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the questions were out of the way, he could flirt some more. The more he stuffed around during, the longer it would take to get to the good bit.
    By the time the maître d’ had cleared the table of their dessert plates—and earned himself some prime tickets to a Smoke game Tanner just happened to have in his jacket pocket, for fitting them in at such short notice—he’d related his rugby journey from small regional feeder teams to his sojourn in France. Mainly, she’d let him talk, only interjecting a question every now and then for clarity or further information.
    “I think that’ll do for now,” she said, checking her watch before leaning across to turn off the recording.
    Tanner relaxed. Now the fun could begin. “Good. Now for my questions.”
    She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Your questions?”
    “Sure. You’ve had an hour and a half. Don’t I get a turn?”
    “No.”
    “You like saying no, don’t you?” he teased.
    “To you? Yes.”
    Tanner laughed. “You’re bad for my ego.”
    She shoved the Dictaphone in her clutch. “I think your ego can stand it.”
    “Okay, fine. How about just one? Then I’ll drop it.”
    “That’s not how this works.”
    “Humour me.”
    She shot him a deadpan look. “Don’t you have a guy for that, too?”
    Tanner grinned. “You know I can harp on about this for the rest of the night, right?”
    Her expression told him she absolutely knew. “Fine,” she huffed. “One. Nothing to do with us.”
    He sucked in a whistle. “Tough girl, huh? I like.”
    “You should. It’s your handiwork.”
    There was no particular accusation in her voice, but her barb hit its mark. “Tilly…”
    “Goddamn it, Tanner, it’s Matilda,” she snapped. “Now ask your damn question.”
    Tanner hated how far up her walls were and was just pissed off enough—at himself as well as her—to be reckless.
    “Are you wearing some of those crotchless panties I’ve been reading about in your column?”
    If she was outraged or disgusted at his deliberately provocative question, she hid it well. Only the slight widening of those big, blue-green, opal-like eyes betrayed her reaction.
    “Why?” she asked, her voice steady. “You have some kind of women’s underwear fetish you want to talk about?”
    Tanner chuckled as she fished around in her purse. If he were going to wear underwear for any woman, it’d be for her. She pulled out the Dictaphone and hit record again, pointing it in his direction.
    She plastered a faux delighted smile on her face. “I’m sure the guys in the locker room would love to know.”
    “Thanks,” he laughed again. “I like to keep my fetishes private.”
    Her smile slipped as she withdrew her hand and slid the device back in her bag. The clasp shut with an audible click, and she glanced at him. “You read my column?”
    Tanner nodded. “I’ve always read your column.”
    Her chin dipped down as pink crept across her cheekbones. The fingers of her left hand fidgeted with her discarded napkin. “It’s not exactly where I thought I’d end up while I was studying at Stanford.”
    She was apologising? His gut squeezed at the display of vulnerability. This was the real Tilly. He slid his hand across the table and over the top of hers. Surprisingly, she didn’t withdraw. “I like it.”
    She smiled then. Grudgingly. But it was her first genuine smile of the night, and his lungs suddenly felt too big for his chest.
    “Get all your style tips from me, do you?”
    “Absolutely.” He grinned. “I love your practical, no-bullshit, irreverent style of writing. Is that how you’re going to write about me?”
    “Oh, no,” she said, withdrawing her hand from his. “Feature writing is serious ”—she made some air quotes—“journalism.”
    “So there’ll be no bullshit?”
    She shook her head. “Absolutely not. It will be the complete and utter ungarnished truth.”
    That’s what Tanner was afraid of.

Chapter Four
    “This is me,” Matilda said as