Not a problem for her anymore, either.
“I can give you a trial over the summer,” he said gruffly. “Assuming you can satisfy my needs, there could be a permanent slot on my staff.”
Something about the way his eyes slid down across her chest, to her legs, heightened her wariness. “What kind of trial?” she asked carefully.
“The first rule of journalism is to keep your editor happy.”
“Right.” She forced a bright tone, though she suspected she knew how he expected her to keep him happy. “By meeting deadlines and getting scoops.”
“All in good time.” He leaned forward. “Once you give me what I want, doll-face.”
The endearment made her want to spit, but she gave him one last benefit of the doubt. “What would my first assignment be?”
“I’m sure the former ‘queen of the puck bunnies’ doesn’t need me to tell her what to do.”
Jenny’s insides froze. “Excuse me?”
“I bet you’ve got lots of tricks up this pretty sleeve.” He ran a finger down her arm. “I hear hockey players love a bit of wild stuff. I can’t wait to find out how wild you get.”
So much for a great opportunity. She should have known better than to expect her reputation wouldn’t bite her in the butt. Damn it, she had known better, but she’d ignored the signs because she was desperate.
Jenny fought back the disappointment that filled her; she was damned if she’d let Randy see her feelings. She focused instead on the anger bubbling inside.
She curled her lip. “You couldn’t even handle what I give rookies.”
Red blotches filled his face. “You want a job, you satisfy me.”
She laughed. “One of the perks of being ‘queen of the puck bunnies’ is that I choose who I sleep with and who I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.” Jenny leaned forward. “You’re in the pole category, doll-face.”
Randy erupted. He grabbed her arm, pulling her roughly to her feet and up against him. “You’d better put on your knee pads or I’ll make sure no editor will even take your call, let alone employ you.”
Manhandling her was a mistake. She might have worried about his threat to blackball her, but no one roughed her up.
“Take. Your hands. Off. Me.” Her voice could have cut through ice cleaner than a freshly sharpened skate blade. She ground the metal heel of her pump into his foot.
Randy yelped, then let her go.
Jenny didn’t wait to deliver a smart exit line but marched out of the office. It was only when she got back to her car that she began to shake.
What did you expect? Who’d take you seriously?
Angry tears burned her eyes at her uncle’s mocking voice. She’d been stupid to believe an editor would give her a job as anything other than his personal puck bunny.
Jenny called Tru’s cell. She wouldn’t go through the humiliation of another interview.
He answered on the first ring. “Hey. How did it go?”
Jenny gritted her teeth. “It was a waste of time. I appreciate what you’ve done for me, but please cancel the other interviews.”
“Whoa. What happened?”
She ignored the concern in his voice. “Exactly what I expected. This is a nonstarter and there’s no point wasting their time or mine.”
Thankfully, he didn’t press for details. “Where are you? I’ll meet you.”
Part of her wanted to share with Tru what had happened. The other part couldn’t face reliving the meeting. “There’s no need. I’m going home to put this behind me.”
“Not like you to give up at the first hurdle.”
Though she knew his tactic, his words jabbed her ego. “I don’t fight losing battles.”
“Sometimes you have to lose the battle to win the war.”
She rolled her eyes. “Really? You want to bandy clichés for the rest of the afternoon?”
“If that’s what it takes.” He laughed. “Seriously, I’ll buy you a coffee. We can work on a new game plan.”
She was tempted. The alternative was sitting alone, in an empty house, trying to figure out how to stretch her savings ten different ways. Besides, if there was one thing she could rely on, it was Tru’s determination to fix things. If there was a solution to this job saga, he’d find it. “All right. Exeter Diner, in an hour.”
“Can’t wait.”
It was a throwaway line. Yet, as Jenny pulled out of the parking lot, a flush of pleasure shimmied through her. That was a surprise. For the first time in years, she was looking forward to seeing Tru, too.
* * *
IT WASN’T LIKE old times, but better than his last visit to the Exeter Diner.
Tru’s heart lifted as Jenny headed toward him. Her presence brightened the dining area, with its dark wood and bare brick walls.
Her suit, the same blue as her eyes, was businesslike, yet sexy. The tailored jacket clung to her curves and the hem of her skirt flirted with her knees. The matching high heels showed off her fabulous legs. Damn, she looked great.
Jenny almost looked pleased to see him as she slid into the high-sided booth. Tru was stunned. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d been anything but irritated by his presence. “You made it.” He sounded pathetically eager.
“I said I would.”
“I know. It’s good to see you.” Jeez. His teenage self had been far more composed.
Thankfully, Shirley, the gum-snapping waitress who’d served them before, appeared at the table with two coffee jugs. “Regular or decaf?”
Jenny turned her mug upside down. “I’ll pass on the coffee and have a strawberry-and-banana milk shake, please.”
“Make that two,” Tru said. “And a slice of your chocolate cream pie, with two forks.”
Jenny’s eyes widened as she realized he’d remembered her favorite dessert. “You expect me to share?”
He sighed dramatically. “Okay, two slices of pie.”
