An Old-Fashioned Romance

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “Yes, sir. He is,” she agreed.

  Another deep sigh to further calm his temper and he turned toward his office.

  “Oh, wait,” he said, however. Pointing an index finger at Breck, he said. “Wait right there.”

  Breck smiled. He was her boss—where did he think she was going? He disappeared into his office, only to return a moment later with a badly wrapped gift in his hands.

  Breck felt her cheeks go crimson with a hot blush as he held the gift out to her and said, “Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed as she accepted the gift from him.

  “I wrapped it myself,” he boasted, and Breck giggled. She loved a man who wrapped a gift so that it looked worse than a kindergartener’s first attempt. First of all, it was purely masculine to be all thumbs with wrapping paper, tape, and scissors. Second, she’d always felt that a man attempting to wrap a gift on his own showed sincere care. Oh, it was fine in her book for a man to have his wife, his daughters, or a department store wrapping service fancy up his gifts. But attempting to wrap a present on his own—there was an adorable man!

  “It’s beautiful!” Breck lied as she noted the pink bow so obviously over-taped on the orange wrapping paper.

  “I think it looks pretty good too,” he said with the sweetest boyish pride. “But open it up. I want to see if it fits.”

  Breck giggled. Another cute man thing—unconsciously revealing the contents of a gift. For appearance’s sake—after all, he had expended quite a lot of effort on his wrapping—Breck opened the gift carefully. She was unable to stifle another nervous giggle when she was fairly certain that whatever Reese had sheltered inside hadn’t really come from “Uncle Ben’s Fish and Tackle,” as the stickers on the box indicated.

  “You are gonna love this,” Reese said, chuckling. Breck looked up at him, amazed by the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He nodded and winked at her, biting his lower lip in anticipation. For Pete’s sake—she was sure he was more excited than she was!

  Breck’s heart began to hammer rather intensely as she opened the box. Immediately upon seeing the color of its contents, she gasped, guessing at once what the item was.

  “Oh, Mr. Thatcher!” She was so delighted, she nearly squealed the exclamation. An orange mound of knitted yarn was badly folded and cached in the fish-and-tackle store box.

  With a chuckle, Reese told her, “It’s a pumpkin sweater!” He chuckled, obviously very proud of his clever gift. “And I know for a fact that you don’t have this one.”

  Breck’s hands began to tremble as she took the sweater from the box and unfolded it across the top of her desk. It was truly beautiful! Knitted out of the softest orange yarn, it had several small pumpkins woven into the pattern here and there—each embellished with three leaves at its stem and accented by twisty green vine remnants. It was truly the most beautifully crafted—most beautiful in every way—pumpkin sweater that Breck had ever seen.

  “Oh, Mr. Thatcher,” she breathed in awe. “It’s so perfect!”

  She felt goose bumps break over her body as he knelt down beside her at her desk—his arm brushing her shoulder for a moment. She could smell him instantly too—the soft, masculine scent of Speed Stick and aftershave filling her senses.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?” he asked. Then looking to her, their faces only inches apart, he added, “Don’t you want to know how I found a pumpkin sweater you didn’t already have?” Breck held her breath. He was so close—so gorgeous! She could feel the warmth of his arm as he rested it on the back of her chair. Five inches forward and she could’ve kissed him smack on the mouth!

  “Um…yes,” she stammered.

  “Well,” he began, his eyes holding her mesmerized gaze, “at first I wondered if maybe you were sick of pumpkin sweaters. You know what I mean?” Breck nodded, intrigued and delighted by his boasting over his finding the perfect gift for her. “Like…you know…a guy…he finds a sports logo he likes, and he can stick with it for, like, forty years, you know?” Breck nodded again, amused by his analogy. “But a girl…no offense, Breck…but girls can be pretty fickle.” Breck could only nod again. “However, when I saw you and your friends at the restaurant the other day…every one of you wearing some sort of pumpkin fanatic sweater.”

  Breck giggled at the memory.

  “I figured…you’re a collector. And collectors never have enough of whatever they collect. Right?”

  “Right,” Breck breathed again.

  “So,” Reese continued, “I called my mom.”

