Isn't It Bromantic (Bromance Book Club #4) by Lyssa Kay Adams

            She should have been warmed by the reminder of their lifelong connection, but she was instead plunged deeper into a cold bath of determination. “Then as your goddaughter, I am asking for a favor. I want to be a journalist like my father. I’m ready.”

            The creak of a desk chair told her he’d either stood up or leaned back. Either way, she could picture him. He’d look just like her father used to. Sleeves rolled up over his forearms. Tie loosened or tossed aside altogether and the top button undone on his standard button-down shirt. All journalists around the world wore the same bland uniform.

            “Elena,” he said, voice tight as if he were reining in the worst of his thoughts. “I’m sure your father would be very proud that you want to follow in his footsteps.”

            “He wouldn’t be,” she snapped. “We both know it. He told me a thousand times that the last thing he wanted was for me to be a journalist.”

            “So why are we even having this conversation?”

            “Because I have to do this. It’s in my blood.” And because I owe it to him.

            “There’s a reason he didn’t want this life for you. Even before he—before what happened . . . he knew this was no life for you. It’s dangerous. You know that better than anyone. You’ve spent nearly six years in America. It might be a hard adjustment to come back here after living and studying in a place that has freedom of the press enshrined in its DNA.”

            She stiffened. “It’s not perfect here either. The press is vilified on a daily basis. People walk around with T-shirts threatening to hang reporters. Journalists get spit on at political rallies. They are called fake news and enemies of the people.”

            “But do they mysteriously disappear from train stations there?”

            His words packed a punch, one that knocked the air from her lungs.

            “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should not have said that.”

            “I’m not naive, Zhenya,” she said, using his nickname. “I know the dangers better than anyone. I’m not afraid.”

            Yevgeny paused again, and this time she could hear the silent pity all the way across the time zones. “What about Vlad?”

            “We’re getting a divorce.”

            He cursed under his breath, and again, she could picture him. He’d be just like her father. Rubbing a hand over his hair and staring at the ceiling as if praying for patience and wisdom but coming up short. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he finally said. “Truly.”

            “I don’t need you to feel sorry for me. Just give me a chance. Treat me like any other entry-level reporter. Give me the shittiest assignments. Teach me. Please.”

            “I need to think about this.”

            “I’ll interview with anyone you need me to talk to. I don’t expect you to just hand me a job.”

            “Before I do anything, I need to ask you something, and I expect the truth.”

            “O-okay.”

            “Why are you really coming back?”

            She gulped. “What do you mean?”

            “You could be a journalist in America.”

            “No. My visa does not allow me to work here.”

            “There are always ways around that. If you apply at a U.S. newspaper and get hired, they can arrange for you to get the necessary classification. Foreign journalists are hired by U.S. newspapers and broadcast networks all the time.”

            “Yes, but—”

            “Are you coming back here to try to find out what happened to your father?”

            “No. Of course not,” she lied.

            “Because if you are—”

            “I’m not.”

            “Because if you are,” he repeated, “I will not hire you. Do you understand? If I hire you, and I find out that you’re digging into what happened to your father, I’ll have no choice but to let you go.”