“I shouldn’t. I have a story to write.” Though her tone was playful, his face noticeably dropped with her mention of the article. Standing, he pushed his chair back and she did the same.
“I’ll get your jacket.” He rushed for the foyer, Lydia following closely behind. His tight ass moved rhythmically with each step and Lydia knew by the warm flush across her neck and face that she was likely an embarrassing shade of crimson.
With her eyes still locked onto his butt, he abruptly stopped, turning toward her. She startled, jumping back against the coat closet door. He towered above her, muscled chest heaving with each breath, his shadowed gaze peering down at her.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” His body pinned her to the wall and a stirring arousal pressed against her body. As he pulled back, Lydia brought her hand to his face, stopping him from backing away. A muscle in his jaw jumped, but she ignored it, staring into his eyes.
She felt his hands land around her ribs, cradling her with ten large and very capable fingers. He stroked up and down her to her hips and back, creating little explosions in her belly. Pushing onto her toes, she tilted her chin, giving him every access to her lips—all he needed was to take it. Kiss her. His erection nestled into the throbbing spot between her legs. Oh, yes. God, yes. Now, if she could just get those lips on hers…
But before they could even begin, Cam pushed away from her at arm’s length, those blue eyes flickering like the center of a flame. His mouth flicked quickly into a smile. “Please tell me this is off the record,” he joked.
An answer lodged in her throat, like when you take too big a bite to swallow down. Though he was being playful, it offered a heavy question of ethics.
“What do you have against journalists?” A loaded breath heaved in her chest and the dull ache of desire faded.
His playful smirk dropped and was replaced with a much more serious expression. “I don’t trust journalists. I can’t. They’re always after something.” And just like that, with only three little sentences, the temperature between them dropped from spicy to frigid.
She tugged her long hair and pulled it over one shoulder. The ends tickled her collarbone. “That’s not true.” But even as she argued her case, she thought of the terrible botched article she had unwittingly been a part of about Noah Blue and swallowed hard. Even if she was trustworthy, that’s not to say an editor or camera crew or producer would be. That tingly heat burned the back of her sinuses again. Dammit. Cam already had a distrust of her and all reporters… the second he found out that she participated in Noah Blue’s article? He’d never speak to her again. And if he found out sooner than later this week? She may even lose this exclusive.
What was she doing? Trying to kiss a man she was supposed to be writing and photographing? She was a professional. If Cam had been the charity coordinator himself, she would have never dreamt of acting so recklessly. She kept an arm extended, hand on his chest. Separated. They needed to stay separated. It was her only chance in hell of keeping a level head. “I leave on Sunday.”
He nodded with a grunt that mimicked a laugh. “I know that.” He glanced over her shoulder up the stairs with that far-away look that Lydia was beginning to recognize. “But Maddie might not understand that.”
Her scowl softened. “We only just met today. She’ll be fine, Cam. I hardly know how to talk to her. I can’t imagine her getting too attached.”
The tension set around his mouth melted, eyes crinkling to reveal those adorable little wrinkles at the corners. “I’d say you did pretty well up there.” He crooned to Lydia the same Bob Marley song Maddie had fallen asleep to. “Way to sing her a stoner’s song. Next time how about Pass the Dutchie?” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Maybe. Though I was thinking of singing some Nine Inch Nails tomorrow night. Would you like to hear some?” Her body tingled all over, nipples pebbled. And he wasn’t even touching her. Maintaining a hands-off policy this week was going to be a lot harder than she thought.
Despite the thick heat radiating between them, a shiver ran down Lydia’s spine. Goose bumps lifted on her arms and short breaths caused her chest to hitch with each inhalation.
She could just tell him about the article. Get all the cards out on the table here, tonight. She clamped her eyes shut and as she opened her mouth, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t even form the words.
“Let me.” He helped her into her jacket, his voice rough, like a wheel being pulled across gravel.