  Breck’s heart began to slip into the pit of her stomach. He’d sent his mom shopping for her birthday present? All she could visualize then was the woman wearing herself ragged by running around trying to find an obligatory birthday gift for her son’s secretary.

  “Oh,” Breck managed, forcing a smile. “It was so kind of her to look—” she began.

  “No, no, no,” Reese interrupted. “She knitted it just for you. It’s a one of a kind.”

  “What?” Breck asked, her emotions bouncing back and forth so quickly it was giving her a headache.

  “Yeah. My mom’s a great knitter,” he told her. “Look,” he said taking the collar of the sweater and turning it down. “See there.” He pointed to a small hand-sewn tag on the inside back of the sweater. “Made with love by Marjie Thatcher,” he read.

  Breck felt tears welling in her eyes. What a special thing he’d done! Sure, it had imposed on his mother, but not the way Breck had at first imagined. This was different! Asking his mother to make such a unique and individual gift? It was unbelievable.

  Reese looked at Breck, studying her face for a moment. As Breck willed her tears to stay in her eyes and not escape down her cheeks, Reese said, “You like it, huh?”

  “I love it,” Breck admitted, her voice cracking a bit and betraying the depth of the emotion she felt.

  Reese allowed a triumphant smile to spread across his face, a deep sigh of satisfaction escaping his lungs as he stood.

  “I can’t…I can’t ever thank you enough,” Breck told him. “Or your mother! What incredible sacrifice she must’ve made.”

  Reese chuckled. “Naw. She loves it,” he assured her. “I can just see her now…sitting in her lounge chair, orange yarn and knitting needles flying at the speed of light.” Breck smiled at the vision Reese’s mind must be conjuring for him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Thatcher,” Breck said.

  Reese smiled and winked at her. “You’re welcome, Breck.” Then—and Breck thought she might drop dead on the spot from the rapture of the sensation his touch sent through her—Reese Thatcher brushed her left cheek with the back of his hand and added, “Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you,” was all she could manage. With a final grin in her direction, Reese Thatcher disappeared into his office.

  The moment his office door was closed, Breck blinked, causing a flood of withheld tears to stream down her cheeks. Quickly, she wiped at them with the backs of her hands. Neatly folding the sweater, she placed it back inside the Uncle Ben’s Fish and Tackle box before she rushed to the ladies room to splash some cool water on her face.

  After five or ten minutes of regaining her composure in the bathroom, Breck was back at her desk, trying to get some work done. But the feel of Reese Thatcher so close to her as he’d been when he’d hunkered down by her chair—the knowledge that he’d been so thoughtful about a gift for her birthday—all of it kept her stomach in knots for the rest of the morning.

  Breck had begun to fall in love with her boss the first moment she met him six months before when she interviewed for the position as his assistant. But during the past few weeks her feelings for him had erupted into a state that was beginning to worry her. And as she sat at her desk a few minutes before lunch—reading the handwritten sweater-washing instructions that Reese’s mother had placed in one sleeve of the sweater—she began to feel frightened. He’d break her heart and not even know it.

  Her anxious thoughts were interrupt
ed when Patty came rather bouncing up to her desk and said, “Ready for lunch, Breck? The support staff is all downstairs waiting already.”

  It was a common practice at Wilson Investigation for all support staff members to take one another out to lunch on any given member’s birthday. Breck had been excited that morning at the prospect of lunch with her friends at work. But since Reese had gifted her the sweater earlier in the day, her emotions were such a jumble that she wondered if she’d be able to settle down and enjoy lunch at all.

  ❦

  Fortunately, she did. The little Mexican restaurant Patty had reserved for Breck’s lunch provided quite the perfect party atmosphere. Many of her friends even brought gifts. And, of course, she was forced to wear the sequin-sloshed sombrero as the restaurant employees sang “Feliz Cumpleaños” to her.

  Still, returning to the office left Breck feeling quite unsettled. She wondered if perhaps it was simply her excitement about her impending dinner with friends that night. But that theory was quickly squelched when Reese returned from lunch.

  “Did you have a nice birthday lunch?” he asked her as he walked—rather sauntered—toward his own office.

  “Yes, thank you,” Breck answered a bit too politely.

