In This Moment

Chapter Ten

Graham had just finished loading the files for Monday when a knock on the front door startled him. He glanced at Twain’s perked ears, then through his office to the sidewalk outside the Gazette window. He didn’t spot anyone, but part of his view to the front door was skewed. Rebecca had left hours ago, and she wouldn’t knock because she had a key. They were way beyond normal business hours. In fact, dark had descended without him realizing. He hadn’t made plans with Forest, either.

Rising, he strode out of his office, and found Gunner Davis examining the drop boxes Graham and Rebecca had put under the awning on the side of the entryway. He was wearing a white polo stretched across his paunch and khaki pants barely held in place by a belt, indicating he’d popped by after leaving work. As one of a handful of attorneys in town, he didn’t practice law often anymore since becoming mayor twenty years ago. Or so Graham had been told. The guy still had an office on Belle Street, even though the majority of his clientele had been in their prime around Vietnam, but he spent more time at his official mayoral headquarters at the courthouse.

What could he possibly want at this hour?

Unlocking the door, Graham eased it open. “Mr. Davis. How are you?”

“Call me Gunner, son.” He ran his pudgy fingers through his thinning white strands. “I’m good, thanks for asking. Mind if I come in?”

It was his building, but hey. “Sure. I was just finishing for the day.” Graham glanced outside as Gunner squeezed past him. “Or night, as the case may be.”

Shutting the door, he watched his boss stroll around, checking out the display counters, racks, tables, and pictures they’d hung. His frequent nodding seemed to indicate approval, but in the couple months Graham had been employed, Gunner hadn’t once visited.

“Lookin’ great in here. Lots of changes.” He pointed to the comic boxes holding copies of old editions. “You get all these from storage upstairs?”

“Yes. It was Rebecca’s idea.” And a good one.

“Never would’ve thought to try that, or to turn part of the newsroom into a storefront. It beats this stuff collecting dust upstairs. I like the traces of history in the displays, too.” He cinched his slacks. “People tend to forget origins over time. Damn shame, that. What you’ve done circles back to the Gazette’s beginning.”

Graham grunted a sound of agreement, unsure if Gunner was here to look over his shoulder or check to make certain he wasn’t burning the place to ashes. “Rebecca’s handiwork, also. She’s got a creative streak that alludes me. Actually, she has kickass marketing skills.” Which just happened to coincide with resurrecting the paper.

A guttural laugh, and Gunner shoved his hands in his pockets. “Glad you hired her. I was going to suggest it myself before you beat me to it. She has a lot of marketing skills. You’re right about that. You’re an honest man, admitting the ideas were hers.”

“I wouldn’t take credit for something that wasn’t mine.” Gunner probably wouldn’t know that, though. Based on Graham’s employment in Minnesota and the way he’d been terminated, he couldn’t blame Gunner for whatever assumptions were made. Tension knotted Graham’s shoulders as warning knells clanged. He had a six month contract, in which he was two-and-a-half deep. Was he about to get canned? “She’s good at what she does and thinks outside the box. I’m lucky to have her.”

Gunner nodded. Striding to the display window, he watched the canary for a beat. “Her idea, too?”

Not liking the entire exchange, Graham placed a palm to his gut to calm the jitters. “The whole display. She found the items at a thrift shop. All except the bird.”

“Mr. Forester had one like it years ago. I’m sure Miss Rebecca mentioned it.”

“She did.” He wanted to hammer questions or maybe accusations Gunner’s way, but best Graham keep mum, despite the uneasiness of the situation. It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Nice weather. How you been? I like the new pictures.

You’re fired.

Gunner picked up a copy of today’s paper from one of the basket racks in front of him, examining the front page. “It pained me to see the Gazette reduced to what it had become. No one seemed to give a darn anymore. We let it fall by the wayside. I’d hoped for this very thing.” He turned, holding up the newspaper. “Hoped when I’d hired you to find headlines again and actual content.” He stared at Graham, deadpan. “Circulation’s on the rise. Numbers are looking better.”

“They are.” Quite a bit. “Both print and e-delivery. Sales here in the storefront won’t amount to much, but it’s a little something extra.”

“Right you are.” Gunner set the paper back in the basket and headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “I hear you and Miss Rebecca are an item.”

Shit. What? “We aren’t.”

Up went the mayor’s bushy white brows. “But you want to be.”

Not a question. He stated it as fact.

Graham opened and swiftly closed his mouth. Since he couldn’t deny the statement, he just shut up. Let it be known, he did have some brain cells.

“Thought so. Rumors in small towns are typically based on some form of truth. A good amount of our folks are rooting for you.” Gunner’s lips twitched in what could pass as a smirk. “Best be minding our Rebecca’s heart, though. It’s been broken a few times too many.”

