An Old-Fashioned Romance

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  Still, he was glad he’d poked his head out of his shell long enough to be involved in Breck’s friends’ crazy scheming. Because that little trinket he called his assistant was getting under his skin, and he had to try to quench the thirst for her that had been building in him from the moment he hired her.

  Pushing the clutch in, he started his pickup, shifted into first, and left Marcelli’s parking lot with a smile and a desire in his heart to be a better man. Picking up his cell, he dialed.

  “Hello?” came the sweet, beloved voice on the other end.

  “Hi, Mom. You’ll never guess what I’ve been up to tonight,” he began.

  ❦

  “One-hour photo be hanged!” Sherryl announced as she exited the darkroom. Sherryl was obsessive enough about her hobby-slash-profession that she always kept high-end photo editing computers and printers at home too. And tonight, Sherryl’s talents were really going to pay off for Breck.

  “Look at this puppy!” she exclaimed. “Straight off the cover of Romantic Times.” Sherryl held up an eleven-by-fourteen enlargement, and a hot blush rose to Breck’s cheeks as she looked at the picture.

  “Whoa, baby! Look at that kiss!” Kay giggled.

  And sure enough, there—nearly as large as life—was the perfect and tangible evidence of the fact that Reese Thatcher had indeed kissed Breck that evening at Marcelli’s. A delightful shiver broke over Breck’s entire body as she stared at the photo. As always, Sherryl had managed to catch the perfect moment. Her artist’s eye and camera shutter had captured a moment of light in the universe—the moment when Reese’s slightly parted lips had just touched Breck’s—the split second before he’d pressed his mouth firmly to her own. It made for quite the intimate and thrilling photograph.

  “This has to be the best kissing picture I’ve ever shot, Breck,” the skinny blonde said. She added, “I’ll have to do a sixteen-by-twenty…for your bedroom too. Mounted with a red matte, it will be perfect.”

  “Do we all get copies?” Trixie asked.

  “I want mine with a red matte too…only eight-by-ten will be fine,” Barb added.

  “Done deal,” Sherryl said.

  Breck put her hands to her blazing-hot cheeks. “You guys are crazy. How am I ever going to face him at work on Monday?”

  The women erupted into laughter as they looked to their friend.

  “Who cares!” Kay exclaimed. “He was good!”

  Breck blushed more deeply and smiled, shaking her head. “You guys are awful.”

  “No, seriously, Breck,” Barb said. “It looked good. Was it as good a kiss as it looked…as good as it looks in the photo?”

  Breck sighed, still light-headed from the experience. “Better,” she said.

  “He is so hot, Breck!” Trixie reminded them all, as if they needed reminding. “You have to have him.”

  “What?” Breck gasped, giggling. “You do realize he’s Reese Thatcher, right?”

  “Oh, honey,” Kay said. “Believe me…we realize.” Then she smiled and pointed to the picture, to Reese’s parted lips. “Look at that kiss! Look at that man! How did you not drop dead on the spot?”

  Breck shook her head as her arms and legs covered themselves in goose bumps at the sight of the photograph before her.

  “I do not know,” Breck answered honestly.

  ❦

  Late that night, as Breck sat on the sofa in her apartment—comfortable in her flannel pumpkin-patterned pajamas and a mug of hot chocolate to relax her—she gazed at the picture Sherryl had given her of their kiss—hers and Reese’s. She couldn’t believe he’d done it—dressed up like some idiot, run into a very popular, very populated restaurant, and played her Highwayman! It was unbelievable. As unbelievable as the kiss he’d taken—given—shared with her. Again those imaginary butterflies that lie dormant in every woman’s stomach waiting for the right man burst into flight, causing her to shiver. She tried to enjoy the memory of that wonderful kiss—the taste of it—the feel of his mouth to hers, his hands on her skin. But the knowledge of having to face him at work on Monday was drilling its way into her mind. Still, any man chivalrous enough to play the Highwayman of Tanglewood in public—surely he’d be chivalrous enough to realize how hard it would be for her to face him on Monday.

