Motion(Laws of Physics #1)(38)

But not alarm. Interesting.

When I looked at him, I found his eyes were uncharacteristically—insomuch as I knew his character—somber. “Hey, one more thing. And promise me you won’t freak out.”

I lifted my eyebrows at the irony of the situation: here I was, trying to ignore how very, very nice the heat of his hand felt on my thigh and he was asking me to not freak out. Meanwhile, I’d usually be freaking out about an uninvited hand on my leg.

But I wasn’t. I liked it. And I was just barely holding the door closed on all sorts of odd, inappropriate hopes. Like maybe he’d pull the hem of my skirt just a little higher, or reach underneath . . .

Pushing those thoughts back behind the closed door, on a rush I said, “I can’t promise you I won’t freak out until you tell me what I’m not supposed to freak out about.”

His lips quirked to the side. The left side. My gaze dropped to the dimple I felt certain would make an appearance. I wasn’t disappointed, even though it was promptly hidden again.

“Okay, makes sense.” He breathed in, he breathed out, his fingers flexed on my leg and I swallowed thickly. “Here goes: my sister, who is probably already here, is a journalist.”

My eyes cut to his. All inappropriate heat and hopes extinguished. A journalist?

“Pardon?” My single word was sharp.

“My sister, Marie. She’s an investigative journalist.” He seemed to be watching my reaction closely. “Leo said you guys—your family doesn’t like journalists.”

An investigative journalist? Of the exposé variety?

I didn’t freak out, outwardly. I freaked out inwardly. “What does she investigate?”

“Whatever she finds interesting or whatever she’s assigned.” He shrugged. “She’s freelance, part of the AP, so she does all kinds of things.”

A member of the Associated Press? She was the real deal. So many questions, none of which I could voice, and most involving worst-case scenarios.

What if this is a setup? Unlikely. His mother’s birth date wasn’t something Abram’s sister had any control over.

But, what if his sister knows who I am? Or, I’ve met her before now? What if she’s interviewed me? What if this benign birthday party leads to exposing Lisa’s arrest? Like most professions, the world of professional journalism was a lot smaller than people realized.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

“Marie Harris. She’s awesome, and I told her she wasn’t allowed to ask you anything on the record.”

“Hmm . . .” The name didn’t sound familiar, but that didn’t mean anything.

“Also, she just broke up with her boyfriend recently, a few months ago. He was a chef in Chicago, kind of a dweeb, actually. She deserves a lot better. Don’t bring up anything related to that. I think she’s still sensitive about it.”

I was only half-listening to him. Leo had been right. My family had a love/hate relationship with the media. According to my parents, none of them could be trusted. Ever. But they served a purpose.

For my part, I hypothesized that there were three types of journalists: those who wanted to do another fluff piece on music’s most beloved power couple’s “odd-ball, genius daughter” (say that ten times real fast), or those who wanted dirt, or those who wanted both.

Having been interviewed countless times, the interviewers always seemed content to follow the same, predictable path, painting me using the same brush, prosaic questions the brush strokes: What’s it like to be so smart? What’s it like to have DJ Tang and Exotica as parents? Are you dating anyone? Blah blah blah.

However, having been interviewed countless times and having never been surprised meant I rarely remembered the interviewers’ names. In summary, I’d never met a journalist who pleasantly surprised or impressed me.

“Any stories on, uh, the children of celebrities?”

Abram shook his head. “No. Politicians are more her speed.” His gaze lost some of its focus as it moved over my shoulder. “She also writes some weird stories too. Stuff that gets her in trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“Yes.” His gaze came back to mine and he smirked. “Ask her about bodybuilders.”

“Bodybuilders.” I relaxed. A tad. My gaze flickered over him. “Okay. So . . . what are we going to tell her? What’s the story?”

“The story?” He turned a little in his seat. His hand slipped from my leg and he pushed his fingers into his hair, moving the dark mahogany strands off his forehead.

“What’s the story about why I’m here? With you? What are we telling your sister and parents?”

“Uh . . . the truth?”

I sat up straighter while having a minor heart attack. “The—the- ”

“That you’re Leo’s sister and you came home while I was house-sitting your parents’ place in Chicago. We’ve shacked up together for the summer, you’re my muse, and I’ve fallen madly in love with you over the last—” he grabbed his phone from the dash, glancing at the clock “—forty-eight hours.”

With that tornado of an esoteric suggestion, Abram opened the passenger door and exited the car. Unhurriedly unfolding his long form from the Civic, he stretched. I stared at the band of back, side, and stomach skin (and muscles) left exposed as he lifted his arms over his head and twisted at the waist—first left, and then right.