glances around the bar. “Can we play a game of pool later?”
I smile and shake my head. She’s so fucking cute it’s unbelievable. “Maybe. Let’s see if we can figure out what we need to do next first.”
“I’m the boss. You said it yourself.”
“Yes, but we both have something at stake, so I want to give my input.” I have to get the interview with Mr. Z so I can give Drew a draft. My feature has a deadline—one I can’t miss if I want to keep my job. Without that, I won’t get a promotion and a raise.
Her gaze narrows as if she’s sizing me up. “You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t.” She’s an intelligent woman. There’s no reason to lie. “But you don’t trust me either so we’re even.”
She takes a sip of beer.
My instincts scream at me. I’ve felt this before. Last time, it started with me connecting the dots and ended with Aisha having multiple organ failure after taking those Medi-Lion pills. I don’t think Zelda is holding back something as critical as that, but it’s something big.
I’m torn over what to do next.
