Drop Dead

Twenty-one

As Nadine anticipated, things with Wes got off to a rough start:

“That’s my box,” said Nadine, grabbing it out of Wes’s hands on the first day of searching.

“No, it’s not. It’s mine.” He snatched it back. “Stop cherry-picking the best boxes.”

“What best boxes? What the hell makes one box better than another?”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you. I know it when I see it.”

“It was my box. Give it over.”

They fought until it exploded in a flurry of dust and papers.

Nadine gave it a look. “Okay,” she said. “It’s yours.”

***

Later. Wes wondered how he thought working with Nadine was a good idea:

“Brent confirmed there’s no air-con up here and says Dot only liked fans,” Nadine said.

“What gave it away? The heat waves coming from the floor? The fact that we drink a thousand liters of water a day?”

She ignored him. He looked up when he felt a slight breeze and saw she’d managed to get the window open. “He also told me we could chip the paint off to open these,” she said.

“Thank God. Give me air.”

“Get your own window. This one’s mine.”

“You can’t be serious. It’s a window.”

“And it’s mine.” She leaned out and sucked in a lungful, smiling at him.

***

Still later. Yes, decided Nadine. Wes was in fact the worst:

Nadine ran her sweaty hand over her sweaty hair. “Who’s turn is it to make lunch?”

“Check the chore chart.”

“The chore chart is a ridiculous idea, and two adults should be able to figure out lunch plans on their own.”

“Yet here you are asking me.”

“Wow, look at you shutting down avenues of inquiry.”

“Nadine.”

“What?”

He pointed to the wall. “Chore chart.”

***

A new day. Wes wasn’t surprised when their partnership didn’t improve:

“Where did you get those?” Nadine demanded, looking at the heaping bowl in his hand.

Wes chose a particularly succulent blackberry and popped it in his mouth. “Picked them last night from the garden and left them in the fridge so they got nice and cold.”

“They look incredible. Can I have one?”

“Remember when you didn’t let me breathe from your window?”

“No.”

“Like hell you don’t. No berries for you.”

“Wes?”

“Yeah?”

“Eat a worm.”

***

The next day. Nadine decided she couldn’t be held accountable if she accidentally managed to throw Wes out of a window:

“I checked that box.” Wes’s voice broke in on Nadine’s daydreaming.

“Why would you check a box in my sector?”

“Technically, that’s my sector. We decided the demarcation line had to swing around the steamer chest we couldn’t budge.”

“The demarcation line is wrong.”

“Take it up with the person who insisted on laying it out on the floor with masking tape. Jesus, are you pulling over one of my boxes to your side to be obnoxious? What’s the matter with you?”

“I’d argue it was at least fifty-five percent over the line, making it mine.”

“Nice. Class act. I bet there’s nothing there but some old tablecloths.”

“Wrong. It’s old curtains.”

“I stand corrected. Have fun.”

***

Nadine started on the sink of dishes as Wes went back to work. Away from the heat of the attic, their frayed tempers had knit together enough for the meal to pass with surprising civility. As Nadine filled the dishwasher, she thought about the last few days. Their lack of success in uncovering anything of interest combined with the constant barbs fired in each other’s direction meant she was finding it difficult to deal with Wes. Not only that, but he was getting under her skin in unexpected and deeply unwelcome ways, with his amazing, almost photographic memory and great cooking and kind of shocking sexiness that she was distressed to have clocked on day two, when he’d appeared after a shower with his hair wet and shirt clinging to his body. That had jump-started Wes carving out more of her brain space than she liked, which made her a little angry with herself. It might be unfair to take it out on him, but she was only human.

She finished the dishes, returned to the attic, and then walked into a wall because Wes Chen was shirtless.

Baggy shorts hung off his hips, and sweat gleamed on his chest as if he’d been working out. And the biceps. When did Wes get arms like that? Or shoulders? In the entire time they’d been working together, he’d never shown so much as a sliver of improper flesh, and now there were abs on display?

Wes looked up when she staggered back from the wall. “Don’t sneak up on me.” He put down a book.

“Where are your clothes?” she blurted out. Then, “Is that a tattoo?” He wasn’t even reaching for a shirt to put on, as if it was totally normal to be standing in front of her looking that good.

Wes regarded his side as if making sure the snake winding up his ribs was there. She itched to look at it closer and had a vivid and entirely unwelcome thought of running her hand along it. Maybe her tongue.

No, oh my God. She averted her eyes.

“I got it a couple years ago when my favorite artist was taking final appointments before he retired,” he said like it was no big deal that he, Mr. Button-Downs-and-Tucked-In-Sweaters Wes Chen, had a tattoo or, almost more surreal, a preferred tattoo artist. “Is that for me?”

The sight of Wes had wiped out the fact that she’d brought him a freezie. She’d wanted one herself and wasn’t so big a jerk that she’d leave him hanging.

“Here. You’re hot.” What was wrong with her? “I mean it’s hot here, so you would be hot. Physically.” Not any better. “Your body would be hot.” Stop talking, Nadine.