A nod, and the mayor left.

Graham, alone once more, waited for the mayor to pass by the window, then he bent at the waist and blew out a gale force wind.

The hell had that been about? He couldn’t tell if he’d been praised, put on probation, or threatened. In five mere minutes. Criminy, he had whiplash.

The jingling of Twain’s collar joined Graham’s heartbeat, and the dog stuck his head out the doorway of the inner office.

Hands on his hips, Graham sighed. “Thanks for bailing, you sissy. You just left me for the wolves out here.”

Twain sat on his haunches as if to say, sorry, not sorry.

“I’ll forgive you this time.” He went to his office to grab his things, petting the dog on his way. “That was completely out of the blue, right? The whole conversation. I mean, weird.”

Twain tilted his head like he understood.

Pocketing his keys and phone, Graham stood by his desk, rattled. If he lost this job, there would likely be no other in his field. He wasn’t good at anything else. If he had to start all over again in a fresh career, he had zero clue what he’d do. After the scandal, when it became apparent no one would hire him, he’d toyed with different path options, and found squat. But he’d made his bed, and now he had to lay in it. He was damn lucky to have this opportunity.

Until Rebecca, he’d done little more than the motions. She’d lit a fire under him. Got the interest of the town involved. Made changes that were working. Hell, he had ideas and a spark again. Just this evening, after she’d left, he’d written his first article in months instead of just editing or designing the pages for print. Hope had stupidly bloomed.

The visit from Gunner gave Graham the clear impression his boss knew this had all been her craftsmanship. That she was the one making the Gazette thrive anew. And he’d be correct. But what had been the purpose in dropping by? To see if Graham would lie? Take credit? To hint that Gunner was aware of the inner workings and Graham should watch his step? Had it been a warning or precursor?

He just…didn’t know, and the uncertainty ate at his gut. He’d moved hundreds of miles from his family and all he knew to take a job in a tiny southern town doing the kind of work he used to baulk at, only to hit a wall. If not for a feisty blonde saving his ass, he’d be fired in four months for no productivity. And after tonight’s impromptu visit, he wasn’t so sure saving the paper would save his career, seeing as he’d had no hand in it.

Anxiety tripped his pulse. Worry tapped his temples.

Not sure what to do with the restless energy, he whistled for the dog, locked up, and walked down Main Street toward his suburb. As usual, the town square was quiet, and he was left alone with his thoughts. He was beginning to hate his own company.

Maybe the fresh air and stroll would do him some good. It was Friday night. He could call Forest and get a beer. Or change when he got home and go for a run. Read a novel he’d recently picked up at one of the shops. Research material for small town papers and Georgia-specific content. Watch some mindless television. Fix the back door deadbolt that wouldn’t catch the latch. Scroll online for patio furniture for the deck. Bake more ridiculous cookies for the mailman. Unpack the rest of the boxes from his old apartment. Paint the spare bedroom. Call his folks. Watch the grass grow that he’d just cut on…

“Hey, everything okay?”

Irritated, he glanced up from where he sat on the top step of the stoop outside his house to the interruption, and was met with familiar blue eyes. Rebecca. She was easy to talk to, didn’t judge, encouraged rather than discouraged, both stirred and settled his crazy, smelled great, straddled the cute and sexy-as-hell line, was smart as a whip, and had a great funny bone. Damn if she wasn’t exactly what he’d needed. How’d she know?

Actually, after a quick glance around, he realized he had zero recollection of making it home, and it was her stoop he was on. Guess that had been his subconscious at play, not her intuition.

He was an idiot. A severely distracted one.

Twain let out an exasperated sigh beside Graham to punctuate the conclusion.

She’d changed clothes since leaving the office. She wore a pair of skinny jeans, sandals with heels, and some sort of flowy green blouse that fell off one shoulder. Her hair was loose from her typical work knot, caramel strands blowing gently in the breeze. She stood, staring down at him, with worry lines creasing her forehead. Probably because he hadn’t answered her, not that he could recall what she’d asked.

Slipping a black purse off her shoulder, she set it by his feet on the bottom step and crouched in front of him. “What’s wrong?”

Everything. Nothing.

“You look nice.” That wasn’t exactly an answer, but it was the God’s honest truth. She had such a lovely, angular face, accented by those huge eyes. Vastly expressive.

“Thank you.” Her expression indicated she wasn’t convinced by his evasive comment, yet she rolled with it.

“You’re welcome. How was bookclub?”

“It was fun, for the most part.” She had Twain move, and sat beside Graham in the dog’s place. “Scarlett’s mama had her nose in the air about a few changes to the plantation and the fact Aden Abner joined club.”