  Taking a sip of the warm, sweet liquid from the mug in her hands, Breck closed her eyes and remembered how handsome—how absolutely gorgeous—Reese had been dressed in the period clothing of an aristocratic highwayman. If she concentrated very hard, she could still feel his thumb caress her lips—smell the aftershave on his cheek. What a perfect, fabulous night it had been. She would try to keep it in her dreams all weekend and worry about Monday morning on Monday morning.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Breck spent Saturday and Sunday vacillating between euphoria and an anticipatory anxiety. Each time she looked at the pictures Sherryl had taken at Marcelli’s—especially the one of the moment Reese’s lips first touched her own—goose bumps, butterflies, and delightful shivers of every kind traveled through her body. It was truly a dream moment! And yet, whenever she thought of having to face Reese at work on Monday, she felt nervous, anxious, nauseated. Still, she knew he had made great sacrifices on her behalf. And there was the matter of the sweater he’d had his mother knit, as well. A major thank you was in order. And unable to think of anything else more appropriate, Breck arrived at work on Monday morning with one of her famous, and very delectable, homemade pumpkin pies in hand.

  If there was one thing she’d noticed about Reese over the past six months as his assistant, it was that he had a huge weakness where baked goods were concerned. Anytime anyone brought homemade cookies, cakes, or pies to the office for any reason, Reese was always first in line to taste them. Therefore, Breck had put her faith in her pumpkin pie as being an apropos thank you for her pumpkin sweater. She’d worked for years—ever since she started baking as a young girl—to perfect her pumpkin pie filling recipe. And although she might not be very confident in other aspects of her life, she knew her pumpkin pie was a winner. She’d won first place at the Colorado State Fair seven years running with it.

  As far as thanking Reese for the scene at Marcelli’s—well, the pie would have to serve for that as well. The pie accompanied by verbal thanks, that was.

  So with pumpkin pie in hand, Breck stepped off the elevator that crisp autumn Monday morning and smiled as Patty greeted her with a friendly wave.

  “Hey there, Breck,” Patty said, smiling. “What are you toting in this morning?”

  “Something for Mr. Thatcher,” Breck answered, adding, “and a thank you note for you.” Balancing the pie carefully in one hand, Breck reached into her coat pocket and retrieved the thank you note she’d written for Patty regarding the lovely autumn snow globe she had gifted her.

  “Oh, how sweet, Breck,” Patty chimed. “You’re so thoughtful.”

  “You’re the thoughtful one, Patty,” Breck told her. Then looking around quickly, she asked, “Is Mr. Thatcher in yet this morning, do you know?”

  Patty shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “Haven’t seen him.”

  “Thanks,” Breck said with relief. She wanted to get to her desk before he arrived—try to gather her composure.

  But her plans to prepare herself to face him were thrown to the wind. For as she rounded the corner to her desk, she saw him standing in his office door, fiddling with his cell phone.

  There was absolutely no way to avoid him. And so, drawing in a deep breath and trying to find an ounce of courage and composure, she walked directly to her desk.

  “Good morning, Breck,” Reese greeted with a knowing grin as she set the pie on her desk and began to remove her coat.

  “Good morning, Mr. Thatcher,” she said, unable to look at him and trying to sound nonchalant.

  She heard him chuckle. “Oh, surely we’re beyond ‘Mr. Thatcher,’ by now, Breck,” he said. “Especially after the other night at—”

  “You’re right,” she int
errupted, a crimson blush already blazing on her cheeks. “And speaking of the other day,” she began, “I owe you a truckload of thank-yous.” Finally, she found the nerve to look at him and then wished she wouldn’t have. He was too gorgeous—too knowing when it came to her discomfort! And what he was wearing was not only a bit different from what he normally wore to work but absolutely perfect on him! He often wore jeans to work, his profession and need to remain inconspicuous allowing for a more casual manner of dress. However, this day his jeans were adorably worn out! In fact, as he turned to remove a yellow sticky note someone had left on his office door, Breck noticed the dime-sized holes that were evident at the corner of each of the pockets on the seat of his pants.

  For Pete’s sake! she thought. She could see his underwear peeking through the holes—his white underwear! A raggedy, old blue-black baseball cap was partially shoved in one pocket too.

