by Nancy Warren
“Are your shoes okay for this?” he asked, looking down.
“Perfect.” She stuck one of her sensible leather flat-soled shoes up in the air for his perusal.
“I thought you might be wearing heels or something,” he said, a ghost of a laugh in his voice.
“No.” She felt like laughing herself. “I’d only fall flat on my face. My aunts were always telling horror stories about their friends with crooked spines and sprained ankles from wearing high heels.” She shrugged. “I tried them a few times but I felt like an idiot.”
“I like flat shoes on women. It’s nice to walk at a normal pace,” he said.
In fact, they were striding along. Harriet hated dawdling walks and it was clear Steve did, too. If she was going to walk, she liked to walk, arms swinging, legs eating up the ground. The gravel crunched underfoot, the river lapped in quiet accompaniment and the evening air was fresh and cool in her nostrils.
Her hand accidentally bumped Steve’s and, without saying a word or making any kind of fuss, he simply held on to it. It was nice walking along holding hands with him. Once more she felt the connection, the warmth flowing between them.
She wondered with a leaping hope whether he’d kiss her, then clucked her tongue in annoyance. Steve Ackerman was a hunk, a chick magnet, a ten out of ten on Harriet’s scale of male attributes. Well, if it was true he was kind of thick upstairs, she might have to knock him down to a nine. She glanced at his profile, strong and perfect in the starlight. Call it nine and a half, she decided. And no one had proven to her satisfaction that he was a dummy, anyway.
She wondered how she could find out. Not that it really mattered. The chances that he’d be interested in her romantically were about the same as him kissing her tonight. Still, out of academic interest she’d like to know something of his mental capacity.
She could ask her aunt Lavinia, who’d most likely taught him, but her aunt had a policy of not discussing her students’ academic records at home. She felt they were entitled to their privacy. Harriet admired her integrity, but it was annoying never to be able to pump her for info.
She’d simply ask Steve herself, that’s all. Since they’d been walking in silence for a few minutes, now seemed like the perfect time.
“Did you enjoy school?” she asked.
He glanced at her oddly, and she realized this wasn’t exactly after-dinner date conversation. Except it hadn’t been a real date, of course, so she ought to be able to talk about anything she wanted to.
He shrugged. “I guess.”
That was a point in his favor. If he liked school, he was probably good at it.
“What was your favorite subject?” she asked.
“Phys ed.”
Well, duh. “How about academically?”
He shuffled a bit on the gravel path almost as though he was in danger of falling into the river and her hand tightened automatically in his. “I was more interested in sports than anything else.”
“Oh.” She was disappointed, but it looked as if he was stuck with a 9.5. Close enough to perfect. So, they wouldn’t discuss symbolism in the Brontës’ novels and poetry, or discuss calculus. It didn’t mean he was less attractive, or less fun to be around.
“How about you?” he was asking. “Did you like academics?”
“Oh, yes. Very much.” She’d topped the honor roll two years in a row and won a few chess championships. Still, it hadn’t made her popular, only more geeky.
“You don’t sound all that happy about it.”
“Well, the truth is, being smart just made me seem more of a freak, I guess. I was that geeky smart girl with carroty hair.”
He turned to her, and, dropping her hand, cupped her chin. “You should be proud of yourself for getting good grades and not caring what the other kids thought,” he said firmly. “That takes guts.”
Something about the way his eyes stared down into hers so intensely made her stomach feel more nervous than she’d felt before her audition today. She swallowed, wishing she were glamorous and sophisticated and knew how to wear the right clothes and style her hair. Wishing she were the kind of girl…
Steve lowered his head slowly and kissed her.
Her eyes opened wide as she took in the amazing fact of his lips, warm and sure against hers. Then they drifted shut as she kissed him back.
The warm connection she’d felt when they’d held hands was nothing compared to this. His lips teased and soothed her at the same time, making her feel both desired and cherished. She sighed into the kiss and leaned into him, wondering which fairy godmother was responsible for this part of her fantasy coming true.
His arms wrapped around her and she found her own circling his waist. As he pulled her body against his, she felt the firm muscularity of his chest, his hands tracing patterns on her back.
She couldn’t seem to get close enough to him. She moved deeper into the embrace, feeling that warm connection everywhere they touched.
He tasted of red wine and a hint of garlic, which only reminded her of how much fun they’d had at dinner and how much they had in common. To heck with his brain. His kissing ability alone shot him back up to ten out of ten on her personal scale.
Her own hands traveled up his back and she loved the sculpted feel of his muscles beneath his skin. He wasn’t bulky; you’d look at him in his day-to-day clothes and see a normal-size man. But being this close, she felt his athleticism and loved it.
“Excuse me,” mumbled a man’s voice. She and Steve broke apart guiltily, letting an older gentleman and his ancient spaniel squeeze around them on the narrow path.
Steve took her hand and they walked a few more steps before he moaned. “Oh, no!”
“What?” she asked alarmed. Was it her kissing? Was she so hopeless he was moaning?
“That kiss,” he said.
Oh, Lord. It was her kissing. She felt the blood rush to her face as embarrassment swamped her.