“Who’s Aden?”

“An old classmate.” She brushed a strand away from her face, smile wistful. “His family used to work for the Taylors. About five years ago, Scarlett sold Aden a chunk of the estate grounds where the barns are located. He built a house there and runs a business that coincides with hers. Horse-drawn carriage rides and such.”

He’d thought, or assumed, Scarlett was single. “How long have they been together?”

“Scarlett and Aden?” She laughed, rich and addictive. “They’re not. They drive each other up a wall and back down again. On an hourly basis. They’re friends. Sort of.”

“Sort of, huh?” She was amusing when talking about anything but herself. More open book and less reserved.

“Yeah, it’s hard to categorize their relationship. He’d do damn near anything for her, and she respects the heck outta him. She was the one who recognized he should make a go of the business instead of just tending to her horses. They fight like red-headed stepchildren.”

Sounded like foreplay in his book. Mighty fine of Scarlett, though. Not only to acknowledge Aden’s gifts, but put them to use in way that offered him independence.

“You’d like Aden. We’ll get a group of us together one night and introduce you. Might not be a bad idea to join club yourself. Meet some of the townsfolk.”

“Maybe.” Friday nights could prove problematic because that’s when he did Monday’s layout. Then again, he could knock it out anytime over the weekend. “We’ll see.”

“Anyway,” she said through a sigh. “We had a lot more people than expected, I think out of curiosity about the library and wanting to hear gossip. Mostly women, but we had about ten gentleman. We settled on a cozy mystery for this month.”

He nodded, not having much to add. He’d rather listen to her talk, anyhow. With her being so close, her intoxicating scent was wreaking havoc on his attention span. As in, he had none. What had occurred back in his office this afternoon began playing on a loop through his head. How he’d almost kissed her. The things she’d said.

“There was bickering and fussing over what genre to start with, so finally we just took a vote and—”

“How long is a hot minute?”

Straightening, she snapped her mouth shut, confusion creasing her forehead.

Crap. He hadn’t meant to interrupt, but it was driving him bonkers. He’d been having a hard time straddling personal and professional with regards to her. Apparently, half the town, mayor included, thought Graham and Rebecca were dating. And okay with it. Tonight’s visit from Gunner had thrown Graham a one, two punch, first with fear for his job and then with the comment about her.

“Um…” Her lips pouted in thought. “In southern terms, it typically refers to a long time, I guess. Could be weeks, months, or years, depending on the context. Why?”

Well, okay. That hadn’t clarified anything.

Crawling out of his skin, yet again, he rose and paced the short sidewalk in front of her stoop. “The other night at dinner, you said it had been a hot minute since you’d slept with anyone.”

“Oh, that.”

Uh huh, that. “So, in that context, how long is a hot minute?”

She stared at him, her expression unreadable. “My most recent relationship lasted about eleven months. We broke up almost a year ago.”

A year? He thought his dry spell of seven months was bad. He’d been with Felicia going on two years, and she’d flaked the second his career started tanking. Which only proved she hadn’t given a damn about him. Frankly, he hadn’t been all that upset. Or surprised.

He paced anew, his head a riot. “At the office today, I nearly kissed you, and then I apologized.”

She stared some more, and how he wished her typically expressive eyes would give him an inkling of her thoughts. He was batting zero.

Fine, he’d keep going on his bipolar rant. “You said that you weren’t sorry I tried.” At the time, if she’d given him a lap dance while wearing a dinosaur costume, he would’ve been less shocked. Or perplexed. “What does that mean, precisely? Could you maybe spell it out?”

This was a very precarious position. He was her supervisor, and though he’d never, not in the realm of ever, force himself on a woman, want them to feel they were being sexually harassed, or coaxed in any manner, he also had to protect himself. His career had already taken a knockout hit. Anything else would be a death blow. And on the flip side, she needed to know she could trust him, that he’d respect her, and that any engagement would be her choice. Without repercussions.

She drew a slow delicate breath, gaze never leaving his, and when she finally spoke, her voice was soft, bordering on feeble. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing, Graham.”

Of all the replies he’d anticipated, that hadn’t made the cut. “Not good at what thing?”

Her teeth worked her lower lip, and it took everything he had not to erase the distance and do that for her. His skin heated and muscle locked around bone. His fingers twitched in his abject desire to touch her.

A long blink, and she lowered her chin, absently petting the dog. A move so unlike her spirited, straightforward personality that even gravity seemed like a myth.

He needed an aspirin. “Rebecca?”