Tru waited until Shirley had served their order before asking Jenny what had happened with Randy.
“He was a jackass.” She skimmed cream off her pie with her fork as she filled him in.
He bit back his anger. “I should go over there and set him straight.”
“Thanks, but I took care of it.” Her smile sent pleasure zinging through him. “I’d rather forget about the whole thing.”
“Don’t give up because of Randy.” Tru pulled his list of contacts from his back pocket and laid it on the table. “There are plenty of editors who won’t treat you like that.”
Her smile faded. “Maybe. But enough will. I’m not a masochist. I won’t go through that again. Frankly, I’d rather stack shelves at the grocery store.”
“It’s my fault. I knew Randy was a dinosaur.” He jabbed his fork into his pie, wishing he could jab it into the sleazy jerk’s head. “I should never have put him on the list.”
“I’m a big girl.” Jenny shrugged.
“Give it one more try. There are loads of good men in sports media.” He angled the page so they could both see the names. “We’ll go through and cull the Neanderthals. All you need is one straight-up guy willing to give you a break.”
“I suppose,” she allowed reluctantly.
“Have you got a pen?”
“Sure.” Jenny handed him a ballpoint from her purse.
“Okay. Let’s scratch Randy off the list.” He put double lines through the jerk’s name.
Jenny sipped her shake. “Delete the next three, too. They’re all good old boys.”
He crossed out the names. “I’m not sure about Michaels, from the Star.”
“He’s all right. His editorials are fair, and Jamie Benson, who covers the Cats for him, writes a decent column.” She ate a mouthful of pie. “Mmm. That’s as good a
s I remember.”
He tried to ignore the bliss on her face. He cleared his throat. “Then Michaels stays.”
They went down the list, analyzing each name. On some they agreed, while on others they differed wildly. Jenny’s observations were perceptive—she was a sharp judge of character—and her wry comments about some of the journalists cracked him up.
It didn’t take long to whittle down the names, leaving a half dozen guys they felt were worth seeing. He only needed to cancel one interview and make a couple of new ones.
“Your next appointment should be Tim Gordon at The Journal. You know him, right?”
Jenny nodded. “We’ve chatted a few times at Harry’s functions. We both love hockey and hate pretentious arty stuff.” She bit her lip. “You don’t think I’d be taking advantage of an acquaintance?”
Her lack of confidence surprised him. “That’s why I’ll ask him if he’s willing to meet you.”
“Okay. If you’re sure.” She ate the last mouthful of pie. “I could eat that again. Heaven.”
His pulse jumped at the satisfied look on her face. His groin tightened when her lips closed around the fork to suck it clean. Then he spotted a chocolate smudge at the corner of her mouth.
He needed to lick it away.
Tru leaned forward, his eyes fixed on... Damn. This wasn’t the time or place.
He wrenched his attention from Jenny’s mouth and focused on the list of names, shifting to ease the pressure in his pants. “Next is Rob Tremaine at The Sporting Herald.”
“The biggest paper in the area.” Doubt returned to her voice. “Their website gets more hits than any who cover the Cats. Most fans check the Herald’s blog daily, me included.”
“But Rob’s intern program won a big state award for helping people who didn’t have the right qualifications. If he likes what you have to say, he’ll give you a shot.”
“He’s always seemed like a decent man.”
“What about The Scratching Post fan blog. They’re not journalists, but their articles about the Cats are well researched and well written.”
“I love that site, but aren’t their contributors all volunteers?”
“Yeah. You’re right.”
For a second there he got carried away with her changing career and had forgotten her objective was to get paid. He considered offering to pay her himself, but knew how that suggestion would go down. “There’s your list. I’m sure one will pan out.”
“There’s no guarantee. Perhaps I should look into that shelf-stacking job, after all.”
“You may be a tad overqualified, so let’s try the editors first.”
“I really appreciate what you’re doing for me,” Jenny said quietly.
He shrugged. “It’s a few phone calls.”
“That’s the point. I know you’d like to hand me a job, neatly tied up with a bow, so thank you for sticking by your promise.”
Heat crept up the back of his neck. She knew him too well. “I don’t do bows. Only the occasional gift bag.”
Jenny grinned. “Bow or bag, thank you. Now, be gracious and accept my gratitude.”
“You’re welcome.” He was happy with gratitude—it was better than he’d had before—but he wanted more. He reminded himself each step forward, however small, was progress.
Jenny’s cell rang. After a quick glance, she declined the call. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay. You could’ve answered.”
“It wasn’t important. I only checked in case it was the hospital. I keep hoping Harry’s condition will change.”
“It will. The doctors can’t find any physical reason for him still to be unconscious, so he’ll wake up soon.”
Her phone jingled again. “Leave me alone.” She turned her phone off.
Who was so persistent? “Problem?”
“Connor Smith, my uncle’s lawyer. I signed the paperwork last week, but he’s still calling. What more can he possibly want to discuss?”
Tru ate his pie, though guilt made it tasteless. Smith probably wanted to talk about that freaking memorial park. Jenny couldn’t know about the project, or she’d have mentioned it.