“Thanks.” Wes had the decency to drag his shirt on, although that didn’t help Nadine, who was forced to witness how his skin slid over smooth muscle as he lifted his arms through the sleeves. “Red is my favorite.”

“I figured it would be.”

“How?” He quirked an eyebrow, and Nadine was embarrassed at how it affected her.

“Easy. Red’s basic.” She waved her own blue one.

“A cheap and inaccurate shot, Barbault.”

Wes laid the freezie against his forehead, then his wrists, before he tilted his neck to place it on his jugular. Nadine watched avidly before she realized she was acting like a creep and pulled her gaze away from the long line of his throat. His hair was mussed and fell in his face instead of his usual smooth style.

“I didn’t know your hair was wavy,” she said.

Wes slid the freezie into his mouth. “It’s the heat.”

“Right.” Was she getting turned on from watching Wes eat a goddamn freezie? No. She had pride and self-restraint, and also this was Wes . “Did you find anything yet?”

“Actually, I did.” He answered calmly, but she could read him well enough to know he was excited. “I was about to call you in.”

“Tell me.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Tell me or I’ll hide the ice cream I bought yesterday.”

Wes caved instantly. “Give me a sec to get it.”

She did her best not to check him out as he walked away, and failed. Wes must focus on RDLs or something, because those thighs were transcendent, and when he came back, she saw how his quads…bunched? Flexed? Did something that made her fingers twitch.

He waved a paper at her. “It might not mean anything,” he warned.

“We’ve found nothing for days,” said Nadine, doing her best to focus on work and not his legs—a difficult task as the shorts had ridden up in a distracting way. “Not much is a huge step forward.”

Wes handed it over. “Have a look.”

It was part of a letter, and although the salutation and date were missing, the signature, written in a flourishing hand, remained.

“Allan,” Nadine said. “Allan Portson? Dot’s husband?”

Wes nodded, and she lifted the page to read.

…the story of what he’d done. I didn’t react well, and I apologize. I know you dislike speaking of this, and I don’t blame you. But think about what I said. It’s important. The world would be a better place if potato-faced clods like him faced the justice they deserve.

With love,

Allan

“It was in a box with some magazines, odds and ends like paper clips, and a recipe for something called a cheese ball,” Wes said. “Like the last box packed on moving day.”

Nadine looked at the letter again. It was something, but only barely. “‘Potato-faced clod’ could refer to a lot of people.”

“It could, but it’s also the first thing we’ve found, so I’ll take it.”

“True.” She felt her elation rise. A small triumph was still a triumph. “Better put it somewhere safe.”

“Great idea,” he said with mock enthusiasm. “Do you have any other very obvious tips for me?”

Nadine waved him away and surveyed her space. She’d missed a box on top of an old wardrobe filled with woolen coats. She reached up, then higher on her tiptoes.

“Out of the way, short stuff.” Wes’s voice came from behind her, and all of a sudden, he was boxing her in against the sleek oak of the wardrobe.

It was that drunken night in the hall all over again, with his body firm against hers. His breath by her ear made her knees weak. If she shifted her eyes to the right, she would see that gorgeously muscled arm right by her face. She did, for one second. Then she stared back at the smooth wood of the cabinet to stop from wondering what would happen if she moved her head so her lips brushed his skin. Or turned around so they were face-to-face and close enough that she could feel him better than see him.

He pulled the box down. “Here,” he said as he handed it to her, looking totally unruffled.

That shook her out of her reverie. “Next time I want your help, I’ll ask for it.”

“As if you ever ask for help.”

He rolled his eyes, and that was it. That one incredibly small but massively obnoxious gesture did her in. It was the last straw and the match in the powder barrel and the nail in the coffin. She was frustrated and hot and tired and had no patience with him or with herself after that mental fantasy of kissing Wes’s arm. She’d had enough of his little digs, and she’d be damned if she was going to live through any more of it.

“That’s it.” She clapped her hands together.

“What’s it?”

“I’ve had enough of this. I’m done. You, downstairs.”

Wes heaved a sigh so heavy it was like he was dragging it up from the bottom of Lake Ontario, but he followed her down the stairs to the big table.

“All right, Barbault.” He pulled the chair out and slouched back, arms crossed, the very picture of a put-upon man. That was until she looked in his eyes. They were wary. “What’s this about?”

***

Wes was not thrilled to have what he could tell was going to be a major talk. He had documents to sort and feelings to repress. It had been a mistake to reach over her for that box. He’d known it the moment he’d touched her and found she’d made him feel the same as he had so many years ago. It made for a messy situation, given that they were constantly at each other’s throats.

“We have to work on this project together, and I refuse to spend the time in a low-grade war,” Nadine said. “That means a reckoning. Here and now. You and me. We’re going to have it out.”

He sat up straight, feelings forgotten. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about us. I’m talking about when you stole my CBC internship.”

“When I what ? I didn’t steal anything.”