“Dating.” She winced, shaking her head as if berating herself. “I’m not very good at dating or relationships or the flirty banter beforehand. I don’t have much experience in this arena. Growing up in a small town where secrets don’t exist, there weren’t many boyfriend options. A couple, but you get it. All the guys around here had played in the same sandbox. In college, there had been a few interests. Nothing long term. I was more focused on my studies. Same for after I graduated. Some here and there, but I was trying to make a name for myself. That eleven-month relationship I mentioned? It was my longest.”

She was honest to a fault. Tactful, usually, but would not hesitate to speak her mind if provoked. She didn’t appear to have a deceptive bone in her body. So, as he stood in front of her, hands on his hips, head tilted to be sure he’d heard her right, and gob-smacked straight into Willy Wonka’s factory, he had to remind himself of those traits. Because no way, no way in hell, would she have him believe a guy hadn’t tried to put a ring on it before now. She was gorgeous. She was kind. She was witty and funny and creative and as real as his attraction to her from the starting gate.

All that aside… “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I just did.”

“But, you didn’t.” Even the dog was darting his gaze back and forth between them like he was watching a deranged tennis match. “We’ll circle back to dating history later. I assure you, there’s a heated forthcoming discussion on that topic. For now, answer my question.” He gritted his teeth. “Please.”

She cast her gaze heavenward as if praying for patience. “What question, Graham? I just said I’m not good at this stuff.” She gestured between the two of them. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Alrighty. Stop this merry-go-round. He wanted off.

He raised his palms and spoke in very precise, very articulate, very short sentences. Not because he thought she was stupid, but because the want of her was starting to make him stupid. “I almost kissed you. I said I was sorry. You said you weren’t sorry. What did you mean by that?”

“Um, that I wasn’t sorry you tried to kiss me,” she said slowly, apparently catching on to his daft status.

“Okay.” Now they were getting somewhere. “Meaning, it would’ve been all right with you if I had succeeded in the feat?”

“Yes.”

“And you would’ve wanted me to kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you changed your mind about that since this afternoon?” Say no. Please, say…

“No.”

Thank Almighty. “Are you feeling pressured in any way or are you uncomfortable with the possibility of said kissing?”

“No.”

“For clarification, it was okay that I tried to kiss you, you wanted me to, you still do, and I’m not forcing yes responses.” The oxygen backed up in his lungs. “Do I have that correct?”

“Yes. You’re being weird and—”

“Pause. That’s all I needed.” It wasn’t all he needed, but he was about to fix that.

Striding the two paces between them, he bent, slapped his palms on the top step beside her hips, and crushed his mouth to hers.

Rejoicing circled the globe.

Angels fell from On High.

Equilibrium was restored to the universe and…

Scratch that. Nope. Point five seconds in, and she knocked him off axis, spiraling toward oblivion.

Her plush, soft lips parted, and a sexy lil mewl escaped her mouth, drifting right into his. His pulse thundered against his carotid and his gut boiled. He tilted his head, went deeper, and stroked her tongue. Long, slow, languid. Drugging.

This was always the best part. Well, not the best, per se, but the most informative. That first kiss was to get to know a woman, learn her style, test her technique to reveal if they were a good match. Discover if they fit. Find out if the chemistry was only on paper.

The two of them? They were the periodic table of elements. And as for the fit? Her puzzle pieces interlocked with his to the point he had the crazy thought she was cut strictly for him.

She met him beat for beat, on equal footing, then twisted the game to Cat Mouse. Submissive, following his lead. Boom. Her turn, taking the reins. He was dizzy with the desire for her. Pants shrinking, groan-inducing, chest pounding kind of dizzy. The hot, wet cavern of her mouth tasted like mint and she smelled like a pollen-soaked summer afternoon. Honeysuckle and warm woman.

Arching closer, she threaded her fingers in his hair, and…ah, shit. He groaned. Tendrils of need raised the hairs on his nape, sent lightning to his circuits. A war ensued inside his mind.

Take her.

Don’t you dare.

Yes.

No.

Too soon.

Soon would never be fast enough.

A whine split the air, unusual in the way it jarred the quiet intensity of the moment. They both paused the kiss.

Not her whine. Or his. Whose? They were alone.

Something cold and wet pressed against his jaw.

She severed contact with a deep-throated laugh. “Hi, Twain.” Turning her head, she grinned at the dog, who licked her face. Then, she did the unfathomable and removed her hands from Graham’s hair to…pet Twain instead. “Who’s a good boy? You are.”

“I’m a good boy, too,” Graham drolled.

“Are you feeling left out?” she cooed, as if the dog was the one needing consolation.

“Yes.” Graham nudged her cheek with his nose.

Throwing her head back, she laughed. Her hair cascaded across his hand, which he was unaware he’d placed against the curve of her spine.

As if they needed more cold water splashed, Twain then licked Graham’s face.