Chloe came back into the office, lugging that impractical briefcase, and plunked into her chair. Without wasting any time, without opening her briefcase, she jiggled the mouse to wake up her computer screen and started to type. She hadn’t worn her hair pulled back since the first day, but now she paused long enough to twist the shoulder-length locks into a hasty bun, as if it were an annoyance.
It was an annoyance to Bret. It was distracting. The tumble of blond hair kept catching the corner of his eye, reminding him of the new presence in the office. Qualified or not, a pretty female shouldn’t have that effect on him. He had better concentration than that.
As for her qualifications . . .
He redirected his focus to his screen, which displayed Chloe’s latest news brief. She was, at least, a competent writer. There was one problem, and it was setting his teeth on edge a little more with each edit. He finished going over the article and closed it, biting his tongue once again.
But as he started on her next piece, a detailed list of weekly events, a sound escaped from him that bordered on a growl.
He’d been putting it off, but it wasn’t going to get better on its own. He had to deal with this. He didn’t give himself any more time to hesitate. He picked up his phone and hit the intercom button.
“Chloe. Can I see you in my office? Now?”
* * *
The summons hit Chloe like ice water down her spine. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound good. She saved the three lines she’d written so far and went to the editor’s office, remembering to grab a notepad and pen on her way.
Bret waited for her behind his desk, the wide expanse of oak between them making him look even more formidable. All business, despite the fact that he didn’t wear the traditional power suit. In fact, Chloe realized, he wore the same simple gray sport jacket he’d worn since the day she started—casual, but versatile, and above the curve for day-to-day business in Tall Pine.
He barely waited for her to settle into one of the little straight-backed chairs across from him. “We have a problem,” he said without preamble.
Her stomach, which hadn’t felt great all week, lurched. Don’t show fear. He can probably smell fear. Chloe sat tall in her chair. “Yes?”
“Your copy’s okay. Your punctuation’s decent. But if you’re serious about this, there’s something you need to work on.”
If you’re serious about this. She stiffened, if that was still possible. “What’s that?”
“Style.” He tapped his monitor, which faced away from her, so the gesture didn’t do much good. “On your calendar of events, you have ‘p.m.’ abbreviated three different ways. The accepted form is lower case, with a period after each letter. Those details may not seem important to you, but they are. Your AP style leaves a lot to be desired.”
She kept her steady posture, but her heart pounded. She didn’t have a bluff for this one. “What’s AP style?”
His features went utterly still.
“Associated Press,” he said slowly, as if speaking to someone who’d recently arrived from Minsk. “Remember? From Journalism 101?”
“I never took journalism.”
In the flood of silence that radiated from Bret, Chloe realized for the first time that McCrea had a clock on his desk, and that it ticked. Deafeningly. She didn’t move her eyes to look at it, though. For better or for worse, she held Bret’s disbelieving stare.
He spoke without inflection. “I’m sorry. What?”
“I never—”
“I heard what you said. I’m just trying to wrap my head around it. You have a degree in English, and you never studied journalism. What did you take?”
“Literature, composition, creative nonfiction—”
“Creative nonfiction.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, just above his glasses, his eyes closed.
“I knew I wanted to write.” Now that his eyes weren’t fixed on her, Chloe found her tongue and a bit of conviction. “I love words and I’m good with them. I just didn’t know what kind of writing I wanted to do.”
He opened his eyes. His stare remained expressionless. “I’ve got a reporter who doesn’t want to be a reporter.”
“Not then. But things change. Not everybody knows what they want to be when they’re in college.”
“I knew when I was ten.”
Bully for you. She kept that immature thought to herself. “That’s great,” she said instead. “For some of us it takes a little longer. I’ve been writing for the Gazette for over a year and a half—”
“And McCrea’s been cleaning up after you. But I don’t have that luxury. He had two seasoned full-time reporters, and you were turning in, what? A couple of stories a week?”
More like three or four in a month. “Something like that.”
“Well, you’re one-third of our writing staff now. It’s time to step up your game.” He opened a desk drawer, brought out a chunky, spiral-bound volume, and tossed it onto the desk in front of her with a thunk. “Here’s the AP Stylebook. That’s where you get your standardized forms of abbreviation, word use, you name it. Learn it. Love it.”
* * *
“Pie.” Chloe spoke as soon as Sherry reached the corner booth at the Pine ’n’ Dine. “I need a piece of Hal’s peanut butter chocolate pie. And coffee. Please.”
If she survived these next three months, she’d probably gain thirty pounds. At least the peanut butter had some protein in it.
“Okay.” Sherry made a show of jotting down the order on her pad, but she studied Chloe with brown eyes that missed nothing. “Tough morning?”
Chloe expelled all of her breath with a helpless shake of her head. She was out of words for the day already. And it wasn’t even eleven-thirty.
She’d brought along her briefcase with the notes from her interview inside. Half an hour ago, when she first returned to the office, her head had been buzzing with lines for her article. Now she couldn’t even muster the enthusiasm to look at her notes. She brought out the style guide instead. It must weigh about ten pounds.
