An Old-Fashioned Romance

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  Copyright © 2012

  An Old-Fashioned Romance by Marcia Lynn McClure

  www.marcialynnmcclure.com

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, the contents of this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.

  Published by Distractions Ink

  P.O. Box 15971

  Rio Rancho, NM 87174

  ©Copyright 2004, 2010, 2012 by M. L. Meyers

  A.K.A. Marcia Lynn McClure

  Cover Photography by ©Konradbak and© Solarseven/Dreamstime.com

  Cover Design by Sheri L. Brady/MightyPhoenixDesignStudio.com

  First Printed Edition: 2012

  All character names and personalities in this work of fiction

  are entirely fictional, created solely in the imagination of the author.

  Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  McClure, Marcia Lynn, 1965—

  An Old-Fashioned Romance: a novella/by Marcia Lynn McClure.

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Barbara, Dixie, Karen, and Sheri,

  See yourselves in my heart, my dears…

  My laughter, my beacons of hope and joy,

  My cherished friends.

  My eternal love to each of you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Breck McCall ran her fingers through her long, chestnut hair, sighing heavily as she waited for the traffic light to turn green. If she kept hitting every light on red, she would never make it to work on time. Still, she smiled as she watched the crossing guard motion for the group of distracted children to cross the street. The crossing guard—an elderly man with sparse silvery hair—waved to the children frantically with one hand, holding tightly to the stop sign in his other. Breck giggled, sympathetic as she watched one little red-haired girl tugging on her purple rolling backpack. It tipped over a moment later, of course, and the frantic crossing guard rushed over to help the child right it. The little girl and her purple rolling backpack were off again soon enough, and Breck smiled and waved at the tired traffic guard as the light turned green. She was on her way to work again.

  Working at Wilson Investigation seemed the perfect career path for a young woman like Breck—just a week away from being twenty-one. Her coworkers were friendly enough, the work was far more than merely interesting, and it seemed that all should be well with Breck. But somehow, all wasn’t well.

  Descended from a long line of horse breeders, Breck’s father had chosen the life of a big-city attorney instead of following his older brother into the horse business. Her mother and father were happy enough, but Breck had always struggled with city life. She remembered visiting her uncle’s ranch as a child—the way she had always felt free, as if she could breathe better out there in southeastern Colorado. Her father had always maintained she reminded him of his grandfather Michael McCall, who had loved the wide-open space of ranching life. Thus, Breck figured she was that child in every family who should have been born in a different era. But reality was that farming and ranching were vanishing lifestyles. And one didn’t easily go from being a big-city girl, employed by one of the top detective agencies in the West, to plopping into the well-worn blue jeans of a farm girl. And so, Breck had finished her degree at Colorado State and had found a job at Wilson.

  As she stepped off the elevator on the fourteenth floor, Breck heard the sounds of morning at the office. She could hear the copy machines and printers whirring away and low voices steeped in phone conversation—inhaled the familiar scent of stale doughnuts and old coffee.

  “Good morning, Breck,” Patty greeted from her seat behind the reception desk. “Having a good one?”

  Patty was a sweet, pleasant-natured brunette woman of about forty-five, the main receptionist at Wilson.

  “Yeah. And you?” Breck said.

  “Fair enough. Mr. Henshaw has an appointment today.”

  Mr. Henshaw was a young, recently divorced man, a client of Mr. Wilson’s. Patty thought he was the hottest thing since jalapeño bean dip.

  Breck giggled and said, “Well, then your day should be a good one!”

  Patty’s smile widened, and she nodded, seeming to remember something a moment later. “Mr. Thatcher is already in this morning,” she said. “He doesn’t look like he’s had a minute of sleep. Probably staking out a case on his own again.”

  “Probably,” Breck agreed. Mr. Reese Thatcher was not only Breck’s boss but also the handsomest man a woman had ever seen—and a bachelor. It was, quite often, difficult to work with him and not stare in awe at his good looks. He was the one reason Breck looked forward to going to work each weekday morning at Wilson Investigation—not that she wasn’t well paid, for she was. However, her soul yearned for freedom somehow. But whenever she set eyes on Reese Thatcher, another emotion washed over her—euphoria!

