In the Clear
Page 3
Lexie’s eyes widened. “How long have you been doing this stuff? Does Sean know? Did you even sleep last night?”
He shifted uncomfortably and decided to tackle her incredulity one question at a time. “About six years. He suspects but has never asked directly. A little.”
“Well, you should go take a nap. You look like crap. I mean . . . ” She waved her hand over his attire. The jacket was too tight across his shoulders and he could have gone for a few more inches on the pants hem, but it wasn’t as though he was winning any beauty contests anyway. She stopped, as if just noticing him sitting there. “You’re wearing a suit.”
“My boss thought it might sell more cars.”
Her lips twitched, and she reached over to take a drink from his milkshake. “Did it work?”
“Nope. It turns out I don’t have a face people can trust.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’d trust you with my life. You’re the most dependable person I know.” She paused, her lips pursed where they hovered above the straw. It was amazing how animated she could be even when she wasn’t moving. “It looks good, though. Dashing. You should suit up more often.”
He couldn’t help a warm feeling of pleasure from creeping over him, but he quickly tamped the feeling down. The last time he’d gotten too flushed in Lexie’s presence, she’d decided he had a fever and offered to check his temperature just like Mom used to. Which, apparently, was code for a quick kiss to the forehead, soft, dry lips gauging his health.
The only thing that could have made that situation any worse was if her mom had also been fond of rectal thermometers.
“I’m sorry, Lexie.” He was unsure what else he could say. “I didn’t set out intending for my Search and Rescue work to be a secret. It just seemed easier that way.”
Her hurt expression flashed again, but she quickly hid it under a smile. “No, I get it. Quiet salesman by day. Superhero at night. Telling your friends about it would only ruin the fun.”
“I don’t do it for fun.” At least, that wasn’t how it had started. He’d joined thinking it would be a good way to work through his anxiety issues and squeamishness over blood, that putting other people first might wipe away some of his social inhibitions. It had worked, but only as a temporary fix. In the middle of a rescue, it was easy to forget everything but the task ahead of him.
Unfortunately, he was still himself once the adrenaline wore away. Hence the poorly fitting suit and the EMT application hiding in his desk. And the woman sitting across from him—a woman whose friendship he was so afraid of losing he’d put her up on a pedestal made of eggshells.
“Then why do you do it?” Lexie leaned over the table, drawing near enough to send his pulse skittering. “I have to say, Fletcher, we’ve known each other for practically ever, and this is the last thing I’d expect you to volunteer for. Staying up all night organizing mobile libraries, sure. Maybe even helping out at an animal shelter. But Search and Rescue? I’m impressed. That’s kind of a big deal for someone who hates the sight of blood, isn’t it?”
He hoped there was more compliment than insult in there, but he doubted it.
“Can we talk about something else for a while?” Maybe if he got the whole story out, they could get back to familiar footing. “I don’t think anyone has said a single word to me today that isn’t related to that poor woman. Her name is Jean. She went for a walk and thought the ice on the lake was thicker than it was. She got out pretty far before she heard the crack and, wisely, decided to stay put and call for help rather than risk falling out there on her own. We tried to lay wood tracks to get her back without breaking through, but it didn’t work. I was the closest one to her when it all started to go under, so I jumped in. That’s all.”
Lexie’s eyes sparkled and her lips parted. It was easy to see that she wanted to say something, ask questions, probe at his mushy insides. But as she always did when she sensed he’d been pushed too far, she refrained and turned her attention to her salad, taking a falsely keen interest in lettuce. That was a special talent of hers—knowing when to push and when to back away. Putting people at ease. Making them feel like the most important part of her world.
“How come you aren’t at work? Isn’t it past your lunch break?” he asked by way of changing the subject. It was a stupid thing to say, but it was all he could come up with on short notice. He didn’t want to talk about SAR. He didn’t want to talk about the car lot. But he also didn’t want to lose out on this chance to spend time with her.
“Funny you should ask,” Lexie said. Her normally direct voice wavered, and two spots of color appeared on her cheeks, which were smooth but for a tiny pair of moles along the outside of her right eye. She hated those moles, he knew, talked constantly about having them removed.
He wished she wouldn’t. He had intense fantasies about pressing his lips right there.
“I thought you loved your job.”
“I do love it.” Lexie dropped her head on her hands. “It just doesn’t love me back. There may have been a slight misunderstanding about the allocation of a recent donation, but it wasn’t my fault, I swear. It was an accident.”
Fletcher suppressed a smile. Accidents had a way of happening to Lexie—by his count, she’d broken no fewer than six bones in her lifetime, and her parents’ house was a monument of cracked vases boasting patchy repair jobs. And it wasn’t worth mentioning what happened when you tried to give her directions. That was what happened when you blazed through life with her level of joy and confidence. The details became a blur.
“What happened?” he asked gently.
“Three John Marshalls.” She threw her hands up in the air. “In the past year, we’ve received substantial donations from three men with the same name—and two of them are bankers. So maybe I sent a thank-you card to the one who died in July. And maybe his current estate is in some kind of highly contested probate between his kids. And maybe they thought we’d somehow gotten our hands on all the money while their backs were turned. It’s not pretty, Fletcher. Don’t ever get between three greedy siblings and their inheritance.”