“Hey, sweetie.” Kate appeared beside Sherry. “Simon Legree giving you a hard time again?”
“Don’t call him that.” Chloe cast a hasty glance around the diner, where early lunch patrons were starting to drift in. “I never called him that.”
“Ebenezer Scrooge, then.” At least Kate remembered her literary references from school.
Sherry skittered away with her order pad, only to be replaced by Tiffany. Didn’t anyone work the night shift anymore?
“Hi,” Tiffany said. “Is he giving you a bad time again?”
“Stop. Stop.” Chloe leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands pressed to her temples. She didn’t come here for sympathy. She came here for pie. Except she’d come to the place where everyone knew her. Because the pie was here. But they had pie at The Foggy Notion, too.
Okay, she wanted some pity, and she’d known where to get it. She couldn’t have it both ways. Venting had to take a backseat. She was practically drawing a crowd, and anyone within earshot might tell Bret she’d been in here griping about him.
She raised her head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, her voice low. “Not here. I don’t want everyone to—”
“What’s this?” Tiffany fingered the well-thumbed stylebook on the table.
“My homework. Did you know there’s a right way and a wrong way to abbreviate ‘p.m.’?”
“You’re kidding,” Tiffany said.
“Who cares?” Kate added.
Chloe found she did care. Even if Bret thought she didn’t. That phrase stung her again: If you’re serious about this . . .
Chloe pulled the book toward her and cracked it open. It was learn this stuff or run away screaming, and she couldn’t do that without finding another job. Coming back to the diner with her tail between her legs, she resolved, was not an option.
“Excuse me, ladies.” Sherry sandwiched her way between Tiffany and Kate to slide a plate of pie in front of C
hloe. “You guys had better get back to your stations before Hal kills you. Kate, turn around the ‘Please Wait To Be Seated’ sign. We’re starting to get the lunch crowd.”
When they left, Sherry turned Chloe’s coffee cup right side up and poured, remembering to leave plenty of room for cream.
“Thanks,” Chloe said. Sherry would know it wasn’t just for the coffee.
“No problem.” Now that the other girls were gone, Sherry stared at Chloe with naked curiosity, but offered no comment. Which was unusually restrained for Sherry. Then again, she’d worked at the Pine ’n’ Dine longer than any of them, so she probably realized the walls had ears.
“What’s that?” Sherry nodded toward the style guide.
Chloe stared at the table of contents and fingered the two inches of pages beneath it. “It might be my tombstone.”
Chapter 3
Chuck stood in the doorway of Bret’s temporary office, shrugging into his coat. “Need anything else before I go?”
Bret leaned back from McCrea’s desk. This was almost too rare to pass up. At five o’clock on Friday, Chuck usually took off fast enough to leave his chair spinning in a puff of smoke.
“Let’s see.” Bret squinted in thought. “I don’t suppose you’d care to help me get a head start on Sunday’s layout.”
“Seriously?” Chuck froze, car keys already in hand.
In all fairness, Bret had never known Chuck to say “no” when he was needed. But Chuck had two small girls to get home to, so he wasn’t one for staying late unless it was absolutely necessary.
“No, I’m not serious. Or crazy.”
“This place would burn down without me and you know it.”
Bret did know it. “Yes. Probably shortly after you left the building with the matches.” He gave Chuck a nod. “Have a good weekend.”
With that, Chuck was out the door, leaving Bret to the article on his monitor. Chloe’s third real story for the week, not counting all the press releases he’d given her to write up. She’d turned it in about half an hour ago. Looking back on the week, Bret realized Chuck had probably filed more stories than Bret and Chloe combined.
Bret ran his cursor over the text of the lighter-than-air piece about a local woman who’d turned her talent for metal lawn sculptures into a self-sufficient business. They’d been short on freelance photographers—Ned had stayed home this week with Debbie and their new baby boy—so Chloe had shot some decent-resolution photos using the camera on her phone. Bret’s mouth quirked upward. He’d never seen a lawn flamingo with a coffee can for a body before.
And the writing was . . . okay, it was more than just passable. What could have sounded like something out of a school paper was executed with nicely chosen quotes woven neatly through the story. And with only two AP style errors. He suspected she’d gone over every word until she felt it gleamed. That seemed likely, considering how long it had taken her to write it.
But he decided McCrea wasn’t so crazy after all.
Bret sent the piece over to the night editor’s in-box and got back to work on the article he’d started writing this morning.
A clattering sound down the hall from the newsroom told Bret that he and the night editor weren’t the only ones left in the building. He glanced at Chloe’s desk and saw her coat still draped over the back of her chair. No real surprise there; she’d stayed after office hours every night since she started here.
Bret rose, stepped outside his door, and listened. A distant whir of machinery came from the room that housed the photocopier. The whirring was cut off by another clattering noise.
The copy machine was an ancient, temperamental beast that jammed at the drop of a hat. He wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. Bret started down the hall to see if she needed help.
