When my college crush, Talbot Richardson--who didn't even know I existed--was elected to the United States Senate, I bragged a little too loudly that I knew him.<br />Oops.<br />Did I <i>really </i>know the sexiest, slickest guy on campus?<br />Not a chance in hell.<br />Unless knowing someone is following them around campus to see which dorm they live in, and which class they have at eight a.m. on Wednesdays.<br />Oh, and I might have stalked him in the dining hall, too. Turned out he ate a lot of grilled cheese.<br />And thanks to my big mouth, the paper I work for now expects <i>me </i>to do a story on him because he's not granting interviews. Not even to Anderson Cooper.<br />But surely he'll meet me since we went to college together? Right?<br />Logical assumption. Except that he doesn't know me from a hole in the wall.<br />But I wasn't about to blow my chance with the paper. Writing obituaries for three years at one of the country's top newspapers was not my idea of a fulfilling career, especially since the money I'd borrowed for my Ivy League education could buy a small country. I wanted more--I wanted to report on real news. I wanted to prove myself, and even work in the face of danger. A girl's got to have dreams.<br />All I needed was a break. <br />No question, I was getting an interview with Talbot Richardson if it was the last thing I did. If I had to beg, borrow, steal, or... even take my panties off.