He looks happy, I decide. Which maybe isn’t something we’ve ever seen before: Kris Starr, happy and fond and relaxed and settled down at last. Tucking in paws. Comfortable.
He goes on, “Blueberry cream, you said,” and sorts out mugs. I get two. One contains simple strong plain black coffee, nothing fancy; the other one’s the coconut latte his other half mentioned, presumably in case I wanted it. I do.
Justin beams at me for this. I ponder half-credited rumors about demonic charm and seduction. Not that he’s trying. Seems to be natural. Like gravity, and kindness, and charisma.
“So,” Justin suggests, licking a fingertip clean of poor defenseless scone-crumbs. “Should we get started? We know you must have a list of questions, and it’s your interview. Whatever you want.”
We begin with the