  “Have a good one, Patty,” Breck called over her shoulder as she passed the reception area and headed for her desk.

  “You too,” came Patty’s cheerful reply.

  Setting her purse in the lower drawer of her desk, Breck tapped her computer keypad to signal her monitor display. The cool breezes of October had left her cheeks rosy and her disposition refreshed. She was ready for another day at the old grind. She noted that Mr. Thatcher had already set a pile of scribbled‑on papers atop her desk. No doubt he’d been making notes all night again while he sat in his car staking out someone who was up to some dirty deed.

  Breck sighed, feeling sorry for the handsome, brooding man who had to spend so much of his time with dishonest people who could not be trusted.

  “Morning, Breck,” Reese Thatcher mumbled as he stepped out of his office at that very moment.

  “Good morning, Mr. Thatcher,” Breck greeted as the scowling man approached her desk. Even scowling he was gorgeous—like some mix between a young Elvis Presley and a young John Stamos.

  He ran his fingers through his black hair and forced a considerate smile as he said, “I tossed some notes on your desk when I came in this morning. Can you get them entered for me as soon as possible? I’ve already forgotten what’s on them.”

  “I sure can,” she answered.

  He handed her a large black envelope next. “These pictures go in the Allen file. Michael Allen should be calling sometime this morning. Just let him know they’re here whenever he wants his attorney to pick them up, okay?” he mumbled, running his fingers through his thick, ebony hair again.

  “Sure,” Breck answered. She felt a hard lump form in her throat, her stomach churning a bit. She’d done enough work on Mrs. Allen’s case to know what must be in the black envelope—photos of Mr. Allen consorting with another woman. These kinds of cases always made Breck sick to her stomach, and unfortunately, there were far too many of them.

  “Detective Taylor should be dropping some stuff by later too,” Mr. Thatcher continued. “Bring it right in, would ya?”

  “I will,” Breck agreed.

  She felt a slight blush rise to her cheeks as Reese Thatcher smiled at her a moment and said, “You look nice today, Breck.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Thatcher.” Breck took his compliments not too much to heart, however. He always told old Mr. Wilson’s assistant that she looked nice too. Mr. Wilson’s secretary had been with him for forty years and was almost seventy—a fairly grouchy lady with a straight line for a smile and a perpetual frown.

  “Another pumpkin sweater, I see,” he noted.

  “Yep,” Breck admitted. Still, she was flattered that he would notice her passion for sweaters with pumpkins or orange patterns w
oven into them. “It is October, after all, Mr. Thatcher.”

  The smile he directed at her broadened. “Is it?” he teased. “And me without a pumpkin sweater to my name.”

  Reese Thatcher couldn’t ignore the warm feeling sweeping over him at the sight of his attractive assistant dressed in yet another sweater paying homage to the ultimate orange squash. Over the past couple of weeks, he’d begun to wonder how much of her paychecks she spent on pumpkin-themed sweaters and where in the world she was able to find so many. It was one of the most adorable things about her lately, he noted to himself. But he buried that thought, not only quickly but deep.

  Breck’s smile broadened too at his teasing. He turned, and she couldn’t help noticing how nicely his jeans fit, how the fitted, ribbed knit shirt he wore complemented his muscular build and broad shoulders.

  With that black hair and those blue eyes, you’d look ridiculous in a pumpkin sweater, she thought. But she’d be willing to bet he’d look great in a red Christmassy one.

  When he finally walked into his office, closing the door behind him, Breck exhaled a sigh of relief. Oh, how he rattled her! The epitome of the tall, dark, and handsome cliché, Reese Thatcher was one of those guys that a girl sees only one or two of in her entire life! He was tall, broad-shouldered, and in excellent shape physically. His eyes were a kind of light, light blue—almost sky blue—and his hair the deepest black Breck had ever seen in real life. His perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth added a movie-star quality to his smile, and he was simply the most handsome man Breck had ever seen! Not to mention that he was kind, well-mannered, and as masculine as they came.