As he reached the door to the copy room, he heard a colorful four-letter word he wouldn’t have expected from his new reporter. One that definitely wasn’t printable.
* * *
Chloe pulled her hand out of the jaws of the copier, her fingers flying to her mouth. She tasted blood. And toner.
“What happened?” a now-familiar voice said behind her.
If she hadn’t had her fingers in her mouth, she probably would have sworn again.
She turned to face Bret, putting herself between her boss and the open door of the front of the copier. Belatedly she pulled her fingers from her mouth, cupping her wounded right hand in her left. It was still bleeding. Great.
“Hey. Let me see that.” He reached for her hand and she flinched, aware now that her hand was not only bleeding, but it hurt.
She pulled her hand back. “I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig. And swearing like a sailor. Let me see it.”
“I didn’t—”
“Hush.” He didn’t give her a chance to argue. He took her hand. Before she knew what was happening, he’d pulled a handkerchief from out of nowhere and wrapped it loosely around her fingers.
A handkerchief?
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s for the glasses. When they get smudged it drives me crazy.”
With deft fingers, he cradled her hand and dabbed at it with the handkerchief, trying to determine where she’d been cut. Chloe realized she hadn’t been this close to Bret since she poured him that refill for his coffee at the diner. She held still and tried not to breathe too loudly as she took in the fact that he was taller than he seemed, that his fingers were surprisingly gentle, and that she was now oozing red blood onto the clean white fabric of his handkerchief.
And the cut still throbbed. Chloe pulled in a deep breath and held it, trying to remember if she’d ever met anyone in real life who carried a handkerchief.
Biting her lip, she sneaked a look up at Bret, but his head was bent to assess the damage. It looked like she’d sliced her third finger on whatever piece of metal wouldn’t let go of the jammed paper.
“I wouldn’t have thought there was anything that sharp inside the copier,” he said.
“It felt like a corner,” she said. “I was pulling out the paper and I guess I yanked pretty hard. It was the third time the thing jammed and I was—frustrated.”
“It’s a prehistoric monster,” Bret agreed. “Corporate isn’t really into spending money on us here in the hills. Come on. Let’s get this cleaned up.”
He started down the hall, and since he still held her fingers wrapped in his handkerchief, she didn’t have much choice but to go along.
At the far end of the hall was a break room Chloe had visited a couple of times to heat up some ramen noodles. It boasted a vending machine, a microwave, a bunch of mostly empty cabinets, and a kitchen sink. Bret brought her to the sink and rinsed and soaped her cut with calm efficiency. Somehow, without ever releasing her hand, he replaced the handkerchief with a paper towel torn from the dispenser over the counter. She resumed bleeding, more slowly, onto the towel.
His eyes met hers over her wounded hand. Up close, his stare felt even more penetrating than usual. She wondered if he could see how nervous she was, or if he felt her hand tremble.
Her fingers still cupped in his, he said, “Have you had a tetanus shot?”
That brought a smile out of her. “Please. My mom’s a retired nurse. There’s no way I could dodge that bullet.”
“Really.” He reached up to the cabinet above their heads and unerringly, with one free hand, retrieved a little plastic first aid kit. “Where did she work?”
“Tall Pine Hospital.”
“Mm. What part?”
“Labor and delivery.”
Well, he was getting her mind off the cut, and somewhat off the fact that he’d been holding her hand for about five minutes. “Sounds like a pretty cheerful department, as hospitals go.”
“Usually. It gets pretty dramatic, though.”
He gave a faint chuckle. “Ned—the photographer with the new baby—told me his wife said, ‘Get this thing out of me.’ Ten min
utes later she was ecstatic.”
“I hear that’s how it usually goes.”
He managed to open the first aid kit one-handed. “Here, hold on to that for a minute.” He released her hand, and she held the paper towel around it. “Iodine or Neosporin?”
“Please. Neosporin. I’m not a masochist. You know, I can—”
But he already had her hand again. He spread the medication over her cut, then wound a strap of gauze around her finger. Not too loose and not too tight.
And then he returned her hand to her as if it were a book he’d borrowed, and put the first aid kit back into the cabinet.
“How’d you know where the first aid kit was?” Chloe asked.
“Because I put it there.” Another slight smile. “Former Boy Scout. Eagle Scout, actually. ‘Be prepared.’”
“Neither of my brothers did scouting.”
“The nerd gene probably doesn’t run as strong in your family.”
“No, I’m the sole carrier.”
Chloe cradled her bandaged hand, feeling it throb again. She bit her lip.
And they stood, face-to-face, in the fluorescent glare of the break room. For a minute or two, he hadn’t felt like her boss. He’d been downright human. But now that her moment in Bret’s urgent care ward was over, Chloe wasn’t sure how to close the transaction.
“Thanks,” she said finally. She took a step back. “This was really nice of you.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” He flicked another brief smile at her. “It’s not like I’m the kind of guy who kicks puppies, you know.”
Chloe felt her cheeks flush. “I didn’t say that.”
“I know. But just for the record, I love puppies. It’s kittens and babies I can’t stand.”
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