The satin lining glided along her skin as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. She smoothed her shirt with sweaty palms. “You’d best get your beauty sleep, Mr. Tripp. With how much I’ll be photographing you and Maddie this week? You’re gonna feel like models.”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that.” His body was unwavering, as statue-like as the Royal Guard she’d photographed in London for a feature about the royal baby.
“Goodnight, Cam.”
He opened the door for her, his eyebrows like a dark cloak hooding his eyes. “Goodnight, Lydia.”
*
How could he possibly be so dumb? If it weren’t for the ten-year-old sleeping above him, he would slam the door shut behind her. What was he thinking, pressing into Lydia like that?
He groaned, wiping his palm down the length of his face. It’d been so damn long since he’d had these urges. He closed his eyes, thoughts of her soft, rose-petal lips fogging his brain. Her brown hair with flecks of gold. He shook her face from her mind.
Getting emotionally attached wasn’t a problem. She was only going to be in Maple Grove for a week. But having three in the equation complicated things. Maddie liked Lydia. A lot.
He fell into his recliner with a bottle of water in hand. After a swig, he studied the label as if it held all the answers.
He refused to look out the window at the guesthouse. He still itched to touch her. Maybe that wasn’t something to ignore? If he could have a fling—a tryst without the complications of emotion… one night to get all of that frustration and sexual tension out? Maybe he could get her out of his head for good.
And Maddie would be none the wiser.
He tipped back his head and took another slug of water. Swiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze wandered to the wedding portrait above the mantle. Hannah returned his stare, coal-rimmed eyes simmering through to his heart.
His insides twisted. Two days, two years, or two decades—he didn’t know if he had it in himself to be with a woman other than her. Despite the early hour and the half-finished water, he shoved out of his chair, switching off the lights and headed for bed.
He passed the front window, locking the door, and through the inky night, one light in the guesthouse glowed. Curtains billowed open, revealing a sliver of the bedroom. Lydia pulled her shirt up and over her head, back muscles taut with the movement. Her body curved as she reached behind, undoing the clasp of the black, lacy bra.
Cam tore his gaze away, becoming suddenly fascinated with his hardwood floors. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered as his erection grew, straining against the fly of his jeans.
Before the open window could tempt him anymore, he turned up the stairs and jumped in the shower. Yep, a nice, cold shower was just what he needed before bed.
‡
Chapter Nine
The phone on her nightstand buzzed, and Lydia rushed to grab it. She sat on the bed, legs stretched out, and snuck a peek at her watch. A little after ten and she had just finished her notes for the story. Mara’s name blinked on the screen. She ignored the dread that rolled in her belly like greasy Chinese food. She had expected it to be her—Mara couldn’t go an entire day without checking in on Lydia when she was on a story, but somehow that didn’t stop the way her stomach jumped to her throat every time the phone rang.
She had all of her notes spread out in front of her in linear order. She was ready for the call. Ready to discuss her notes and the intended direction of the story. With a deep breath, she tapped the green answe
r button.
“This is Lydia,” she said in lieu of a hello.
“What have you got for me?” Mara’s voice was quick. Curt.
“You got the notes I e-mailed just now?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Did anything more exciting happen today?”
Lydia snorted. “In the six hours since we spoke last? Hardly.”
“These notes are weak, Lydia. I’m disappointed.”
That same gnawing turned into a full-on teeth-gnashing burrow. “I warned you that there is no scandal here.”
“All that means is you haven’t dug deep enough.”
“As it says in my notes… I think this story would do best as a human-interest piece about a little girl coping with the loss of her mother.” Lydia held her breath, waiting for a response. If she didn’t get her approval on this, it’d be back to square one.
“That’s crap,” Mara snapped. “No one wants to read feel-good shit.”