“You deliberately applied for it after I told you how much I wanted it. It’s not like we were friends, but that was low.”

“That was years ago.”

“It doesn’t matter how long ago it was! You screwed me over.”

“Yeah, like you’ve done so bad for yourself.” He exhaled. “First, I didn’t see your name on that internship. Second, I’d already applied by the time you told me because I’d heard about it from Professor Graham.”

“A likely story,” she said.

“Is that why you scooped me?” Wes couldn’t help his accusing tone.

“Which scoop?”

“‘Which scoop.’” Seriously, this woman. “The lobbyist story last year. You looked right at me to rub it in when you won at the journalism awards.”

“I did not!”

“You did so.” He could still see every detail. She was at the podium, with that black dress with the little bows and those red heels, wearing the thick silver bracelets she’d had forever. And she’d stared him down in total triumph, lovely and untouchable, while he was stuck in the audience, wanting nothing more than to be up there with her.

No. Up there instead of her. That was what he’d wanted. Right?

“The lights were in my eyes. I couldn’t see a thing, let alone you.” She glared at him. “You didn’t even come up and congratulate me like a normal person. You sat at your table talking to the woman with the blond pixie.”

“Maddy?” Had Maddy been there?

“Anyway, you’re one to talk. I had the perfect source lined up for my first big policy story, and you took her.”

“I can’t take a source.” Wes threw up his hands. “How about when we were assigned streeters in our City Reporting class? You stood twenty meters away and snatched all my interviews.”

It went on. Getting the highest mark on a test. Stolen stories. Pinched job references. Butting into coffee lines. Ten years of measly differences that kept piling up until they ended up here, yelling at each other across Dot Voline’s oak library table.

Nadine’s color was high, making her brown eyes darker, and he felt a quick thrill to finally, after all these years, be able to dig past her cold layers to the impassioned woman he’d known was there.

“And you got the last ticket to the special showing of All the President’s Men !” she said. Her voice was croaky.

Wes had to grin. “You were furious. That was your favorite movie.”

“It still is.” She sniffed. “It’s better than Spotlight .”

“They filmed part of that in Toronto.”

“Jesus, they film part of everything in Toronto.” She caught his gaze across the table as he tried not to laugh. “What?”

“I can’t believe you’re mad about the wording on a slide from a class we took years ago.”

“Shut up. You’re upset because I liked listening to surf rock when I studied.” She hummed the first few bars of “Wipe Out.”

That was enough for Wes, who burst out laughing so loud the cats, who had been monitoring the situation from afar, ran from the room. Nadine stopped humming, a small smile on her face. Then she was laughing with him. It took them a few moments to calm down.

“God,” she said. “I knew I could hold a grudge but never thought I’d find someone to match me.”

“It’s probably not something to congratulate ourselves on,” he said, feeling better than he had in ages. The fight had been a pinprick deflating his long-standing balloon of bitterness.

“Gotta take the wins where we can.” She smoothed her hair back behind her ears as if to indicate it was time to get back to business.

Wes leaned back in his chair. “Now what? You got your reckoning. Do you feel better?”

“A little.” She shrugged. “I liked yelling at you for a while, that’s for sure. You?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “The yelling was nice.”

“Good, so we can move on to next steps. I see two choices for where we go from here. We can keep on as we were. Or…” She looked at him as if waiting.

It was easy enough to finish her thought. “Or we can bury the hatchet and start fresh,” he said.

“For the sake of the project, I’m willing to let bygones be bygones if you are.”

“Noble.” Wes traced a finger along the table. “You know, none of what happened was really directed at each other. It’s the job.”

“That’s true. There was no deliberate malice.” She looked at him to confirm. “Was there?”

He snorted. “Not on my side, but I feel your very aggressive playing of The Best of the Sixties Surf Rock Compilation volumes one through four was deliberately targeted at me.”

“Playing the music wasn’t.” Her look was impish. “Playing it on repeat was.”

Wes shook his head. “I knew it.”

“Yeah.” She grinned. “That’s what made it awesome.”

Wes couldn’t be mad when he saw that smile. “Then we’re agreed. Fresh start? No lingering grievances?”

“Fresh start.” She held out her hand, and he shook on it.

It was good they’d had this talk, he decided, feeling the tension drain out. A smooth relationship would make the time go much easier. Then something occurred to him.

“As we move forward in the spirit of collaboration, I’d like to reconfirm we don’t do anything with this story until we talk it over.”

“Agreed.” She stood up, and Wes followed her gaze to the attic.

“It’s like a treasure hunt mixed with a gambling table,” he said. “I keep thinking, one more cabinet and I’ll have all the secrets.”

“One last roll of the dice and we’d have it,” she said.

“Here’s hoping we get snake eyes.” He headed toward the stairs, then turned back. “Also, I fixed your demarcation tape. It was crooked.”

He was curious to see if her promise would hold. For a second, he thought her usual rage would take over. Then she shook her head and laughed.

They were good. Or at least getting there.