In This Moment

Chapter Nine

It was insane. Chaotically insane.

Rebecca closed and locked the Gazette door just after noon, flipping the sign for lunch. Between emails, call-outs, articles in the paper, and word of mouth, it had been a zoo all morning. Townsfolk had cleared the shelves of framed prints. Many of the single sleeves in boxes had been purchased, too. It seemed their efforts had paid off. At least, with foot traffic, anyway. She’d no sooner opened the door at nine, and a steady stream had filtered in all morning.

The two of them barely had a chance to breathe. She’d had no chance to check numbers online or get her materials ready for Monday’s edition. Graham, an hour in, had chucked his tie and suitcoat in the vicinity of her desk and rolled up his sleeves. Even Plucky had been vocal in singing all morning, though he seemed to be napping on his perch now.

“Holy cow.” She strolled to Graham’s office, where Twain lifted his head from his spot on the floor beside the desk. “That was nuts.”

“You think that’s crazy, look at this.” He bumped his chin at the computer screen.

He laced his fingers behind his head and rocked in his chair. The position stretched his white button-down dress shirt snugly across his torso. She tried and failed not to stare. Wide chest. Ripples of abs beneath the fabric. She’d bet the small amount in her bank account that he worked out. Or had extremely good genetics.

Focus. She dragged a chair around to his side and plopped.

And there was his bergamot scent again, filling her with images, distractions, and fantasies. She’d lain awake half the night, thinking of him and their dinner. Not once, in all her years, had she been this affected by a man’s cologne.

Then again, she supposed it could be Graham and not whatever product he used. They had chemistry, banter, and intellectual conversations. He was handsome, kind, and had just enough of a dark edge to render him interesting without being problematic. Her pulse thrummed a tripping rhythm and her chest heated. Would he be the type of guy to shove everything off the surface and take her right here on his desk? Or more traditional and drive her home to stumble toward a bed? Up against the wall frenzy or slow and meticulous?

“I can see you’re also in awe.” His low, deep timbre was laced with amusement, yet it infiltrated her senses and slithered into her bloodstream.

She blinked and glanced at his monitor, drawing in a measured breath for clarity. She really needed to knock it off every time they were within the same room. He had his emails pulled up, but none of them were open. Quickly, she zeroed in on what he’d referenced.

Two hundred emails. As she stared, the number climbed.

“Jeez. I wonder how many are sitting in my inbox. I haven’t had a free moment to look.” Best she’d done was boot up her computer when she’d gotten to the office.

“Since you set it up for certain subject matters on who gets emailed for what, I’m betting yours is just as whack.”

“Probably.” This was a really, really good sign that the townsfolk were interested in the Gazette again. Or still. “Can you pull up the web domain? Let’s see how subscriber statistics are panning.”

His large, deft fingers danced over the keyboard, and she did her level best to look at the screen instead.

He grunted. “Not sure what I’m looking for or where to go.”

“May I?” She pointed to his mouse and keyboard.

A shrug, and he waved as if to say have at it.

She showed him the various tabs on how to get to the newsletter and lists. “Holy crap.”

Narrowing his gaze, he leaned forward. “That can’t be right. We had a little less than three hundred subscribers yesterday.”

“For print. We’re up to almost six hundred now.” And it was only noon. Hopefully, that would hike. Word of mouth in Vallantine went a long way. Small town and all. “E-print subscribers are trickling in, too. These are new as of today. Remember, we had zero because we’d not had an electronic edition.”

“Almost up to one hundred.” He shook his head as if in awe. “That’s not accounting for the sidewalk boxes, either.”

His low chuckle filled the room, and he swiveled in his chair to face her. A glance in her direction, and his laugh gained momentum until he grabbed his side and bent over.

Unsure what was so hilarious, she stared at his thick black hair, curled slightly at the ends, mere inches from her lap, and she wanted to thread her fingers through the strands. Just once, to see if they were as soft as they looked. See if he would encourage more or politely ease out of her grasp. If he enjoyed the contact or preferred different forms of touch.