  “Did they make you wear the hat?” he chuckled.

  “Of course,” she admitted.

  “Did they take a Polaroid picture of you in it and stick it up on the restaurant wall of humiliation?”

  Breck nodded.

  “Good,” he chuckled. “Every one of us has been humiliated that way. It’s about time you joined the ranks.”

  “I want a word with you, Reese Thatcher!” an angry voice shouted.

  Reese frowned and turned toward the angry man storming his way toward them from the hallway linking the office spaces with the reception desk. Breck drew in her breath, unhappy at seeing Michael Allen suddenly standing in front of her desk, glaring at Reese.

  “Go home, Allen,” Reese growled. “Oh, wait,” he added, his voice thick with sarcasm, “you don’t have a home, do you? You kicked it right out the window.”

  Breck pushed her chair back from her desk and stood up, pressing the security button on her phone.

  “Security,” came Dave Pullman’s voice on the other end.

  “Dave,” Breck whispered, “would you come down to Mr. Thatcher’s office immediately?” There was no pause, simply a dial tone indicating that Dave was on his way.

  “And what are you doing with my wife, Thatcher?” Mr. Allen shouted. “Providing the rebound vessel?”

  “I am gonna kick your sorry—” Reese growled a moment before Breck climbed over the top of her desk and planted herself squarely between the two men. She put her hand over Reese’s mouth to keep him from delivering a verbal assault that could get him in trouble.

  “Go ahead!” Mr. Allen challenged. “I’ll sue yours for assault!”

  “Mr. Allen,” Breck said to the man, turning to face him, “you need to leave. You shouldn’t even be here.” She could feel Reese’s body against her back and knew that she was the only thing keeping him from going at Michael Allen with both fists flying.

  “I can be wherever the hell I want to be!” the man shouted at her. Then, taking her chin in his hand, he growled, “You got something going on with him too?” Breck slapped the man’s hand away but not in time to keep Reese in line.

  “Oh, that’s it, man! You’re dead!” Reese threatened, taking Breck by the shoulders and moving her aside.

  “Come on, coward,” Mr. Allen said, trying to provoke Reese further. “You gonna hide behind your secretary all day?”

  Breck caught Reese’s arm mid-air, only just stopping the brutal punch he’d thrown at Michael Allen.

  “Reese!” she shouted. “Reese! Don’t let him provoke you. It’s what he wants.”

  Reese pulled his arm from Breck’s grasp and looked at her. His eyes were red with fury, his broad chest rising and falling with the heavy breathing of anger. Forcibly, Breck pushed at Reese’s chest with all her strength, trying to get him to take a step back. When he finally did, she knew it was not because of the strength of her pushes but rather because he was obeying her.

  “You’re nothing but a low-life nobody, Thatcher,” Allen growled. “Spying on people, taking pictures, and messing with other men’s wives.”

  This time Breck had to turn to face Reese to keep him from going off at the man. Pushing him back against the wall, she took his face in her hands and made him look at her.

  “Ignore him, Reese. It’s what he wants,” she told him as his jaw tightened with anger. “Give Dave a minute, and the guy will be out of here.”

  As if in answer to her prayers, Dave walked up behind Michael Allen at that very moment.

  “Come with me, sir,” Dave demanded. Dave Pullman was a huge man! At six foot seven, his size alone would intimidate just about anyone. Add to that the Marine tattoos on his forearms, his flattop haircut, and bulging biceps, and Wilson had just about the most intimidating security guard in the state.

  “Yeah, I’m going,” Michael Allen growled. But as Dave backed him out of the room, he pointed at Reese and added, “You stay away from my wife. We’ll get things worked out without anybody’s help.”

  Reese lurched forward, but Breck put a hand to his chest to stall him. Dave escorted the man from the room, and Breck relaxed the pressure she’d used to hold Reese against the wall.

  “You all right, Reese? Breck?” Mr. Wilson asked as he hurried into the room.

  “Yeah, yeah. We’re fine, Roger,” Reese grumbled.

  “That right, Breck?” Mr. Wilson asked, obviously not convinced by Reese’s appearance.

  “Yes, sir,” Breck assured him.

