She hurried to keep pace with him. “Do we screw up often?”
“Often enough.” He led her to a darkened control room consisting of a small auditorium and three sets of risers. “This is our temple. A shrine to the goddess of news.” He made an elaborate gesture to the top platform. “Producer desk is up there. I’ll be down here. We’ve got a good staff for mornings, so it should be easy. Newsroom is this way.” He jerked his thumb toward an open door on the other side of the room. “Police busted a meth ring a few hours ago. We’ve got a reporter on it now. Should have video in time for the morning show.”
“Lucky us.” Lucy flashed him an attempt at a smile as they entered the bullpen of cubicles. “Which desk is mine?”
“Against the wall over there. Night producer left you video to go through and a few things came across the wire last night.” He pulled her chair out for her.
“Thanks,” she replied as she settled in at her desk. “Really. Thank you.”
“Good to have you here. Holler if you need me.” Reuben waved as he disappeared back to the control room.
She resolved she wouldn’t ask for help. Not after the Nervous Nelly blip from earlier. Nope, she would do her job and do it well. Within minutes, Lucy lost herself in news stories, scripts, and segues.
By the time everyone was in place for the news two hours later, the sludge of fatigue tugged at her. She swallowed a yawn. She hadn’t been able to sleep at all, knowing William was only a wall away. The ridiculously early wake-up call for her first day of work didn’t help her fatigue.
“Three minutes, boys and girls,” Reuben said from the director’s desk. “Let’s see if Anderson can go a whole hour without sticking his finger in his nose. Who’s up for that wager?”
Anderson, one of the morning news anchors, flipped him the bird.
“C’mon guys. I only need you to behave for an hour,” Lucy chimed in.
“Listen to the lady in charge, Anderson.” Reuben punched at a couple of buttons on the control panel in front of him. “Sorry, Lucy. We’re not used to a real producer keeping us in line.”
“What do you think my odds are of getting Lucy to go to dinner with me tonight?” Anderson asked.
“Slim to none,” Reuben replied. “She’s out of your league.”
Lucy smiled at him and swiped a highlighter across the top of her script, color-coding the times she’d need to track.
“Two minutes.” Reuben leaned back in his chair, his fingers threaded behind his head.
The milk from the bowl of cereal she had forced herself to eat curdled in her stomach. She could do this. Maybe if she said it enough, she’d believe it. Confluence was simply a brief stop on her flight to the next job. A layover weaved into the journey of her life.
Layovers weren’t always awful. You could meet new people, have a drink at the airport lounge, and maybe even buy a souvenir mug in the gift shop. Most of all, Confluence was the place she could build her audition reel and get in front of the camera as a reporter.
She needed to focus and not get caught up in distractions. Distractions like her neighbor. The award for avoiding attractive neighbors definitely went to Lucy. She’d managed to keep away from him so far.
“Any words of wisdom you’d like to impart?” Reuben pierced the silence through her headset. He turned from the director’s seat in front of her perch and peered up.
Blood thrummed in her temples as Lucy glanced at the stack of papers comprising the hour-long news script.
The headset crackled when she pulled the microphone to her mouth. “I think as long as Anderson doesn’t go knuckle deep in his nostrils we’ll be fine.”
The staff erupted in laughter.
“Thirty seconds,” Reuben said through a husky chuckle. He turned back to the bank of monitors against the wall, leaving her with a view of his thick dreadlocks. “She’s a keeper.”
The anchors moved onto the lead-in for the meth story, and Lucy settled in to do her job.
…
Anderson finished reading the kicker, and the national morning theme song played over the monitors. Lucy slipped off her headset.
“Lucy’s in charge of the coffee run today,” Reuben announced. “I’ll get you a list. Shop’s up the street.”
“Because I’m the new girl?” She stretched her arms over her head.
“Initiation.” He winked.
Whatever. She wasn’t above playing coffee gofer.
Lucy grabbed her jacket and headed through the lobby to the street. Daylight crept along the mesas, sandstone canyons, and desert mountain rock formations surrounding the Confluence valley, but the early morning sunrise had not quite erased the shadows of night. She made her way through the quiet town square. Her high heels tapped an increasing clickety-clack on the pavement as she hurried.
Nearly there.
She breathed in the sweet smell of morning when she entered the sanctuary of the little shop. Rich coffee, cinnamon, and fresh-from-the-oven bread permeated the air. The tiny café had room for the barista, a bakery case, and a few stools along a window bar.
A young woman in a maroon apron stood behind the counter.
“Hi, I’m Lucy from KDVX. I have a list—”
“Same list every morning,” The woman’s mouth curved into a smile as she steamed milk, poured chocolate syrup, dripped espresso, and sloshed froth into the cups. “I memorized it months ago. Haven’t seen you before. What can I add for you?”
“Small coffee with room for cream, thanks.”
“What do you do at the station?”
Lucy adjusted her hand-me-down tan Gucci wool blazer. “I’m the weekday morning news producer.”
“News producer.” The barista arched an eyebrow. “I pegged you for talent. You’re dressed like an anchor.”
