talents.”
“Yes, and I’m looking forward to introducing you to another one of them later.”
Heat began to build again. “Oh?”
“The sail.” But Logan’s crooked smile told Mallory he knew exactly which direction her thoughts had taken and that he enjoyed knowing he could inspire such a detour.
As their meal progressed, the conversation veered—or was it steered?—to her personal life. Mallory didn’t like to talk about herself, but as a reporter she’d found that divulging a few details about her past often helped her sources loosen up. So, when he asked if she was a Chicago native, she told him, “No. Actually, I’m not a Midwestern girl at all. I grew up in a small town in Massachusetts.”
“That explains the flattened vowels.” He smiled. “What brought you to Chicago?”
Nothing too personal here. So she said, “College. I attended Northwestern on a scholarship.”
“And then you were hired in at the Herald,” he assumed.
“Eventually. I spent the first three months after I graduated working gratis as an intern in the hope the editors would notice my work and offer me a full-time job. At the time, even though the Herald had no posted openings in its newsroom, competition in general was fierce.”
“You wanted to be sure you had a foot in the door. That was very industrious, if a bit risky.” Still, he nodded in appreciation. “What did your parents think of your decision to work for free?”
She sipped her wine. “It’s just my mom and she thought I’d lost my mind.”
“Why would she think that?”
Laughter scratched her throat. “I didn’t mean that literally, Doctor.”
“Good, because I’m not on the clock. Well?”
More than being direct, his gaze made her feel…safe. That brought heat of a different sort. She felt as if she could tell him anything and he wouldn’t judge her the way her mother always had. And still did.
“My mother thought I was being a fool. She wanted me to be financially independent and she didn’t see how working for free was going to get me anywhere.”
“Reasonable goal,” he allowed.
“Yeah, except it was a mantra she beat me over the head with after my folks divorced.”
“I…I guess I thought your father was no longer around. When I asked what your folks thought, you said it was just your mom.”
“It is and has been.” She had to work to keep the bitterness out of her tone. “My dad’s not dead. He’s a deadbeat.”
“Ohh.” He grimaced. “Sorry. How old were you?”
“Eleven. My mother had been a stay-at-home mom with no marketable job skills when their marriage ended. She had a hard time finding work. She didn’t want me to wind up depending on a man.”
Mallory reached for her wine, if for no other reason than that taking a sip would shut her up. The only other person she’d ever mentioned this to was Vicki, her college roommate, and then only after a few too many margaritas.
Because she had a good idea what Logan must be thinking, she decided to say it first. “That’s not the reason I’m married to my job, though. I happen to really enjoy what I do.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He sipped his wine, too.
It was time to shift the conversation’s focus. “What about your family? Siblings?”
“One of each, both younger than me.”
“And your parents? Are they still together?” She knew that they were, but saying so would make it seem like she’d done a background check on him. Which she had.
“Yep.” Nostalgia warmed his smile. “They’re going on forty years and they still hold hands.”
The answer prompted a question she was only too happy to ask, since it would turn the spotlight away from her life. “And yet you’re thirty-six and single. Why is that?”
A shadow fell across his face, there and gone so quickly she almost wondered if she’d imagined it. But then he offered a disarming smile—a defense mechanism?—that made her all the more curious.
“I guess you could say after the apple fell, it rolled far away from the tree.”
This apple had, too, Mallory thought, stuffing memories of her childhood back into their cubbyhole. And for good reason in her case. But why would someone whose parents had what sounded like the perfect union be gun-shy when it came to commitment? It bore looking into. Later.
Now, she said, “Do your siblings still live in Chicago?”
She knew his parents did. The elder Bartholomews were no strangers to the newspaper’s society pages.
“Yes. My sister, Laurel, attends Loyola. She’s pushing thirty, has been taking classes for more than a decade and has yet to settle on a major. It drives my parents crazy. Luke, my brother, owns a restaurant.”
“Locally?”
He nodded. “The Berkley Grill just a few blocks up from Navy Pier.”
“I love that place!” Mallory exclaimed. “Especially the grilled portabella mushroom sandwich topped with provolone cheese.”
“That’s one of my favorites, too.”
“Is your brother a chef, then?” she asked.
“No. Like me he can hold his own in the kitchen, but he’s a businessman by trade, and he has a good eye for spotting potential.” His voice was tinged with pride. “The restaurant needed a fresh menu, updated dining room and better marketing to capitalize on tourist traffic. Since he bought it and made the upgrades, the place has done pretty well, even in this economy, and earned free publicity with a spot in a Food Network special.”
“Do you ever plug his place on your radio program?”
“That would be a conflict of interest and not terribly ethical. Besides, he doesn’t need my help.”
Mallory nodded.
His gaze narrowed. “Are you disappointed with my answer?”
“Of course not. Why would I be?”
He didn’t reply directly. Instead, he lobbed a question of his own. “What made you decide to become a journalist?”
“Curiosity,” she said again. “I like knowing why things happen the way they do. Why people make the choices they make. I’m rarely happy unless I’m getting to the bottom of things.”
“Then what were you doing covering today’s luncheon? Not much dirt to uncover there.”
“Penance,” Mallory