“They didn’t fire you, did they?” He couldn’t imagine the company being that short-sighted. As a nonprofit fundraiser, no one was better than Lexie. All she had to do was turn her huge blue eyes on a person and start talking about saving the children, and wallets opened right up.
“No.” This time, she grabbed a whole handful of fries, lines of misery etched around her mouth as she popped them in, one by one. “Worse. My boss called me in to her office to tell me how she understands these things happen and that she believes in me.”
“That’s . . . terrible?”
When she looked up, her glance was pained. “It’s the worst. I wish she’d just yell at me for my incompetence and tell me I have one more chance or she’s sacking me for good. Instead, she told me to take the afternoon off and enjoy myself.”
He struggled to find the right words, and, as Lexie always did, she handed them to him—easily and without a second thought. “I’m not a kitten, Fletcher, or an errant toddler who needs a time out. It makes me feel like the most incompetent person in the world when people just smile and shake their heads and say, ‘It’s only Lexie. She means well.’”
“They’re lucky to have you.”
“You’re only saying that because you don’t want me to cry in your office.”
“We could cry together, if you want. It’s been a long day.”
She let out a half-choking sound that he recognized as a sob becoming a laugh, her smile overtaking the bright tears brimming in her eyes. “I knew you’d make me feel better. You always do. We’re friends, right?”
His throat ached as though someone had punched him, robbing him of the ability to speak or even breathe. Of course they were friends. Of course he’d make her feel better whenever fate threw the opportunity his way.
But the real question was, how much longer would friendship be enough? How much longer before this secret also jumped
into a freezing lake and forced him to plunge in after it?
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Lexie relaxed. “Of course we are. Sean said I shouldn’t come here today, that I might . . . you know. Say the wrong things. I don’t mean to say the wrong things. They just pop out sometimes.”
Before he could come up with a suitable response—that she could talk through eternity and he’d never tire of hearing her voice, that the world forgave her because she was so deeply, unerringly kind—she took a deep breath and surveyed the carnage of their meal. “Well, you were hungry, weren’t you? It must be all that lifesaving you’ve been sneaking off to do. I should probably let you get back to work.”
“Yeah. Work.”
She paused and studied him, the troubled look back in her eyes. “Speaking of work . . . I know this is probably going to sound silly, and the timing sucks, but I was wondering if you might be interested in coming—”
A knock sounded at the door again, and Clara poked her head in. She cast a knowing look over Lexie. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Owens, but there’s another young lady here to see you.”
Lexie’s brows lifted in surprise. “Are there a lot of young ladies stopping by today?”
Clara beamed. “This one asked me to slip you her number if you’re busy. She’s wearing a lot of perfume, if you know what I mean.”
Fletcher was too busy trying to figure out if that was a euphemism for something to answer right away. Which meant he missed staving off Lexie’s frown.
“How silly of me,” she murmured, still staring at him, speaking mostly to herself. “I guess I didn’t realize how much your new celebrity status would change things.”
His pulse leaped, a direct reaction to her words and to the sight of her as she stood and began winding her layers back on to face the cold. Change. Lexie leaving. Exactly the things he’d been trying to avoid in the first place.
“I’m sure this sudden interest in me is a temporary thing,” he said, hoping to reassure her.
“I’m not. If you’ve been a secret superhero all this time and you look that good in a suit, I’m guessing you have other hidden talents as well. It’s only a matter of time before the world finds the rest of them out.”
He was perilously near to swallowing his tongue. He didn’t know about talents, but he’d done a good job of hiding everything else. Longing. Desire. Need.
But before he could do much more than stumble to his feet, Lexie waved one gloved hand in farewell. “Thank you for having lunch with me today, Fletcher. You made me feel so much better without even trying—I’m beginning to think you really are some kind of Superman.”
“I’m no hero,” he managed to say.
He was just Fletcher Owens. Tall. Meticulous. Underwhelming at selling cars.
And desperately, painfully, unalterably in love with his best friend’s sister.
Chapter Four
“It just so happens that I do have a date for the holiday benefit luncheon, Rebecca, so you can stop waving your black book at me like it’s my death card.”
In order to cover the clumsiness of her lie, Lexie grabbed the ominous address book and chucked it toward the wastebasket in the corner. Naturally, she was off by about three feet and it fell open, sending a handful of receipts and phone numbers scrawled on napkins flying.
“Nice shot.” Rebecca moved to gather up the scattered pages without a word of complaint. Her coworker of four years, a robust redhead with the most amazing belt collection Lexie had ever seen, was accustomed to picking up after her. It was practically in her job description.
Today’s belt was a rhinestone-studded band that spelled out C-U-P-I-D. It was a fitting tribute. Rebecca was a notorious matchmaker, having been smugly and happily married for three-point-five of the four years they’d worked together.
Lexie had cried at her wedding, of course. She always cried at weddings.