  Complementing the rather intriguing holes in the rear end of his jeans were a pair of beat up, weathered, nearly ragged, black Roper boots Reese wore. And his shirt? Good grief! His shirt was nothing but a tight-fitting, red, rather faded, sort of misshapen T-shirt. He was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous!

  “You do?” Reese asked, causing Breck to close her gaping mouth and frantically try to remember what she’d said before his adorable appearance had so completely distracted her.

  “I do what?” she asked, unable to organize her thoughts.

  He chuckled. “You said you owe me a truckload of thank-yous.”

  “Oh, yeah!” she said, nervous and giggling. “I do!”

  With his familiar mischievous grin spreading across his face, Reese walked closer to Breck until he stood exactly in front of her.

  Breck looked up into his face as he said, “Well?”

  She was undone! How could she possibly ever remain calm in his presence again? Her eyes lingered on his delicious mouth, and she was reminded that she knew just how delicious it was.

  “Well what?” she breathed.

  Again Reese chuckled. “Is that pie plate on your desk my thank-you?”

  The pie! Of course!

  “Oh. Yes! It is,” Breck exclaimed, turning from him and retrieving the pie from her desk. Holding the pie out to him, she said, “I hope you like pumpkin. I thought it appropriate, considering the beautiful sweater your mother made and all.”

  “Mmmm!” he hummed, removing the aluminum foil from the pie and inhaling of its mouth-watering fragrance. “Pumpkin pie is my absolute favorite,” he told her.

  “Oh! I’m glad,” Breck said, swallowing hard. “Well then…I hope you enjoy it and—”

  “So this is what I get for the pumpkin sweater?” he said, smiling at her.

  “Yes. I hope it’s okay. The sweater is beautiful. I know a pie doesn’t really compare and—”

  “What do I get for the thing at Marcelli’s then?” he interrupted.

  Breck felt goose bumps prickle at the back of her neck and on her legs. “I-I was thinking that…maybe the pie would do,” she stammered.

  He laughed wholeheartedly for a moment. Then winking at her and cupping her face in one strong hand for a moment, he said, “I’m just teasing you, Breck.” Breck sighed with relief, but it was short-lived. “I was hoping for some copies of those pictures your friend took though.” He smiled. “What do you think?”

  “Oh. The pictures,” Breck stammered. “Of course. I’ll have her make some copies for you. I mean, your costume was incredible and—”

  “It was fun, huh?” he said, lowering his voice. Breck looked up to find his eyes twinkling—bright with amusement at the memory.

  “Fun?” she breathed. “Oh, yes. Yes it was…fun.”

  “We’ll have to do it again sometime,” he whispered in a low, very provocative tone.

  “We will?” Breck choked. Reese chuckled and turned to leave her, intent on his office.

  “Thanks for the pie, Breck,” he called to her a moment before he shut his door.

  Once Reese’s office door was shut, Breck collapsed into her desk chair, trying to take in a deep breath. He was unbelievable! She’d almost grabbed the front of his T-shirt and pulled his head down toward hers to kiss him!

  Fanning herself with one hand—trying to ease the temperature increase Reese had caused in her—Breck adjusted her headset just in time to answer the phone.

  “Wilson Investigation, Reese Thatcher’s office. May I help you?” she answered. The voice on the other line dispelled her euphoria.

  “Miss McCall? This is Danielle Allen. Is Mr. Thatcher available to take my call?” the sobbing woman asked.

  “Oh, Mrs. Allen,” Breck stammered. “Let me see if he’s in.” Placing Mrs. Allen on hold, Breck beeped Reese’s phone.

  “Breck?” he answered.

  “Mrs. Allen is on line one, Mr. Thatcher. She sounds very upset,” she explained.

  “I’ll take the call. Thanks,” he said. The teasing tone that had been in his voice only moments before was completely dissipated.

  Breck resisted the urge to break company policy and eavesdrop on the conversation. Still, the thought of poor Mrs. Allen pinched her heart. Michael Allen was a jerk! And that was putting it mildly. Every time Reese was handed a case where one or the other member of a married couple was being unfaithful, she felt physically sick. What was wrong with people? Especially someone like Michael Allen. Danielle Allen was beautiful! Not only to look at, but she was a wonderful person. And their baby was adorable. What was wrong with that man? Secretly she wished she’d let Reese beat some sense into him the other day. But she knew that would’ve only landed Reese in trouble with some sort of wiener-spun lawsuit pending. Still, it made her angry. It hurt her heart.