“I’ve ruined everything,” he muttered, sounding annoyed.
“No, you haven’t,” she retorted swiftly, rigid with mortification. “We’ll pretend it never happened.”
“Really?” He sounded so relieved she wanted to kick him or to push him into the river. “I’d really appreciate it.”
The jerk. She tried to tug her hand out of his, but he held on tight.
“I’d forgotten about your aunts,” he said.
“My aunts?” After insulting her kissing technique, he’d moved on to a critique of her family? “What have my aunts got to do with it?”
“Well, you told me they wouldn’t want you to go out a second time with a man who kissed you on the first date. Remember? That’s why I had to give you the hickey. If they find out I kissed you on our first date, it will be all over for me.”
Where embarrassment had barely receded, a new blush suffused her cheeks, this one caused by pleasure so acute she wanted to jump up and whoop for joy. All the time she’d been telling herself this was about work, he’d been on a date. With her. She couldn’t imagine a day could get any better than this one. And if he was talking about a second date, it meant…
“I won’t tell them about this,” she promised happily.
“I’d really appreciate that, Harriet. I want to see you again.”
“You mean, like a date?”
“Definitely ‘like a date.’” He was laughing at her, she knew, but in a good way. It made her want to laugh along with him and at her old-fashioned lifestyle and her old-fashioned aunts.
He gazed at her in a way that had her licking her lips in anticipation. “And I’d better get you home right away, or there will be two things you can’t tell your aunts.”
8
HARRIET AWOKE the next day feeling as though she must still be dreaming. Had she really won the coveted cheerleading spot?
She hugged her pillow to her as she let it all sink in. Yes, she was fully awake and she’d not only won the cheerleading competition, but she’d had dinner with a man she’d wors
hiped from afar for almost a decade. She giggled to herself when she recalled his wonderful kiss and the promise that he wanted to do it again. That he wanted to see her again.
Aunts Lavinia and Elspeth’s proud delight when she’d told them the news last night had capped off her perfect day.
In no hurry to jump out of bed, she reached for her bedside table and picked up the sheaf of papers she’d been given the day before. There was her contract, which required her to be present for all the Braves’ home games. They sent a smaller squad on the road, and tried to work around the women’s work schedules. No trouble with either of those provisions, Harriet thought with glee.
She’d also be asked to take part in certain local charity events. She liked the idea of that, too, and hoped she’d be an inspiration for other young girls like her who might not be Miss Americas, who loved athletics more than the latest fashions.
She had her first practice tomorrow and had made an appointment for costume fittings first thing in the morning.
Yes. She’d be custom-fitted for one of those sparkly blue costumes she’d dreamed of for so long.
She’d also be responsible for her own makeup and hair.
Her happy glow dimmed in an instant. Do her own hair and makeup? The rest of the squad would find out she was a fraud, a geek in cool girl’s clothing. A nerd, a loser, a…
She jumped out of bed and started to pace. She’d never thought about the consequences when she’d let Tess and Caro and Rose make her over into a glamorous woman. She hadn’t watched every move Rose made or memorized what was in the forty-seven products she’d used or the seemingly endless number of brushes and pencils it had taken to effect her transformation.
And that was just her face. The hair was a whole other matter. It had involved hot rollers that burned her fingers just by looking at them, more than one brush, a spray for this, a tube of that.
“Don’t panic,” she said out loud. The Braves didn’t choose her for her hair and makeup, they were simply part of the package. She’d have to learn how to do herself up, that’s all. Had she really expected makeup artists and her own hairdresser?
In truth, she hadn’t thought that far ahead. She’d focused on giving the best audition she could, not on the specifics of being a cheerleader.
While she worked through her morning stretching and ballet routine, she continued to worry about hair and makeup, two subjects she’d barely thought about in her whole life. She had almost a week until her first practice so she’d have to learn how to beautify herself on her own by then.
She could phone Rose Elliot and ask for a lesson, but Harriet was too shy to approach a virtual stranger.
Tess wasn’t exactly a close friend, but they had a good working relationship and she’d pulled Operation Rescue Harriet together yesterday, and done it brilliantly. She’d ask Tess for guidance when she saw her at work. Perfect.
ONCE IN THE OFFICE, she started right away on her article for Steve. She pulled out the wrinkled page he’d ripped from his notebook and given her the night before. It contained the names and phone numbers of half a dozen women. He’d scrawled little notes beside some of the numbers. Made it to semis beside one. Terrible dancer, nice personality beside another. One pom-pom short of a pair beside a third. Harriet chuckled and decided to leave that one for last.
She smoothed out the wrinkled page, taking a moment to gaze at Steve’s handwriting. It was a cramped scrawl, not a bit elegant, but still she loved looking at the words he’d made, touching the paper he’d touched…
Gasping in annoyance at what Aunt Lavinia would term featherheaded pining, Harriet picked up the phone and started calling.
Amazingly, she was able to talk to all six of the young women who’d given Steve their phone numbers yesterday. After she got off the phone with the last finalist, she had to admit she agreed with his scrawled comment next to the girl’s name. She was one pom-pom short. Still, Harriet had managed to get some gushing praise for cheerleaders in general after some careful prodding, so it wasn’t a completely lost cause.