“Nope, just the producer.” Lucy frowned. She should be talent…soon. She’d always wanted to try her hand in front of the lens. Now she’d found a station that encouraged their staff to expand into the different areas of the newsroom, and she had every intention of making that happen.
The barista sang under her breath as she finished the order and packed the drinks into cardboard carriers. She carefully placed them into a large paper sack and flashed a smile to Lucy. “It’s easier than trying to balance them the whole way back.”
Lucy held the heavy bag against her chest with both arms. The awkward set-up slowed her momentum on the trek back to KDVX. She hurried anyway. An elderly woman walked a small dog across the street. The sun was up and people dotted the square.
In the lobby, she reached for the elevator button, careful to keep the bag balanced against her chest. A loud ping echoed through the empty room to announce the elevator. A man rushed out—slamming right into Lucy.
Scorching liquid burned her chest. She cursed and the sack slipped from her grip. It dropped between them, sending steaming coffee to splatter everywhere. She teetered on her high heels, and he reached to keep her from tumbling. “I’m so sorry. Really. I’m so sorry,” the man said, his strong arms steadying her.
No way. Impossible.
With a groan, her eyes met William’s gaze. She wasn’t getting that medal for avoiding him after all.
“Lucy.” He glanced at her press pass that detailed her name and credentials. Shock registered on his face.
His fingertips were warm against her waist. Her body responded with goose bumps. For a moment his gaze met hers and it was as though someone pressed the pause button on reality. William Covington had his arms around her and she was a teenager again with a crush on a boy she could never have. Except the way he looked at her made her wish that wasn’t true. But guys like him didn’t go for girls like her. They went for beauty pageant winners with tiaras and sashes that read Queen of the Chicken Festival.
And she definitely didn’t go for guys like him. Playboy rich kids were not on her to-do list.
“You work here?” he asked, dropping his hands.
She missed them immediately.
“Producer.” Her coffee-splattered jacket was drenched. She yanked it off and draped it over her arm. Why was she always covered with sticky beverages when he was around?
William glanced around for something to clean up the mess.
Her blouse was ruined. Brown splotches covered both her breasts and coffee dripped from the silk. William tugged off his navy suit jacket and began patting it against her…breasts.
“William?” she asked carefully. “Could you please stop touching my boobs?”
His hand stalled mid-wipe. “Shit.”
He dropped the cloth to the ground like it was a ball of fire. “I didn’t mean—”
His gaze rested on the dripping coffee falling from her chest.
“It’s fine,” she muttered.
They both reached for his jacket at the same time, his forehead colliding with hers. The impact knocked her backward into the puddle on the floor. A very unladylike oomph escaped her lips. Stunned, she lay still for a moment, studying the vaulted ceiling and skylights of the lobby.
“Lucy, hell.” He came into view over her. His hand slipped under her arms to help her up.
“If you keep helping me, I’m going to wind up in the hospital.” She batted him away. “Why are you here?”
He ran a hand over his face. “I work here. Consumer journalist.”
Um, what? No, no…no. She’d done her research before she accepted her position at KDVX. William Covington was not listed anywhere as an employee.
She stood. His gaze rested on her face a beat too long before he bent down to collect the scattered cups and lids. Whoever made his jeans should get a substantial bonus for the way they fit against his…thighs. Yup. Thighs. That’s what she was looking at.
Lucy kneeled to pick up a cardboard drink tray. When his knuckles grazed hers, she drew a faint breath.
No. She stopped herself and tugged her hand away.
The teenage girl who crushed hard on him no longer existed. That girl had transformed into a strong woman with a future that absolutely did not include him. Impressions, however, did matter to her. How was she supposed to salvage the beginnings of the reputation that she hoped to have in the newsroom when she now wore the coffee she was supposed to bring back?
“I’m sorry. This is my fault.” He dumped the dripping mess into the garbage.
She rubbed a hand over her forehead. “I can’t show up without coffee.”
“I’ll get more.” He stared at her again for a long moment.
Crap. Had he finally recognized her? She’d never be able to make it here if he told everyone who she had been. How awkward. How depressing.
“What?” she asked when he continued to stare.
“You have freckles,” he said softly.
She raised her index finger to the bridge of her nose. “Uh-huh.”
Oh. The damn goose bumps reappeared. This time with tingles she refused to give a second thought.
He gestured to her cheek. “You have a little coffee there.”
Oh. Right. Coffee. Sure.
She wiped it away and held her shoulders a little higher.
On that reality show, he had wrestled tongues with more women than there were notches in an oversize belt. Teenage Lulu had desperately wanted to be on the receiving end of a William lip-lock exchange. Adult Lucy would never allow herself such a self-indulgence. Kissing William had no place in her life anymore.
What was that thing he used to say for the cameras in Florida? Right. When they showed a clip of him in a lip-lock they’d cut to his interview where he always said, “Next, please.” She refused to be the next, “next, please.”
This was the guy who had floated pizzas in the swimming pool and built a vodka ice luge on the roof of the Florida frat house where they filmed the show. He had no business making her tingle.