They’d flirted up to this point. Had there been anything more from his standpoint? She’d never been a great judge when it came to the opposite sex. Put her in a room full of people, and she could figure things out. Based on body language, facial expressions, or demeanor, she could read said room. It was a gift and skill she’d learned. Yet, when it involved someone she was interested in, or the flip side, that ability took a backseat. In most aspects of her life, she took charge. Dominated. Conquered. At least, when it came to things she could control. Relationships, though? She’d followed their lead.

Frankly, she’d just not been very good at…dating. Proven by her longest relationship lasting a mere year.

Attraction was one thing, but she was inching past interest and speeding toward lust with Graham. Not a first, except way more intense than anything she’d experienced to date. She wanted to know him. In a biblical sense. It had seemingly come out of nowhere and had grabbed her by the trachea.

“Mercy, Rebecca.” He raised his head, and the distance between them shrank. Golden flecks were immersed in his emerald irises, unnoticeable if they hadn’t been in each other’s orbit. Warm hands framed her face. “You saved the paper.”

She…what?

He gave her a little shake. “No telling how long it’ll last, but you saved the Gazette.”

A denial was on the tip of her tongue, that they’d worked together to fix the newspaper, but he brought her to him. Or he’d moved even closer. Something. What little thought remained in her head vanished. Millimeters. That was the meager space between his lips and hers. Millimeters. They were sharing air, and she got dizzy from the rush.

“Shit.” His gorgeous, mesmerizing eyes widened. Up went his hands, and he straightened. “I apologize. That was uncalled for. I’m your boss. We work together. I’m sincerely sorry.”

Somehow, she’d grown short of breath without moving a muscle. He looked genuinely horrified and contrite. Eyes round and beseeching. Lips rolled over his teeth. Meanwhile, her heart was just trying to resuscitate.

Silence, heady silence ensued, until she muttered the first thing that came to mind. “I’m not.”

A speculative glare. “Not what?”

“Sorry.” Not sorry he’d touched her or that he’d almost kissed her. But because he hadn’t been wrong, they did work together and he was her superior, she scooted her chair back and rose. Rejection lanced her belly. “I’m going to work on my end for Monday’s edition while it’s quiet.”

At a snail’s pace, he lowered his arms and gripped the chair like he was trying to refrain from moving. His gaze darted back and forth between hers, imploring, studying. Eventually, he nodded, though the wrench of his brows indicated his confusion remained.

He could join the club.

Resetting her chair on the other side of his desk, she went to her own. Twain followed, resting his chin on her leg while she got her PC out of sleep mode. Smiling, she absently petted the sweet dog. And nearly fell out of her chair.

One hundred and five emails. She would’ve swallowed her tongue if it were anatomically possible.

She took the rest of her lunch break skimming through messages, answering a couple questions, and deleting spam while munching on a granola bar. More than once, she could feel Graham’s gaze on her, and a twisted sense of giddy empowerment washed over her.

The afternoon proved less busy up front than the morning, though stragglers had moseyed in. To keep sane, Rebecca created folders for Artist of the Day, Weather of the Day, and recipe submissions, numbering them in the folders to coordinate with details for attribution. She also made a list of Announcements that had dropped in her inbox from the schools and a few townsfolk to send to Graham. Once the emails were off to him for the Monday edition, she popped over to the social media accounts and scheduled posts to run all weekend with open-ended teasers like they’d discussed. They had virtually five hundred new followers on Twitter and Facebook.

Without turning around, she called updates over her shoulder to Graham.

“Nice! Great work.”

Pleased with herself, she smiled, and opened a blank Word document.

Typing clacked behind her. “Hey, I’ve got the Wordsearch, Garden, and Health Tips ready.”

“Awesome. I’m writing a quick book review now. Once the bookclub gets going, the reviews can be more of a collective response.”

“Nifty. Joan and Jefferson’s stuff is in. I need the Weather Report for all weekend, along with the Horoscopes.”