Harriet gathered her notes, turned to her computer and started typing. She kept an eye on the clock on her screen, knowing she had to get the story written in plenty of time for Steve to read and edit it before deadline. Plus, she still had some of her own copy-editing to do. She could pretty much write off lunch.
STEVE WONDERED how long it would take Harriet to finish her article.
He jumped up. Maybe he should help her. Poor kid was probably flustered and nervous working on her first byline piece. Would she blush in that adorable way she had when she saw him? Would her dimples peep out?
Get a grip! he snarled to himself. Harriet could manage the article fine without his help, and he could manage to get through another hour without seeing her.
He pulled up a story from a stringer about some high school baseball meet and forced himself to concentrate on giving it a read. But somehow he kept seeing Harriet as she’d been yesterday, so full of life and on top of the world and so amazingly responsive to his kiss.
She was obviously very traditional and in some ways he thought she was much younger than her years. Dating Harriet would be like entering a time warp, he felt sure. There were the aunts to worry about, the social niceties. Did Harriet have a curfew? He grinned. It had been years since he’d had to worry about getting a girl home on time.
Amazingly, he didn’t think he’d mind at all. There was something about Harriet that brought out the old-fashioned values in a person. He knew already that he’d pretty much let her set the pace for their relationship. It would be a novel experience.
He was ashamed of how little work he’d accomplished when a tentative tapping on his open door had him glancing up to find Harriet standing there. Definitely everyday Harriet, not cheerleader Harriet.
And she was blushing as adorably as he’d imagined she would.
He couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied, and there were her dimples peeping out from her flushed cheeks. “I’ve finished the article.”
He watched her mouth form the words and remembered how soft her lips were to kiss and how they’d trembled when he took her in his arms. “Article?”
Her dimples deepened. “I wrote the article about the cheerleaders that you asked for.”
“Oh.” He pulled himself together with an effort. “Right. Come on in and let’s take a look.”
“Okay.” She seemed jumpy and he remembered the first time he’d written an article that had ended up in print. He’d been nervous, too.
She passed over a printout and he gestured her to a chair while he grabbed a pencil and began to read out loud.
“‘It takes years of hard work, training and physical conditioning, but for a few lucky young women, it all pays off when they are chosen to be Pasqualie Bravehearts.’”
He nodded. “Pretty good for a feature lead,” he said, and read on.
“‘I cried, I was so happy,’ admits Cecily Briscoe, a nineteen-year-old dental receptionist who dances six hours a week at the Lillian Bail Academy of Dance and was chosen as an intern—a cheerleader who will train with the regular troupe, fill in when a regular is sick and take part in charity events. If all goes well, she’ll be a full-fledged cheerleader herself next year.”
He stopped reading and glanced up, “‘If all goes well?’ What does that mean?” He circled the phrase with his pencil.
“Oh, um, Cecily said they told her—”
“What were her exact words?”
Harriet fumbled open her notebook and flipped pages until she found what she was looking for. “‘The cheerleader director said if I work hard and give a hundred-and-one percent, I’ll be a regular on the troupe next year.’”
He nodded. “That’s better. Use the quote. Try to stay away from vague language.”
He glanced up to see how she’d taken his suggestion and was pleased to see her nodding, a furrow of earnest concentration creasing her fo
rehead. She could take criticism without getting riled. Always a good sign for a budding reporter.
He finished the article, impressed at how good it was for a novice effort, and smiled at her anxious face. “Great job. I also want you to do a bigger piece. Something more personal.”
“More personal?”
“I want a first-person account of your own experiences of struggling all those years to get where you are now. Your dream to be a Pasqualie High cheerleader and how you became one for the Braves.”
Her face clouded even further. Those dimples had completely retreated, he noted. “I thought you wanted me to interview the candidates at the cheerleading trials and write about my experience as part of the team, not type up my teenage diary.” She mimicked holding a book and writing in it. “Dear Diary. Got another zit today. Didn’t make the cheerleading squad. Will boys ever know I exist?”
He chuckled. “You don’t have to go into that much detail, but this story isn’t about the other candidates anymore. It’s about you.”
He rose and came around the desk, squatting in front of her so he could look right into her eyes. “I want to know all about how you started, what it felt like when you didn’t get picked on the high school squad, all the years of ballet and dance going to waste, how it felt to watch the less talented girls get their chance in the sun.”
“You want my life story?”
“I’m looking for—”
“You’re looking for I Was A Total Loser In High School. That’s what you’re looking for.” She rose in one jerky motion, uncharacteristically graceless.
“What the…” He scratched his head. This didn’t seem to be going quite the way he’d intended it.
She marched toward the door then turned to him. “You told me this article was about going behind the scenes as a Braveheart. What it’s like to be one, what the other women are like, the tension, all that stuff. Now you’re turning it into an analysis of what a miserable loser I was in high school.”
“But, that’s the power of the story. Look how far you’ve come. That girl who was overweight and overlooked in high school—”