  A few minutes later, Reese opened his office door and stuck his head out, looking to Breck.

  “Hey, Breck,” he said. It was obvious he was infuriated. “Get me Lowel down at Stevens and Rodham, will you?”

  “Sure,” Breck agreed.

  “Patch it in as a conference call on line one, please,” he further instructed.

  “Of course,” she said.

  ❦

  Breck spent the next two hours pulling stuff out of the Allen file and getting it ready to take over to Mrs. Allen’s attorney. The more she worked on it, the more angry she became—the more discouraged. By the time her break rolled around, she felt like she’d been through an entire week of work. Her disposition wasn’t very friendly at that moment, so she decided to just sit back in her chair and read the comics in the newspaper Reese always deposited on her desk when he was finished with it every morning. Something lighthearted—that’s what she needed.

  She’d almost finished the comic page of the newspaper and was just swallowing the last bite of her honey-roasted peanuts package when the door to Reese’s office opened and he stepped out.

  “There’s something you should know, Breck,” he said, striding to where she sat.

  “There is?” she asked, wondering what in the world he was going to tell her. Was there more drama with the Allen case?

  She was suddenly quite self-conscious and uncomfortable when he hunkered down next to her and took one of her hands between his own.

  “Breck,” Reese began. Breck could hardly breathe! Had Mrs. Allen taken matters into her own hands? Had she lost it and…and…

  “That is…by far…the best pumpkin pie I have ever eaten,” he said. There was no hint of teasing or amusement in his expression. But still, Breck thought, He can’t be serious.

  “Pardon?” Breck breathed.

  Reese shook his head and inhaled deeply. “I never thought I’d say this to any woman,” he began, “and part of me feels like a traitor even thinking this. But…but, Breck…” Breck waited for him to finish, unable to breathe or believe what he was saying. “That pie was better than my mother’s!”

  Breck let out a relieved sigh. What a kidder he was!

  “Oh, oh sure,” she giggled. He had her going for a moment. “I hope you enjoyed it all the sam
e, Mr. Thatcher.”

  She was astonished, however, when he suddenly took her chin firmly in his hand, nearly glared at her, and said, “No. I’m serious.”

  There was not a hint of sarcasm in his voice or expression. Breck realized he was actually sincere in the compliment.

  “Really?” was all she could say—a delighted smile spreading across her face. “Well, I’m glad you like it.” She giggled a little, for he seemed unsettled.

  “Do you realize what this means?” he asked, shaking his head.

  “No. What?” Breck coaxed.

  He stared at her for a moment, seeming to study her face with too much intensity to leave her comfortable. Then he stood up and simply said, “I’ve got to run over to Stevens and Rodham. Will you just forward my calls to my voicemail?” And he was gone.

  Breck sat in her chair, completely perplexed. His behavior had been so odd—as if finding a pie that was better than his mother’s was somehow life-altering. Still, she giggled, for his strange behavior had, once again, lightened her heavy heart.

  Tucking the newspaper away in the recycle bin, she managed to get her headset on just as the phone rang.

  “Wilson Investigation, Reese Thatcher’s office. May I help you?”

  Reese climbed into his pickup and laid his head on the steering wheel for a moment. He was in trouble! All weekend long he’d done nothing but obsess about what had transpired between him and Breck at Marcelli’s on Friday night. Well, he’d worked on stripping his deck, gone to the game with Bill, and watched some Bruce Willis movie on TV. But mostly he’d had trouble getting the taste of that kiss with Breck out of his mind. And now this! No one—absolutely no one—made a better pumpkin pie than his mother! He was a bit unnerved that something so seemingly miniscule could throw him for such a big loop. The pie Breck had baked for him as thanks for “the sweater,” as she put it, was absolutely the best he’d ever had. And there was no reason on earth that a man’s office girl should bake a better pumpkin pie than his mother!