“I’ve checked the Maple Grove Artist in Residency alumni list. There’s a lot of really well known artists who’ve come from there. I think it’s likely they’ll be coming back for this—”
Papers shuffled around on the other end of the phone, and Mara cut her off without even listening. “This Cameron guy—he’s the father?” Though it was posed as a question, she spoke as if she already knew the answer.
“Yes, Cam—er, Cameron is the dad. His wife Hannah died a couple of years ago from a congenital heart—”
“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah,” Mara said. Lydia could almost picture her Mara sitting in her high-rise office, a Bluetooth in her ear and a triple-shot latte in hand. “Your notes say that the kid is coping better with the loss than the dad, right?”
Lydia dove her hand into her hair, brushing them through the shower-wet strands. “Um, yeah. I guess. I mean, he’s not doing badly… just slower to communicate emotions. It’s like he—”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Mara cut Lydia off mid-sentence. She was good at that. “That’s your story. A little girl who has no choice but to use a charity auction as a way of coping with a dead mom because of her emotionally vacant father.”
“But—Mara, that’s not true.”
“True? As long as it’s true enough, that’s all that matters. As long as you have plausible deniability within your notes. Get quotes from him about how hard it is. Make sure he talks about how he avoids the topic with Maddie. Ask around town for signs that he’s depressed and withdrawn. Get it recorded in case he tries to sue for defamation of character.”
“I’m not comfortable with that. It goes against every code of ethics I have as a journalist. And I did not come to the City Star to ruin some unknown father’s life with a slanderous artic—”
“Oh, really? You don’t feel comfortable? I guess I’ll just have to tell the executive editors that you are no longer able to do your job because some mountain hick chiseled a soul out of you. And let’s make one thing clear: you did not come to City Star. I hired you. I offered you a job. And if you can’t perform that job, then you go back to freelancing.”
Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling that heavy pulse between her eyes get heavier. “I can absolutely do my job.” Just not in the way you want me to, she silently added.
“Great, so do it. Or you won’t have a job come Monday.”
‡
Chapter Ten
The next morning started bright and early at the Maple Grove primary school, with the sounds of a ringing bell that Lydia hadn’t heard in over a decade. She swallowed a sigh as her heels sank deeper into the carpet. Her arm was being tugged by an eager ten-year-old, proudly showing her off to a gaggle of grammar-school friends.
“Guys, guys, this is Lydia!” Maddie’s voice echoed through the gymnasium.
Lydia looked around, surprised at how well the organizers had tweaked Maple Grove Elementary in preparation for Saturday’s charity event. Aside from the hideous florescent lighting, the gym could almost pass for a Soho gallery space. Removable red carpet covered the springy floor, and the sets of bleachers were folded inside doors that lined the white exterior walls. Tall, movable display walls—also white but footed in dark gray—had been added to create a maze of interconnected faux rooms for the children’s art.
She spotted Cam measuring a colorful abstract painting, consisting of various shapes, that was going to hang near the entrance to one of the largest area. Lifting her camera, she snapped a picture from afar. Maddie was in the foreground, laughing with friends, with Cam behind her working. Lydia walked closer with the stealth of a secret agent and leaned against the bleacher wall to get a different angle. His eyes flicked to her. Click.
Lydia studied his mouth through the lens as it tilted into a small smile. The urge to walk over to him and run her tongue along his bottom lip was much too strong. God, they were in a room full of kids. Her gaze traveled down to his ass—which filled out the faded jeans quite well.
With camera still raised, Lydia walked closer to Cam, the focal point directed right to those captivating eyes of his. “Did I miss something? When did I become your subject?” A hint of amusement simmered in his voice.
“Anyone involved with the show is a potential subject.”
Mara was off her rocker. Why in the world did she think their readers would give two craps about a father coping with his wife’s death? Especially when there would be an angle to feature up-and-coming and famous artists? There was also still the potential that Noah Blue could show up. If anything, writing a positive article about a celebrity’s involvement with charity might be a breath of fresh air for readers. It sure as hell would be for Lydia.