  “Then you take the rest of the day off, Reese,” the older man said. “You need to simmer it down a bit, you hear me?” Reese nodded and sighed. “Okay then. Everybody back to work.” Old Mr. Wilson hobbled off, having made his demands.

  Breck was startled as she felt Reese take her chin in his hand then and turn her to face him. His eyes were still narrowed with residual anger.

  “Don’t you ever let that guy, or anybody else like him, touch you that way again. Do you hear me?” he growled.

  “Okay,” Breck squeaked. He seemed more than protective—almost possessive. But Breck chased the hope from her mind as she gazed up at him. He was just teaching her how to further take care of volatile situations in the future.

  “Okay,” he mumbled, releasing her. Then, shaking his head, he added, “I’m sick of this—” He paused and looked away before finishing, “—crap.” Then with a heavy sigh, he said, “I’m going home, Breck. You can go too, if you’d like.”

  “Okay,” she said. She’d seen him like this before and imagined he was feeling the same way she was—that people were jerks, that the world was going to the dogs. And it only seemed to be getting worse. What happened to fidelity in marriage? To honesty in business? To family dinner around the table, children using their imaginations and playing outside instead of sitting in dark rooms watching television or having seizures caused by video game graphics?

  Reese went into his office and retrieved some files from his desk. “Good night, Breck,” he mumbled on his way out.

  “Good night, sir,” she called after him.

  Collapsing in her chair, Breck let out a long breath of discouragement. What a day it had been! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d experienced such a range of emotion in such a short period of time. From excitement about her birthday—delight over Reese’s attention to it—to the bottom of the bog with anger, bitterness, and discouragement.

  Closing her eyes for a moment, she remembered how good Reese had smelled that morning when he’d given her the sweater—how adorable his pride in his wrapping job was—how warm and strong his body felt under her palms as she had pushed him against the wall to keep him from beating the life out of Michael Allen. Gosh, he was fabulous! Secretly she liked that he could’ve and would’ve beat
Michael Allen to a pulp. It seemed few people stood up for things (especially the honor and protection of women) anymore. Maybe they were too selfish—or too out of shape physically. Maybe they were scared of getting thrown in jail. Breck shook her head at how many cases she’d seen go through the office of good men who were facing lawsuits and jail because they’d manhandled some gang member that had bullied or beaten up their ten-year-old child. But what frightened her most was the thought that men like Reese were rare because the men of her day and age just didn’t care.

  Pulling out of her current thought process—for it was nothing but despairing—Breck gathered her things. She would leave work early because she wanted to enjoy her evening with her friends. And if she were going to, she needed a few hours peace and quiet to recapture her good mood. Home would do it. She’d run home, turn on some Harry Connick Jr., and have a piece of the pumpkin pie waiting in her fridge and maybe a short nap. That would help. Still, she wished Michael Allen had never shown up at the office. The idiot had cheated her out of three valuable hours spent in Reese’s presence. Jerk.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Marcelli’s seemed more exciting than usual that night. At least it seemed that way to Breck. The incident at the office with Mr. Allen had definitely dampened her spirits for a time. But after a nice long shower, some soothing music, and a little baking, Breck had felt quite revived. In fact, when she’d pulled on the beautiful pumpkin sweater Reese had given to her, she actually felt quite enchanted. Furthermore, the knowledge that Reese had inconvenienced his mother on her behalf—that he had wadded the sweater up, stuffed it in a fish-and-tackle store box, and wrapped it himself—it was too delightful! Wearing the sweater caused Breck to imagine being wrapped in Reese’s arms—warm, secure. It was an incredible sensation and added to the bounce she had in her step as she entered Marcelli’s with her friends to celebrate her birthday.

  As Dean Martin sang “That’s Amore” softly in the background, Breck and her friends ordered entrees, giggled, talked about life, and just generally had a wonderful evening. The atmosphere in the restaurant was especially perfect. Breck noted the lights were dimmer than usual. The delicious aromas of olive oil, garlic, and pasta blended perfectly with the low hum made by patrons in conversation, and Sherryl had arranged for their favorite waiter to attend their table that evening, allowing for more silly frivolity.