“On it.” She minimized the document and pulled up her browser instead, copying deets. “Done. Emailed.”

“Thanks!”

She stroked the dog’s soft multi-colored fur and whispered, “Nice to be appreciated for a change.” And it truly was. Spending seven years in the corner of a busy newsroom, hardly recognized, underutilizing her talents, and feeling utterly alone had left her with a great appreciation for the contrary.

Twain sighed as if he understood, dark brown gaze adoring.

“You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you? Yes, you are.”

Tail wag.

Graham’s typing paused. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m talking to your dog.”

Chuckle. “Is he talking back? If so, I’m working you too hard.”

“No comment.”

Another laugh.

Based on a women’s fiction book by a Georgia author she’d just finished reading last week, she typed a quick review and emailed it off to Graham.

Done with everything on her docket for today, she opened another blank page and inserted a table for future Wordsearch topics. It would hopefully help him on those days he was inundated. She plugged the months with coordinating holidays and seasons into the headers, along with a random section, then Googled ideas for each one. Not completely satisfied, she color-coded it. After emailing it to him, she sent it to print and stood.

Twain followed her into Graham’s office.

“Who’s a good boy? You are.”

Behind her, Graham laughed while typing. “He likes you better than me. I think I’m jealous.”

“Naw. I just smell better,” she joked, her back to him, waiting on the printer to finish.

“That you do.” Type, type. “Honeysuckle straight off the vine,” he muttered in an irritated tone, seemingly to himself.

He knew what her perfume smelled like?

A glance at Twain proved he would offer no more insight for that remark than the man who’d spoken it.

She peeked over her shoulder. He was paying her no mind. “Should I switch to something with rose or gardenia undertones instead?”

Gaze on the screen, he paused, but didn’t look up. “Nope.”

She’d bought the brand a few years ago because it reminded her of home, and it wasn’t overpowering. “But you don’t like it.”

“Never said that.” Type, type. More refusal to look her way.

“Sounds as if you don’t like it.”

“I do.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

Grinning, she pulled pages from the printer and attached them to the blank corkboard on the wall with push pins.

“What’s that?”

So, he was paying attention. “Wordsearch topics.”

“Huh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Thoroughly amused by the interaction, she went back to her desk.

Twain followed.

She sent a bunch of copies of the archive articles they’d sold in frames to the printer to replace stock, then glanced at the clock. It was only three. “Do you mind if I take off at four? We have the bookclub meeting at Scarlett’s tonight and I’m in charge of snacks. I can buy more frames for the magazine racks while I’m at it.”

“Not a problem.”

“Thank you.”

A grunt came by way of acknowledgement.

Shaking her head at the dog, she sighed. “Ornery men.”

A few more stragglers came in, looked around, and bought some prints in sleeves. While she was up front, she made sure the plants in the bay window were hydrated, Plucky II had enough food and water for the weekend, and changed the pan liner on the bottom of his cage.

Back at her desk, she checked social media again, and read a couple blogs. Which gave her an idea. “Do you mind if I send you a piece for Monday?”

“No. Just get it to me by five.”

She’d have it to him by four since that’s when she was leaving, but okay.

If they were trying to keep the Gazette thriving and townsfolk from getting bored, they’d need to incorporate various topics by way of trends. One of the articles she’d read was how to refurbish old clothes into usable things, and which fads were making a comeback.

Using the blog as a source, she got ideas and put her own spin on it, then did a search for other items in that category and added it to her piece. Not a long editorial, but it was something fresh. A quick skim for edits, and she emailed it to Graham.

Shutting down the computer, she grabbed her laptop bag, manilla folder with copied archives, and rose. “I sent you the piece. Need me to do anything else before I go?”

“Nope. I’m good. Thanks for everything. Have a good weekend.”

“You, too.” She frowned, petting the dog one last time.

Graham still hadn’t looked at her, and she wondered if it had to do with their almost kiss. Was he mad at himself? Her? Embarrassed?