The rubber eye guard to the camera pressed her eyelashes flat against her face. That was the exact reason Lydia avoided eye makeup when on assignment. A tiny bit of eye shadow and liner maybe, but absolutely no mascara. She zoomed in, cropping as tight as she could on Cam’s profile. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, saturating the neckline of his white cotton shirt. Click. Zooming out, her eyes glued to his flexed muscles and tool belt loosely hanging off his slender hips. Desire clenched through her body.
She’d been so transfixed on Cam, she’d barely noticed the painting he was hanging. Its stunning use of color, shapes, and texture added dimensionality to the piece. Did it have the polished precision of a Chuck Close painting? Of course not… but there was something there.
“Maddie,” she called. The kid came running over with a posse of children trailing behind her. “Who made this one?”
“Troy did,” she answered, swiveling her head around the gym like an owl. “He’s over there.”
Lydia groaned. “Ah, Troy. Yes, I know him well.” He was sitting, legs crossed, about twenty feet from Cam. A whole damn school of kids and she had to be drawn to the piece by the one who thought she was the wicked witch. With a sigh, she crossed to the boy.
“Hey, Troy. Remember me? It’s nice to, er, see you again. How’s your knee?”
He crossed his arms and his eyes narrowed into a glare. He didn’t say anything, just sat there staring at her with a scowl hung low over his eyes. Oh, boy. This was going to be harder than she thought. Isn’t that always how it was with talented artists, though? They were always the high maintenance ones.
“Do you mind if I sit and join you for a moment?”
“It’s a free country. Do whatever you want.”
Well, he wasn’t exactly rolling out the welcome wagon, but at least he wasn’t throwing around insults. Small victories, right?
She lowered herself to the carpet and pulled her legs in yoga-style to match the way he sat. “So you did this painting, huh?”
“Yeah.” He looked down and zip-zopped the velcro on his sneakers. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard as he opened and closed them. Rip, rip. Rip, rip.
“This is a really amazing painting, Troy. Really beautiful.”
His neck jerked up, eyes brightening before they narrowed once more. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “I lo
ve the colors—they’re more muted than I would have expected from someone your age and with your—er—vibrant personality.” She surprised herself with the fact that nothing coming out of her mouth was a lie, or even an exaggeration. The colors were stunning—muted greens and maroons and browns, with the occasional pop of bright yellow. He either had help from an adult or he had a keen grasp of the color wheel at a young age. “What made you decide to incorporate wood?”
“I call it Swingset,” he said. “All one word. It’s really two words, did you know?”
“I didn’t.” Okay, she kind of did know that. Or would have, if she’d taken a moment to think about it. “I’ve always preferred pictures to words. I guess the photographer side of me wins out more than the writer side.”
A flicker of a smile curved on his lips. “Me, too.”
“Swingset is great name for a piece that has wood in it. What came first… the title or the painting?”
“Um, I guess the name? I call it that because I used pieces of my swing set that fell down last year during a storm.” His eyes drifted past her, remembering an old friend.
She nodded. “I can see a lot of passion in it. You must have really loved that swing set.”
He nodded. “My dad built it for me.”
“That’s so great. And now you get to keep a piece of it with you always. Did you come up with the idea on your own?”
He nodded again, and picked at a little bit of dried snot crusted onto the edges of his nose. Did his parents never bathe this child? “Yep. But Ms. Rivera is an artist who works a lot with wood and she had to show me how. There’s a special glue you have to use.”
“And will your dad be at the show Saturday? I’d love to get a photograph of the two of you together in front of your painting.”
“He said he’d come after my mom left. They can’t be together without a lawyer.”
Lydia’s heart lurched for the boy. “A lawyer?” That typically meant one thing.
“Troy’s parents are… taking a little break, isn’t that right, buddy?” She jumped at Cam’s voice behind her.
Capturing You (Maple Grove Romance Book 1) Page 9