From the Heart

confident smile when she had accepted the bet still haunted her. He had looked too much like a cat who knew how to open the birdcage door.
    But I’m not a canary, she reminded herself as she walked into the newsroom. And I’m not afraid of cats.
    The newsroom was as it usually was. Noisy. Phones rang incessantly. Only the wall of television screens was silent. Interns bustled everywhere—college students learning the trade—running errands. The assistant director argued with a field reporter over the edited length of a segment. A crew headed out of the door with equipment and coffee cups.
    “How many kittens?” she heard a reporter ask into a phone. “She had them where ?”
    “Liv.” The assignment editor hailed her with an upraised hand. “The mayor’s holding a press conference at two.” He stuck out a piece of paper as he breezed by.
    “Thanks.” She wrinkled her nose at it. That might give her the time she needed to make the two million phone calls on her list.
    “Who wants a kitten?” She heard the plea as she moved through the room. “My cat just had ten of them in the kitchen sink. My wife’s going crazy.”
    “Hey, Liv.” Brian caught her arm as she passed his desk. “I took two phone calls for you already this morning.”
    “Really?” She gave his jacket a critical glance. “New suit?”
    “Yeah.” He pulled a bit at the pearl-gray lapels. “What do you think?”
    “Devastating,” she said, knowing how Brian worried about his on-the-air image. He could agonize over the shade of his tie. “About the phone calls?”
    “I was a little worried about the fit in the shoulders.” Heshifted them experimentally. “The first one was from Mrs. Ditmyer’s secretary. Something about setting up a lunch date. The second was from a character named Dutch Siedel. Said he had a tip for you.”
    “Really?” Liv frowned thoughtfully. Dutch was the one dependable source she had on Capitol Hill. He was a page with visions of a hot political career.
    “Who do you know named Dutch?”
    Liv gave Brian a guileless smile. “He’s my bookie,” she said smoothly, and started to walk away.
    “Full of surprises, aren’t you?” Brian commented. “Who’s the dude who keeps sending you flowers?”
    That stopped her. “What?”
    Brian smiled and examined his nails. “There’s a fresh white rose on your desk, just like the one last week. The little intern with the frizzy hair said it came from upstairs.” He shot her a teasing look. “There’s been a lot of buzzing about Thorpe’s visit to the studio last week. Collaborating on a big story?”
    “We’re not collaborating on anything.” Liv spun on her heel and stalked to her desk.
    There it was—white and innocent with its petals gently closed. She had a mad urge to crush it in her hand.
    “Nobody ever sends me flowers.”
    Liv turned and glared at the woman typing at the desk behind her.
    “You must have hooked a romantic.” She sighed. “Lucky you.”
    “Lucky me,” Liv muttered. What was the man trying to do to her? It occurred to Liv that the room had become suspiciously quiet. A quick sweep of her eyes caught several speculative glances and too many grins. Furious, she swooped up the rose, vase and all, and plunked it down on the other reporter’s desk.
    “Here,” she said with a broad gesture. “You can have it.” She stormed out of the room. It was time, she decided, as she heard the scattered laughter behind her, to lay down the ground rules.
    Liv was out of the elevator in a flash when it stopped on Thorpe’s floor. Still seething, she came to a halt at the receptionist’s desk.
    “Is he in?” she demanded.
    “Who?”
    “Thorpe.”
    “Well, yes, he is, but he has an appointment with the chief of staff in twenty minutes. Ms. Carmichael!” She stared in exasperation at Liv’s retreating back. “Oh well,” she murmured, and went back to her typewriter.
    “Look,” Liv began before the door had slammed shut behind her. “This has got to stop.”
    Thorpe lifted a brow and set down the pen he’d been writing with. “All right.”
    Her teeth clamped together at his amiable answer. “You know what I mean.”
    “No.” He gestured to a chair. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me. Have a seat.”
    “This rose business,” she continued, ignoring the chair and advancing to the desk. “It’s embarrassing, Thorpe. You’re doing it on purpose.”
    “Roses embarrass you?” He smiled at her,