  Breck, in contrast, felt very plain. Green eyes, brown hair, medium height—not much to brag about. She did have a good figure, but still, she saw nothing unusually striking about herself. Thus, a man like Reese Thatcher intimidated the life out of her! She knew that every girl in the office daydreamed about him, and—the truth be told—she was no different.

  Imagine kissing him, she thought to herself. I’d drop dead on the spot, for sure.

  Sighing and trying to dispel any daydreams of being Reese Thatcher’s girlfriend, Breck filed Mr. Allen’s envelope in her desk file drawer and proceeded to put her phone headset on just as the phone rang.

  With a, “Good morning. Wilson Investigation, Reese Thatcher’s office. May I help you?” Breck’s day at work officially began.

  ❦

  The morning was uneventful at best. Breck worked most of the day preparing the information Reese had gathered for Mrs. Allen’s file, and it put her in a rather foul mood. She kept thinking that someone ought to string Mr. Allen up by his toenails and torture him for cheating on his sweet wife. And the fact the couple had a brand-new baby only served to further infuriate her. By the time her lunch hour rolled around, Breck was more than ready for a break. And it promised to be a fun one—for she was meeting her four best friends downtown at Marcelli’s.

  Marcelli’s was Breck’s very favorite restaurant! It boasted the best Italian food in three states and with affordable prices. Plus, Sherryl, Trixie, Kay, and Barb were meeting her there. In fact, she’d scheduled herself an hour and a half for lunch—to allow more time to visit with her friends.

  Lunch with these girls was always an adventure! Nothing ever went smoothly, mostly because they were all laughing so hard they couldn’t eat. The tips they all left were more than generous—because each of them felt a bit guilty for being overly flirty with the waiter of the day. Yep! Breck looked forward to time with her four dearest friends more than anything. She knew the girls would help lift her out of her I wish someone would flog Mr. Allen mood into a I’ll just enjoy looking at my handsome boss frame of mind once again.

  ❦

  Before the waiter had even shown Breck the table where her friends waited, she could hear them. Barb’s laugh was literally contagious, and Breck heard herself giggle as she heard its magical melody drifting from one corner of the room.

  No doubt Trixie (her real name being Marie) was already busy sculpting puppies with some bread and olive oil. Trixie couldn’t leave her food alone to save her life! She was forever sculpting puppies, penguins, and even North America out of bread, leftover desserts, and pancakes. She was good at it too! Breck had often wondered why Trixie didn’t take to sculpting with some substance more lasting and durable than leftover restaurant food.

  Kay would have a list of books as long as her arm ready to share. Kay loved to read, and her sole purpose in life had become trying to find a book for Breck that would outdo Breck’s beloved and favorite book, The Highwayman of Tanglewood. Kay knew it was a daunting task—one most likely never to be achieved. Still, Kay had given Breck some fantastic reading material over the years—even though nothing would ever beat out The Highwayman of Tanglewood in Breck’s heart.

  And then there was Sherryl. Sherryl was the “up-to-no-gooder” of the group. A well-known photographer by trade, Sherryl would inevitably have the girls up to their necks in mischief by the end of lunch. Whether it was flirting shamelessly with some poor waiter, trying to solve the love-life concerns of some unsuspecting waitress, or simply cracking jokes all through lunch until everyone had indigestion, Sherryl was the clown of the clan.

  Yes, as Breck approached the table and saw her friends, smiling faces ablaze with mirth, she knew this would, once again, be a lunch to remember.

  “Did you pinch your boss’s butt yet, Breck?” Sherryl inquired as Breck took her seat at the table. As usual, the waiters had the foresight to sit this group of women out of the way of normal, everyday folks.

  “I could get sued for that, Sherr,” Breck reminded with a giggle.

  “So what?” Trixie said. “Your dad’s a lawyer.”