“I was just trying to help.” Rebecca held her black book protectively to her chest. “That friend of mine—you know, the guy you refused to go out with because he plucks his eyebrows—was asking about you again. I think he’s ready to settle down.”
“Has he stopped plucking his eyebrows?”
“Well, no. But I don’t see why you’re so against high standards in grooming. Some men can’t be bothered to wash their balls. You should be grateful.”
Lexie sighed. She loved the holiday luncheon they threw every year, she really did. From the moment the first eggnog was served until she managed to wrest a check out of every person in attendance, the event captured everything she loved about the holidays. The spirit of giving. Friends and family. Alcohol before noon. What she didn’t love was the pressure for romance. It was a longstanding tradition for everyone to bring their spouses or significant others or, as was more often in Lexie’s case, her brother.
“I am grateful for the offer,” she lied. “And I never overlook the benefits of personal hygiene, especially where the, um, sensitive bits are in question. But like I said . . . I’ve got this one covered.”
“Mystery date, huh?” Rebecca shook her head. “Just make sure you clear it with Joan first.”
Lexie nodded and left, her teeth tamped so hard on her tongue she felt dizzy. No one else had to clear their loved ones before bringing them to work functions. One time. One. Freaking. Time. Charles had been a doctor. It was only their third date. How was she supposed to have known he’d botched the nose jobs of half the women in attendance and recently had his license revoked?
And he’d offered to remove her moles for free, too.
Her shoulders drooped as she scuffled to her desk, and she was grateful for once that she had a windowless office and a nice, heavy door to keep the world away. Most of the time, she kept her door propped open with a cute rabbit statuette, loved when the day was broken up into various informal meetings with her co-workers.
Not today. She slammed the door shut and plopped into the ergonomic chair that had been a gift from her boss. Today she wanted to frown into the desk calendar covered in the doodles she had a habit of drawing when she was on the phone. Today she wanted to stare at a game of solitaire on the computer and wish the whole world away.
A knock on the door prevented her from doing much more than moving a stapler noisily from one side of the desk to the other.
“Hey, Lexie.” Her boss came in, not waiting for an invitation. They had that kind of workplace—one where the incredibly well-preserved woman who’d hired you fresh out of college heard a door slam and came running. She even brought coffee. “Two creams, four sugars. I don’t know how you can drink it like that.”
“I prefer to make it so that it tastes nothing like actual coffee.” Coffee was gross. Its mood-enhancing qualities, however, were fantastic. She grabbed the proffered mug and took a long drink. “And thank you.”
“Of course.” Joan took a seat across from Lexie’s desk, her long legs folding sidewise into a ladylike curl. Lexie’s legs, squat and stubby in comparison, rested solidly on the floor in her hemp hiking boots. She’d been late again that morning—it was lucky she’d remembered shoes at all.
“So.” Joan always cut right to the point—it was her best and worst trait. “What was that all about?”
“What was what all about?” Lexie looked around the room, her gaze landing everywhere but on her boss.
“Sweetie, the walls shook so hard I almost lost my corkboard. You’re not still upset over last week’s John Marshall incident, are you?”
An incident. That was what it was now, to be recorded forever in the annals of Lexie’s Mishaps. She shook her head. “No, that’s not it.”
And it wasn’t. This tight feeling of discontent had been lodged in the pit of her stomach for days now. Although she wouldn’t dare to name its origins, she had a strong suspicion it had to do with three consecutive nights of Sean and Fletcher hitting the bars together, the pair of them capitalizing on Fletcher’s newfound fame like a pair of shameless man-whores.
“Anything I can help with?” Joan asked.
Lexie wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t even sniffle. “I’m fine. Just please don’t tell me I should take the rest of the afternoon off or something. I still need to see if I can sweet-talk the caterers into increasing their discount this year.”
“If anyone can, it’s you.” Joan’s certainty did much to straighten Lexie’s spine. But then she ruined it by pursing her deep burgundy lips in the way she had when she was pretending to be thinking, and added, “Rebecca says you’ve got a date all lined up and ready to go. I’m so glad—the luncheon benefit is always more fun with a handsome face to accompany you. Do I know him?”
That’s it.
Blame it on Christmas. Blame it on Rebecca. Blame it on Fletcher, whose newfound fame should have made her proud and not at all as if she’d somehow missed her chance of ever being more than Sean’s annoying sister. A probing question like that, no matter how kindly worded, was the absolute limit of Lexie’s tolerance.
She was tired of being the screw-up who needed checking up on. Tired of being the last to know about anything. Tired of being patted on the head and told she was cute.
She was happy to be cute. But darn it all to Atlantis and back—she was also a lot more. Why couldn’t anyone see that?
“I don’t think you know him, but you probably know of him. He was all over the papers last week.” The words slipped out before Lexie could stop them, and it was only with supreme self-control that she stopped herself from putting her hands over her mouth to push them back in.
Joan raised a brow. “High profile? That’s always good for donations. I’m assuming it’s good press we’re talking about here, right? You’re not bringing that serial killer from Wyoming?”
Lexie managed a tight smile. “No, I haven’t fallen quite that far. His name is Fletcher. Fletcher Owens. He was the guy—”