asked him, shifting in her seat so she could place the recorder on the coffee table between them. She saw him look at it and then back at her, the smile not leaving his face.
“I’d rather say what kind of questions I don’t want to be asked,” he said. His eyes were boring into her skull and she felt uncomfortable under his intense, green-eyed gaze. But Tamsin soldiered through.
“Like what?” she asked him, poising her pen over her notebook, ready to take notes.
“No questions about my father and nothing about my love life. That’s all,” he said, and sat back in the chair. Tamsin looked at him, hesitating. She wanted to ask about his father. The little that she or anyone else knew about Crosby was that his father had been his childhood coach. He had learned everything about basketball from his dad. Crosby’s love life was vital gossip information, too. Everyone wanted to know who America’s most eligible bachelor was dating now, what kind of women he liked, if he had plans of settling down.
“Also, no recording. You can take notes, but I don’t want you recording this interview,” Crosby added. Tamsin licked her lips and looked down at her notebook. If she agreed to this, she’d be agreeing to some of the most important aspects of her interview being removed.
Tamsin knew he was staring at her and looked up at him. Their eyes locked. His were bright and intense. He had challenged her. Tamsin’s were nervous. She wanted this interview so badly, even though he intimidated her.
“Fine,” she said, and reached for the recorder to put it back in her bag.
“Good girl,” he said, smiling widely and relaxing his shoulders. Tamsin smiled too. She wasn’t going to be taken for a ride. He might have forced her into agreeing to conditions that she wasn’t a fan of, but she was going to get her interview and she was going to make it the most explosive one that Crosby Jones had ever given.
“So tell me about your childhood, Crosby. What was little Crosby like?” Tamsin asked, ready to start taking notes. Crosby raised an eyebrow, apparently surprised that she was jumping right into it. His eyes flickered from her face to the neck of her dress where it plunged to reveal just a small part of her cleavage, then back to her face again.
“Little Crosby was not very different from big Crosby, I suppose,” he said with a laugh. “I had a normal childhood. Middle class working parents, a backyard, a dog, an older sister, two best friends at school.” He suddenly stood up and walked over to the French windows behind him. He stared out, his hands in his pockets again, as Tamsin scribbled in her notebook.
“What is your earliest memory as a child?” she asked. The sound of her pen scratching the paper was the only other sound in the room.
“My father fixing a basket on top of the garage door. It was too high for me, but he didn’t lower it,” he said, still staring out over the lawn outside.
“He wanted you to practice that way?” she asked him.
“No. He just couldn’t be bothered.” His answer was quick and he jerked around to look at her. “I said no questions about my father.”
“I didn’t ask,” Tamsin said, meeting his eyes defiantly. She knew what was going on. Crosby wanted desperately to talk to somebody about his father but didn’t want to acknowledge it.
“So your first memory is associated with basketball, but what other interests did you have?” She tried to change the subject.
“I liked reading, but I was never encouraged. The only way I could read was by sneaking into the library. My parents, especially my father, thought reading was a waste of time.” Crosby was looking at her as he spoke, with narrowed eyes. The smile on his face had disappeared, and he looked like he was angry.
“What else were you not allowed to do?” Tamsin asked him, making sure that she kept her surprise well hidden. This was a side of Crosby Jones that had never been portrayed in the media. He
“I’d rather say what kind of questions I don’t want to be asked,” he said. His eyes were boring into her skull and she felt uncomfortable under his intense, green-eyed gaze. But Tamsin soldiered through.
“Like what?” she asked him, poising her pen over her notebook, ready to take notes.
“No questions about my father and nothing about my love life. That’s all,” he said, and sat back in the chair. Tamsin looked at him, hesitating. She wanted to ask about his father. The little that she or anyone else knew about Crosby was that his father had been his childhood coach. He had learned everything about basketball from his dad. Crosby’s love life was vital gossip information, too. Everyone wanted to know who America’s most eligible bachelor was dating now, what kind of women he liked, if he had plans of settling down.
“Also, no recording. You can take notes, but I don’t want you recording this interview,” Crosby added. Tamsin licked her lips and looked down at her notebook. If she agreed to this, she’d be agreeing to some of the most important aspects of her interview being removed.
Tamsin knew he was staring at her and looked up at him. Their eyes locked. His were bright and intense. He had challenged her. Tamsin’s were nervous. She wanted this interview so badly, even though he intimidated her.
“Fine,” she said, and reached for the recorder to put it back in her bag.
“Good girl,” he said, smiling widely and relaxing his shoulders. Tamsin smiled too. She wasn’t going to be taken for a ride. He might have forced her into agreeing to conditions that she wasn’t a fan of, but she was going to get her interview and she was going to make it the most explosive one that Crosby Jones had ever given.
“So tell me about your childhood, Crosby. What was little Crosby like?” Tamsin asked, ready to start taking notes. Crosby raised an eyebrow, apparently surprised that she was jumping right into it. His eyes flickered from her face to the neck of her dress where it plunged to reveal just a small part of her cleavage, then back to her face again.
“Little Crosby was not very different from big Crosby, I suppose,” he said with a laugh. “I had a normal childhood. Middle class working parents, a backyard, a dog, an older sister, two best friends at school.” He suddenly stood up and walked over to the French windows behind him. He stared out, his hands in his pockets again, as Tamsin scribbled in her notebook.
“What is your earliest memory as a child?” she asked. The sound of her pen scratching the paper was the only other sound in the room.
“My father fixing a basket on top of the garage door. It was too high for me, but he didn’t lower it,” he said, still staring out over the lawn outside.
“He wanted you to practice that way?” she asked him.
“No. He just couldn’t be bothered.” His answer was quick and he jerked around to look at her. “I said no questions about my father.”
“I didn’t ask,” Tamsin said, meeting his eyes defiantly. She knew what was going on. Crosby wanted desperately to talk to somebody about his father but didn’t want to acknowledge it.
“So your first memory is associated with basketball, but what other interests did you have?” She tried to change the subject.
“I liked reading, but I was never encouraged. The only way I could read was by sneaking into the library. My parents, especially my father, thought reading was a waste of time.” Crosby was looking at her as he spoke, with narrowed eyes. The smile on his face had disappeared, and he looked like he was angry.
“What else were you not allowed to do?” Tamsin asked him, making sure that she kept her surprise well hidden. This was a side of Crosby Jones that had never been portrayed in the media. He
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