Page 17 of Cut Off
“So I’ll still give it to you.”
I shoot him a look that I hope conveys both my annoyance and my professional interest. “But I’m a producer, not a reporter—”
“I’ve seenZoe Knows,” he cuts in, reaching behind me to grab a mug on the counter. His proximity sends a wave of his scent over me—some combination of sleep-warm skin and expensive soap. “Let’s use your podcast to do the interview, then I’ll link it to my social media. It should take off from there.”
I blink, genuinely surprised. He knows about my podcast.
“Wow.” I can’t hide my shock. I didn’t considerZoe Knowsbecause it’s not real news and doesn’t have a big reach. But with him linking it to his social media… well, that’s a game changer. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that on my way over—I must be in shock. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” He pours coffee into both mugs, sliding one toward me. “This should help boost your podcast.”
“Definitely. Thank you,” I mumble out, still processing this wild turn of events. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”
“It’s the least I can do after you got fired over something relating to me.” He sighs. “So let’s do it... if you’ll do me a favor.”
And there it is. The catch. I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“I need you to buy stuff for this house and for Eli,” he says, like it’s the most reasonable request in the world. “You have experience with kids with your brothers and sister, and I have a list to get ready for the social worker visit.”
I can’t help but laugh, the sound echoing in his cavernous kitchen. “Jonah, no way. I’ll help you shop, but this is yourson. You have to do this stuff yourself—you can’t just hire out fatherhood.”
He looks taken aback, clearly not used to people talking to him that way, but I don’t care. He’s being ridiculous, and someone needs to tell him.
“Seriously?” He stands there in his perfect boxer briefs, looking at me like I’ve just suggested he perform brain surgery.
I stand my ground, crossing my arms over my chest. “Yes, seriously. I’m not bending on that one. We can go together.” I can’t believe I’m lecturing an NHL star about responsibility while he stands half-naked in his kitchen, but here we are. Life comes at you fast—one minute, you’re a production assistant with career aspirations, the next you’re unemployed andarguing with a gorgeous, grumpy hockey player about parenting basics. The universe is a sick bastard.
Jonah stares at me for a long moment, as if he’s trying to decide if I’m worth the trouble. Finally, he sighs, “Fine.”
“Good,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “But first, we break this story. Like, now.”
He begrudgingly agrees, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I have to call my parents and Syd. Then coach. I’ll go get dressed.”
“Yes, please do that.” I fail at not watching him walk away. The view from behind is just as impressive as the front, which is completely irrelevant to the task at hand but impossible not to notice.
“I’ll get my tripod and microphone, some makeup, and a jacket from my car,” I call after him. “I guess we’re doing this cowboy-style.”
OMG, I can’t believe I just said that. My face burns like I’ve stuck it in the oven.
Jonah pauses at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk that does absolutely criminal things to my heartbeat. “I like cowboy style.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me clutching my coffee mug, wondering if we were still talking about video production. Of course we’re not, Zoe.
Dammit, he could take me cowboy style any time he wants. Except no he can’t because he ghosted me after rejecting me at Christmas! Do I need to tattoo that on my hand, so I never forget it?
And given that I just lost my job over this man’s secret son, doing it cowboy style should be the absolute last thing on my mind.
I shake everything off and dash outside to grab my travel equipment from the car. The morning air slaps me, remindingme it’s still before dawn, and I’ve already had more drama than most people experience in a month. My trunk is a disaster—a graveyard of fast-food wrappers, outfits for unexpected broadcasts, and the random gear I’ve collected over years of trying to be prepared for any journalistic emergency.
And good thing becausethisis the journalistic emergency of a lifetime.
6
Not on Air
JONAH
My palms sweat as I stare at the script Zoe prepared for me in ten minutes. I’ve faced down enforcers twice my size without flinching, but the thought of speaking to the camera about my personal life has my heart racing like I’m in overtime of Game Seven. Thank God Zoe’s here. She moves around my living room with the efficiency of someone who’s done this hundreds of times, adjusting lights and checking angles with a confidence that’s hypnotic to watch.