Not certain how to address the climate change between them, she left, her stomach in knots.

She hit the thrift store and cleaned them out of photo frames, then dialed Scarlett on her way home. “Hey, how many people are we expecting tonight?”

“Not a clue, girl.” Voices muffled in the background. “Aden Abner, you could piss off the Pope. Git outta here.” A beat passed, and Scarlett sighed. “Ugh, that man makes my ass itch.”

Rebecca laughed as she pulled up to her house. Aden’s family had worked for Scarlett’s since before they were born. He was in their graduating class, where he’d gotten a degree in annoying the hell out of her. Sometimes friends, usually frenemies, they had an odd push/pull no one but them seemed to understand. With her blessing and support, he’d started his own business on her family’s estate doing horse drawn carriage rides for tourists and events.

“Anyway,” Scarlett said on a dramatic sigh. “Mama’s original bookclub had forty-three members. Not accounting for the two that have passed away, I emailed the rest. Only a handful responded, Dorothy’s mother included. No tellin’ how many will show based on your notice in the Gazette.”

Rebecca’s mom being one of the two who’d died. She wondered who the other was, but let it go. “What snacks do you think I should get? Fruit and vegie platter? Maybe chips and salsa?”

“Fine by me. I’d grab a few packages of cookies from the bakery.”

“You got it.” Rebecca climbed out of the car and unlocked the front door. “I just have to change and hit the market. Be there soon.”

Thirty minutes later, she drove past Peach Park and wove through the historical district of town. Vallantine Cemetery was on the right, huge plantations on the left. Brick-laid curvy roads, large sprawling acres, ornate gardens, and hundred year old oak trees teeming with Spanish moss. Some townsfolk called it black or long moss, but the very older generation, like Gammy, referred to it as horsehair. Probably due to its resemblance. Rebecca supposed it did look like a greenish-gray version of a horse mane.

She’d done a project on it in high school, and it gave her an idea now for an upcoming article. Most tourists and a bunch of residents didn’t know squat about it, other than it was pretty. Funny thing? Spanish moss wasn’t actually from Spain, nor was it moss. It’s actually a bromeliad, a tiny flowering air plant that clung to itself as it dangled from tree limbs, gulping moisture or nutrients from the surrounding atmosphere and rain.

She chuckled to herself, surprised she’d remembered. Gammy used to say Rebecca was a plethora for useless knowledge and her mind was a sponge.

Lord, how she missed Gammy. An ache that would never abate, Rebecca feared. She rubbed the hollow sensation in her chest, glancing at headstones in the cemetery. Gammy was there, in the newer section. So were Rebecca’s Mom and Dad. Countless others, dating all the way back to William and Katherine Vallantine. Some tombstones were large, baroque, and darkly weathered by time. Others were simple markers with flowers.

She sighed, glancing ahead. This area of Vallantine was gorgeous, and she’d almost forgotten. As girls, Rebecca and her besties often hung out at her house or the library. Not all the time, but usually. Dorothy’s folks had been dubbed boring by their teenage selves because bedtime had been eleven and it was strictly enforced. Scarlett’s parents were on the pretentious side and treated sleepovers as if they were a royal circus. Plus, her house was like a museum. Gammy hadn’t cared how late they’d stayed up, so long as they didn’t wake her, and always had a batch of homemade cookies waiting. Thus, the go-to location.

It had been some years since Rebecca had ventured this way. During daylight, the wispy hanging moss that clung to the trees was reminiscent of romantic days gone by. Old south and its hidden gems. Sitting on the front porch drinking sweet tea and waving to passersby. Not a care in the world, except if it would rain. But, at night, moss played tricks on the mind or added a dreary, creepy sensation. Fingers crawling up the spine. Snarled dangling limbs that forever reached. A reminder that shadows hid dangers. True murky fantasies gallivanted at night.

Honestly, Rebecca just thought it made the oaks seem sad.

Scarlett’s plantation was the first estate on the corner, which was convenient since she’d turned hers into an event business. Several others on the lane had been converted to BBs or inns, but the ones farther from town remained private residences.