  Everyone laughed, and Kay hugged Breck as she sat down. As always, Breck sighed as she scanned the faces of her beloved chums. These girls were real. There was nothing false or arrogant about them, and Breck loved them with all her heart—depended on them to help her through the ugly parts of life.

  “I don’t know how you keep your hands off that man,” Barb said, shaking her head.

  “I admit it…it’s hard,” Breck sighed. “Especially since it’s painfully obvious that he wants me,” she sighed dramatically.

  Everyone laughed, and lunch began with Trixie’s proud display of her latest restaurant appetizer sculpture—Italian bread smooshed and flattened into the shape of Texas.

  The hour passed too quickly, and Breck’s sides were aching from laughing so hard. Barb had laughed so hard at one point that the gulp of water she’d just taken left her body by way of her nose. And so it was that, with an overly full stomach and a heart full of mirth, Breck glanced over to where their waiter was seating a new set of patrons.

  Her very audible gasp caused her friends to follow her gaze.

  “Oh my heck!” Kay exclaimed in a whisper. “It’s him!”

  “Oh my heck, it is!” Trixie confirmed.

  Indeed, sitting at a table just across the room was none other than Reese Thatcher! Breck felt hot beads of perspiration accumulate on her forehead as she looked and noted the rather beautiful blonde that was with him.

  “And he’s with a woman!” Sherryl exclaimed in a hushed tone.

  “That ain’t no woman,” Barb corrected. “If she’s with Breck’s man…she’s a hoochie.”

  “Ssshh! You guys! He’ll hear us,” Breck warned.

  “Oh my heck! He is gorgeous,” Kay whispered, ignoring Breck’s warning. “Breck…you have to marry him!”

  “For Pete’s sake, Kay,” Breck scolded, slouching down in her seat. “He’ll hear you!”

  “You definitely have to pinch his butt,” Trixie added, winking at Breck. Breck couldn’t fault them at all for teasing her. For were the shoe on the other foot—and it had been in the past—she would have been just as bad.

  “Oh my heck! Oh my heck!” Sherryl warned. “He’s looking over here!”

  “I wonder why,” Breck growled, unable to he
lp but smile at her silly friends.

  “Well, sit up straight, Breck,” Barb ordered. “You don’t want him to think you’re a sloucher, for crying out loud.”

  Breck thought she might nearly drop dead when she heard Kay say, “Oh my heck! Oh my heck! He’s coming over, Breck! Oh my heck!”

  Breck plastered on a fake smile and looked up just in time to see none other than Reese Thatcher standing over her.

  “Well, hello, Breck,” he greeted.

  “Hello, Mr. Thatcher,” she managed to sputter.

  “Girls’ day out, huh?” he asked, waiting for an introduction.

  “Yep,” Breck confirmed. Still, she was completely tongue-tied and couldn’t respond any further.

  Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, Sherryl’s tongue was all too loose.

  “Well, hello, Mr. Thatcher,” Sherryl greeted. “We’re Breck’s idiot friends.”

  “Nice to meet you all,” Reese Thatcher said, smiling, obviously amused. “So…uh…is this an official meeting of the Pumpkin Sweater Club?”

  Breck closed her eyes for a moment, horrified as she, only then, realized she and every one of her friends wore sweaters with some sort of pumpkin design on them. Reese Thatcher smiled and looked to Breck.

  “Um…no, sir. We just all like…pumpkin sweaters,” she explained.

  “Is that your girlfriend, Mr. Thatcher?” Barb asked. Barb was known as the blunt one of the group. She didn’t believe in wasting time. Cut to the chase and just find out what you want to know was her motto. Breck was mortified—wanted to scream with embarrassment. However, Reese grinned, amused by the woman’s brazenness.

  “No…just a friend,” he answered.

  Breck was silently scolding herself for being so relieved that the woman wasn’t his girlfriend. Further she was irritated with herself for caring so much.

  Reese smiled at her, and Breck was certain that he pitied her for her discomfort. He said, “Well, I’ll leave you ladies to your dessert. It was nice to meet you all.” Then, winking at Breck, he added, “See you back at the office, Miss Pumpkin Sweater Club President.”