“I like them,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Freckles.” He shook his head slightly and gestured for her to follow. In a nearby hallway, they found a janitor. William collected the supplies and insisted on cleaning the mess himself. “This’ll only take a second, then we’ll go get more.”
Lucy helped mop up the spill, checking the clock on the wall. She’d have to be quick about this coffee run. They had a national cut-in soon.
Outside, Main Street stirred as they walked toward the coffee house. The sun was up, shops had opened their doors, and more people milled about on the sidewalk. Lucy strove for a brisk pace, but William seemed in no hurry. Clearly, etiquette in Confluence involved waving and commenting on the weather to complete strangers.
“Hello again. And look, you brought a friend,” the cheerful barista chirped when they entered the shop.
“I had a little accident back at the station. I dropped the bag. Can you re-make the order?” Lucy asked quickly.
The coffee girl leaned toward William. “Would you like any extra sugar this morning?”
Seriously?
“I’m more of a honey guy.” He flashed his dimples. “Table sugar is too gritty.”
“And you’re not…gritty?” The woman batted her eyelashes at him.
He glanced at Lucy and held her stare. “Suppose I can be in the right circumstance.”
Well, huh. She felt those words in a very intimate place.
The barista banged a portafilter against the machine.
Lucy snapped back to the situation at hand and dug through her purse for her wallet. “This time make mine a large.” She jerked her head toward William. “And he’ll have an extra hot Americano with honey and a dash of cream.”
He stilled. The shocked expression on his face quickly turned blank.
Ugh. Speaking without thinking was becoming a dangerous habit.
She’d ordered the drink he used to send her to pick up daily for him in Florida. Back then she fetched anything he wanted. Not that she minded—except the blondes. He did have an exceptional fondness for groupies who used too much peroxide on their hair.
“I mean…” Lucy glanced between William and the barista.
He didn’t even blink. “Just cream.”
“So close.” Lucy’s smile faltered. “It’s a gift. I can look at someone and know how they take their caffeine. I’m a coffee savant.”
Coffee savant?
He raised an eyebrow at her as the bell over the door jingled.
A beautiful woman brushed past them. In her fifties by all appearances, except her weary brown eyes suggested she’d been around longer. They reflected a heck of a lot of life, and by the glimmer of worry, not all of it had been good. She wore a conservative blue, paisley dress, straight off Meryl Streep in The Bridges of Madison County. The woman drew a sharp breath.
“William, you’re here,” she whispered in a thick Italian accent.
“Teresa… You look well. How’s Dad?” William said carefully.
The older woman blinked against watery eyes. So maybe Lucy wasn’t a coffee savant, but she was decent at reading a room. Vibrations pulsing through the little café were anything but peaceful.
William and Teresa stood there for a time, staring at each other before William turned back to the counter. His Adam’s apple bobbed vigorously. Lucy set her credit card on the counter, her eyes drinking in the scene before her. The barista had quieted while she finished the order, stopping to write a phone number on the sleeve of William’s cup. She reached for Lucy’s credit card, but William slipped his sleek gold card in its place. He slid Lucy’s card toward her hand, and his fingertips brushed against hers.
Curls of comforting warmth seeped through the dull ache of loneliness in her chest. She snatched her hand back, shoved the plastic card in her wallet, and reached for the coffee cup that had been placed on the counter for her.
Teresa’s longing gaze had never left William. He took the offered bag in one arm and his drink in the other hand.
“Your father and I… We would like you to come visit.” She reached for his arm as he opened the door for Lucy.
He shook his head. “Not a good idea. You know where things stand with Dad and me.”
Lucy bit her lower lip and scooted past them. What the heck was that all about? She glanced behind her as he exited. One look at his broken face, and it was clear that any mention of Teresa was off-limits.
Lighthearted, superficial William had never carried this intensity.
“The coffee girl gave you her number,” she said to lighten the mood.
He shifted the bag of drinks to read the writing. “Not on the market.”
“Girlfriend?”
He made a face as though he had eaten a spoonful of used coffee grounds. “No girlfriend.”
“Fiancée?”
He flinched. “None of the above. Just not on the market.”
The crisp air and a surge of caffeine boosted her confidence. Her mouth took off before she filtered her thoughts. “Born-again virgin? Celibacy isn’t only for martyrs. We ran a story at my old station about the whole thing. It’s intriguing.”
“I’m not a monk, or born-again anything. I’m just not looking right now. You?” He held her stare as he had done in the coffee shop.
The question hung heavy in the air between them.
“I’m not a monk, either,” she finally said.
“Ah…one of those born-again things?”
“No. I mean…not attached, either.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s such a funny way to say it. Attached. Like stapled to a man. Or handcuffed.”
William’s eyebrows lifted slightly when she mentioned handcuffs.
She studied the cracks in the sidewalk as they walked in uncomfortable silence. Finally, she asked, “How do you know Dixie?”
“She doesn’t like my dad, and he’s trying to dictate where I live.”
“Why would he care? You’re not ten.”
Bitterness tainted William’s laugh. “My dad is a big deal around here. Huge benefactor to charities, countless years spent as an elected official and, for now, he’s the head of Crestone Mountain Media.”
The Honeymoon Trap Page 3