He decided to sound her out carefully. “Didn’t I hear they were auctioning Boult’s belongings and splitting the proceeds between a few local charities?”
Her lips twisted. “Yes. The money goes to the youth center and also to the youth hockey league. There’s talk of a couple of Ice Cats presenting new equipment to the teams. Smith asked me if I wanted to attend.”
“I’m guessing you said no.”
“With a ‘hell’ in front of it. The same answer I gave when he asked if I’d collect a posthumous award for Uncle Douglas’s ‘wonderful work.’” Jenny added air quotes. “The damn lawyer won’t give up.”
She definitely didn’t know about the memorial park and Tru didn’t want to be the one to tell her. Not right now, when she was already feeling vulnerable. He told himself it was concern, rather than cowardice, that kept him quiet.
Still, he couldn’t wait too long. A project that big, involving the town and the church, would hit the press sooner or later, and people would be talking about it. Given his mom’s role, it would be impossible to convince Jenny he hadn’t known about it.
He’d do whatever it took to make sure she wasn’t hurt anymore.
Jenny looked at her watch. “I have to go. This is the best time to see Harry if I don’t want to risk bumping into his kids.”
He waved for the check, which Shirley brought straightaway.
Jenny folded the list of editors in two and put it in her purse, then slid out of the booth. “Thanks for the pie and the help.”
“Wait.” Tru tossed some bills onto the table. “I’ll walk you out.”
Jenny hesitated, then surprised him by nodding. Before she could change her mind, he was out of the booth.
Their shoulders bumped as he reached past her to open the diner door. The electric jolt from the contact zinged through his clothes, scorching his skin.
Jenny stopped and faced him, as if she’d felt something, too. Bright blue fire snapped in her eyes—yeah, she’d felt it, all right.
Her tongue darted out to lick her lips. His mouth wanted to follow the moist trail and taste her. Then he noticed the dab of chocolate still at the corner of her mouth.
The second jolt was more powerful than the first; buzzing through his body, down to his toes. Need thrummed through him.
For a moment, his desire was reflected in her eyes. But when he reached for her, she turned and pushed past him. Tru stood staring dumbly after her, until Shirley yelled to shut the door. Then he followed Jenny across the parking lot.
When they reached her car, she unlocked the doors. “I meant what I said earlier. I really do appreciate what you’ve done for me.”
Then she surprised the hell out of him by hugging him.
Before he had a chance to hug her back, or enjoy the feel of her in his arms, she was in her car and driving away.
* * *
RING, DAMN IT!
Jenny glared at her cell, but it remained silent. In the three hours since she’d returned home from her interview at The Journal, she’d had a political pollster, three telemarketers and two charities call her.
It was four fifty-five. Tim Gordon, the sports editor, had promised to call before five.
Today’s interview had been the last one from the short list she and Tru had devised five days ago. Tim hadn’t been available until today. Though the other meetings had gone well—unlike Randy, the editors had all been professional—she still hadn’t found a job.
Budget constraints had meant there was nothing available for someone who only knew hockey, especially over the summer. There had been some part-time offers, but the pay had been too lo
w to consider. Rob Tremaine at The Sporting Herald had offered her a spot on the intern program, but it had only been for ten weeks, unpaid, with no guarantee of a job at the end. It would have been great to boost her experience, but experience didn’t pay the bills.
Tim Gordon was her last hope. Four fifty-nine.
Perhaps she’d misjudged how she’d done. When she’d left The Journal’s offices, she’d been optimistic. The interview had been tough; she’d even had to write a piece on the play-offs. After initial nerves, Jenny had loved the challenge. Tim had said her writing and style were good, but he, too, had budgetary constraints. He hadn’t been sure he could find a place for her, but had promised to try.
Jenny wondered whether she’d have been better off without Tru’s help. If she’d contacted the editors directly, they’d have told her they didn’t have anything available and saved her a lot of time, effort and heartache. Then again, it had been good to make the contacts, regardless.
The clock chimed five.
Her phone rang.
“Hi, Tim.” She tried to sound casual.
“Sorry. We had a problem with one of tomorrow’s layouts.”
“No problem. I understand deadlines.”
“Good attitude.” She heard the smile in his voice. “Meeting deadline is sacrosanct.”
Tim’s voice became somber, making her stomach sink. “I looked at the budgets. Like I said, money’s tight and hockey is fourth priority for resource-allocation, after football, baseball and basketball. The NHL and NASCAR get equal claim.”
“I see.” Her shoulders sagged.
“I might have something, but it’s not full-time.”
Jenny closed her eyes briefly. “Go on.”
“Our beat writer has scheduled surgery this summer. He hopes to be back for training camp, but may be out longer. I’d planned to give his work to another guy, but he doesn’t know hockey. You could step right in, which would be ideal.”
“Okay.” He was saying the right things. What was the catch?
“I can’t afford to put you on the books, but if you’re prepared to freelance, I’ll pay a good piece rate.” He quoted a figure that sounded reasonable. “There’s no limit on the number of articles I’ll take.”
A Perfect Trade (Harlequin Superromance) Page 11