“Mr. Haddock - if you please, there are a few questions I-”
Hiccup Haddock, heir to ‘Vast Inc.’ and celebrity amputee, whirled around to glare at the reporter, his stunning green eyes flashing dangerously.
“I don’t care,” he grit out, “I’m in no mood for an impromptu interview.”
“Sir, this is by no means impromptu; I scheduled this meeting with your agent two weeks ago-”
Haddock sighed, cutting off the fierce blonde reporter yet again. “For the last time, I have zero interest in sharing my story with anyone, and WestWings should know this, considering I’ve turned down their offers hundreds of times.”
She straightened, adjusting her notepad and tucking her pen back behind her ear, her thick braid holding it in place. “With all due respect, Mr. Haddock, the four different reporters they sent were unable to retrieve your intriguing story, but they sent me now. And I have a . . . highly successful record in being able to extract difficult information.”
He scoffed. “I’m sure you do, looking like that,” he commented snidely. Her carefully polite expression shifted into one of furious outrage.
“Excuse you,” she hissed. “Would you care to elaborate on that?” Her voice was dangerously low. He was completely unaware, rolling his eyes and continuing in a patronizing voice.
“Not at all, you only have that awful scary look on your face that strongly suggests death if I don’t spill all my secrets to you so you can broadcast my personal struggles to the rest of the world,” he snarked.
She drew back, surprised. “Oh.” She had been expecting a different explanation. So many people she interviewed thought the only way a beautiful professional woman was successful was by sleeping her way up to the top.
He blinked, noticing her expression for the first time. His eyes widened. “Oh. Oh. Oh no, I - I’m so - I didn’t mean to imply that you . . . uh, no. Sorry. I’m not hitting on you or anything. I mean, you’re plenty pretty but I’m sure that’s not - I don’t - ugh.” His throat bobbed in apology and for the first time, she supposed she could understand some of the tabloids gushing about his good looks. He wasn’t wearing a full suit, only a crumpled white button up shirt with no tie and untucked out of his trousers. His green eyes were definitely pretty, she decided, especially when coupled with those high cheekbones.
“You know, I think I’m going to take that as a compliment,” she said easily, smoothing over the awkwardness. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to answer a few questions-”
“Fine. One.” she bit her lip against the annoyance that bubbled at his incessant interruptions. “As an apology,” he continued.
“I don’t need a pity answer,” she tried not to snap. She exhaled sharply. “Anyway, Mr. Haddock, where would you like to start?”
“Let’s start with losing the ‘Mr. Haddock’ crap. Makes me feel like my dad. You can call me Hiccup.” Interesting insight into his relationship with his father; more to unpack there. “And how about somewhere not in the open lobby?”
“Very well, Hiccup,” she said, trying out the name. “You can call me Astrid. But I’m not leaving here until you answer that one question you promised me before you can escape behind made up excuses and appointments.” He smiled wryly.
“Caught on, didn't you?” he huffed. She smiled at him.
“I did. Which is why I believe I’m the best person to pass your story to the rest of the world. Whether you like it or not, things will make themselves known, and you can either have people put together a distorted version of everything, or share an accurate, clear account of what happened. We can work together, Hiccup,” she persuaded him, leaning forward, letting that passionate side of her weave into her voice; it was her true secret of how she could obtain any information, infusing her subject with ardor until they were sharing everything, too caught up in the eager flow of their own words and emotions. She saw the effect on him, how he stood a little taller, the spark in his own eyes.
“You’re really good with your words, Ms. Hofferson,” he chuckled. “But you’re right, and I do believe I can trust you enough with my story to not tarnish it with overly dramatic details.” Astrid shrugged an elegant shoulder, pleased she’d broken through his unreceptive exterior.
“I can understand if you’re uncomfortable imparting your story in what seems like an unfeeling and formal environment. Would it be better for us to arrange to meet in a more casual setting? Perhaps a coffee shop?” She was willing to make accommodations if it led to the result she wanted.
Hiccup’s eyes flicked up to meet hers uncertainly. “Professionally,” she clarified. He nodded, ducking his head slightly so she couldn’t quite catch the expression in his eyes. Was he . . . disappointed? Astrid was certainly not averse to getting to know him more . . . privately, after she completed her article about him and solidified her career.
“That sounds good,” he agreed. “Now, as for that one question . . .”
