Eleanor Spencer was woken up by the ringing of her phone.
She groggily opened her eyes, greeted by the sight of a man's firm chest and a faint, familiar lemon fragrance. Eleanor smiled gently and reached for her phone.
It was an unfamiliar number.
She answered it and heard the other party introduce themselves: "Hello, is this Eleanor Spencer's phone? I'm a journalist from the East Splendor Times. May I ask about…"
"Sorry, I'm not accepting any interviews at the moment." Eleanor interrupted and hung up the call.
She was all too familiar with this type of journalist. They wouldn't stop until they've extracted every useful piece of information from you, and they'd blow up any slip-up you make in your words.
Currently, online opinion is siding with her. There's no need to accept such interviews. If the journalist caught a small mistake, it would be troublesome to handle.
"Who called?" Mason Nightshade turned over, held her, and kissed the nape of her neck.
"A journalist called."