Rebecca pulled into the brick-laid driveway, long and winding, and lined with massive oaks that made it appear like the gnarled boughs were hugging the path. Welcoming. Waving hello. Once she finally got to the mansion, she parked on the far end of the circular drive beside the fountain instead of the parking lot Scarlett had put in a number of years ago for event guests. Easier access to leave later.

She stood by her car, shaking her head, as a floral-scented breeze teased her strands.

Dang, but the place was huge. And gorgeous. It had been built pre-Civil War and impeccably maintained. Two-stories, white siding, and black shutters. Boxy and symmetrical. A true Antebellum southern home with neoclassical Greek-revival architecture, twenty Corinthian columns, and ten Doric ones. There was a cast-iron balcony that wrapped around the mansion’s upper level, and the front portico centered the covered front porch spanning the width of the house. Triangular pediments and detailed dormers. Inside, there were thirteen furnished rooms, five of them for events.

The Taylors had been cotton farmers, and like most southern plantations, they’d had slaves. All of the fields had been turned into landscaped gardens with gazebos and vast sitting areas for entertaining by Scarlett’s grandmother. The former slave quarters had been torn down and the barns had new added additions. When Scarlett had inherited the estate, she’d dedicated a room to black history for her guests and customers. Many other places offering guided tours of southern plantations glossed over the atrocities of slavery, instead focusing on romanticizing the lives of the slave owners who’d run the plantations. Scarlett refused to do that. She’d dug up as many old photos and farming tools as she could for display.

Honestly, looking at the place gave Rebecca an overwhelming sense of sorrow. She couldn’t put her finger on why, other than specks of childhood memories where she and her besties had fantasized about their future weddings. Unlike Scarlett, Dorothy and Rebecca had come from middle-class families, and all this was but a dream, never to be a gleam in their eyes. Not to mention, lovely and breathtakingly beautiful as the estate was, Scarlett had done exactly what she’d envisioned. She’d turned a chunk of her family history into something amazing. Not just a private mansion to stare at from a distance, but a part of Vallantine where everyone was welcome. It made Rebecca feel like she’d settled or never reached her potential.

Stupid, being jealous of her best friend. Sighing, she hit the fob to open her trunk, where she’d set the snacks for bookclub.

Someone called her name. Turning, she shielded her face with her hand to block the sun.

Aden Abner, having rounded the driveway from the direction of the barns, strode toward her. His strut was exactly the same. Long, labored, and at his own leisurely pace. He’d get there when he felt like getting there. No need to rush. He had on a worn pair of jeans and a blue tee that fit snug against his contoured torso. Biceps bulged, straining his cuffs. A product of physical labor and tending to his horses. Wildly cut sandy blond hair was disheveled and his grin could still melt panties.

“Damn, that is you.” He jogged the rest of the way to her, opening his arms. He swept her in a hug, spinning her around. “Still pretty as a picture.”

She laughed as he set her down. “Aww, well thank you. You’re still a charming good ole southern boy, I see.”

“Why change perfection?” He shrugged, expression affable. “How’s the Gazette treating you? I hear you and the Yankee got a romance blooming.”

Hmm. Small towns and their gossip. “It’s going well, and where did you hear that?”

“Around.” Ah, that mischievous smirk. Now she recalled why he gave Scarlett such fits. The blue eyes were merely an exclamation point. “It true?”

“No, and don’t you be spreading rumors.”

“Hard to do that when word’s already out, darlin’.”

Whatever. “Wanna help me carry these inside?” She pointed to the trunk. “We got bookclub tonight.”

“I heard it’s been resurrected. I done signed up.”

Laughing, she glanced at the house. Scarlett was on the porch, leaning against a pillar with her arms crossed, her brows raised, and her lips pursed.

“You didn’t happen to join our bookclub to irritate a certain Belle, now, did you?”

Leaning over, he hefted a tray and winked. “It’s my favorite pastime.”