Moonlight Over Seattle

by Callie Endicott

  Nicole winced. “It was me, releasing my frustration. I didn’t know anyone else was around.”

  The concern faded from Harvard Guy’s face. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him at the moment.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing serious, but I’ve painted twice and can still see the original green.”

  “Oh.” He gazed at the wall. “That’s strange. A primer usually takes care of color bleed-through.”

  “Primer?”

  His eyes widened and Nicole got the impression he thought she was dense. “Yeah. It’s a special first coat used as a sealant.”

  “I’m using what the clerk at the store recommended.” She gestured to a stack of paint cans.

  Harvard Guy went over and picked up one of the cans and studied it. “Some paint has primer included, but not this one.”

  Nicole sighed. Maybe the clerk had assumed she already knew about primer. He had been busy, with a long line of customers.

  “I didn’t know—I’ve never tried this before.” Painting was hard work and the remaining green glow meant she had to start all over again. Maybe that was why her parents had always hired someone to do painting at their house, which had left her completely ignorant about the process.

  “Really?”

  What looked like condescension showed on Harvard Guy’s face, and the sense of familiarity increased.

  “The condo I used to own came freshly painted, so it never came up. Anyhow, it was nice of you to check that I was okay.”

  “Happy to help, or at least try to.”

  “Obviously I’m new here, but from what I’ve seen, that’s what this neighborhood is like,” Nicole said. “Lots of vintage architecture and friendly residents.” She’d met the elementary school teacher who lived next door, and he’d told her about a neighborhood barbecue coming up in a couple of months. A businesswoman two houses over had brought a casserole, and a nurse further down the street had delivered a bouquet of flowers from her own garden.

  “You like old homes?”

  She nodded. “The Arts and Crafts era is my favorite. This house only mimics the style, but it’s just as well. While I love American Craftsman architecture, I prefer modern kitchens and bathrooms.”

  Harvard Guy’s eyebrows rose and the sensation that she knew him hit her again. Maybe if he wasn’t backlighted by the sun coming through the door and windows, it would be easier to say for certain. The “have we ever met before” or “you seem really familiar” comment felt like a cliché... Just as she decided to ask anyway, he spoke again.

  “Some critics think Arts and Crafts architecture is passé.”

  Nicole narrowed her eyes; he hadn’t insulted her tastes, but was treading close to it. “I’m not bound by the opinions of other people,” she returned calmly.

  “Fair enough.” His cell phone rang. “Sorry, I’m expecting a family call.” He hurried outside.

  After releasing Toby from his leash so he was free to use his dog door into the fenced yard, Nicole grabbed her purse and an empty can of paint, then headed out herself. Harvard Guy was on the front walkway, talking urgently on his phone. It looked as if it might be a long conversation.

  She’d parked on the driveway and he looked at her as she walked to the car. She pointed at the paint can, figuring he’d realize she was going to the store.

  “Thanks,” she mouthed. He seemed distracted, but made a gesture of acknowledgment.

  When she glanced in the rearview mirror, Harvard Guy was still on his phone and the face above his beard was carved in tense, sharp lines. She realized she hadn’t even gotten his name. But if he lived in the area, she would probably run across him again.

  Nostalgia had played a big part in her decision to purchase the house. The Seattle-area neighborhood reminded her of the one where she’d grown up in Southern California—friendly for the most part, with everyone looking out for each other. Not that her family had been home much, particularly after her modeling career had really taken off.

  The thought led to remembering again how upset her mother and father had been that she’d quit modeling. You would have thought she was betraying them in some hideous, underhanded way. We handed you a fabulous career and you’re turning your back on it, her mother had wailed.

  Jeez, why couldn’t they just want grandchildren like other people? She supposed they were counting on her older sister for that. As a matter of fact, Emily was already pregnant and expecting her first baby.

  Patience, Nicole reminded herself. She didn’t have any reason to feel guilty and her parents were starting to come around, anyhow. They were even making recommendations for the agency, though mostly she’d thanked them and ignored their advice. They simply didn’t understand how she and her friends wanted to run Moonlight Ventures. Nicole just hoped she was doing it right. She had regular conference calls with her three partners, and they flew in to help out whenever possible—like Adam had the past few days—but implementation was mostly up to her. And that included working with a reporter over the next several weeks for some magazine articles.

  Her phone rang; it was Ashley Vanders, one of the agency’s longtime clients.

  “Hi, Ashley,” she said, pulling over to the side of the road. She could have talked while driving, but preferred to focus on what she was discussing. Still, she wasn’t concentrating as much as she would have liked, because Harvard Guy’s face kept intruding.

  Was it the strange sense of familiarity, or the tingle of awareness he’d evoked?

  * * *

  JORDAN MASTERS RETURNED to his condo. It was an ironic twist that he lived relatively close to Nicole’s new home. In fact, he commonly used the nearby fitness trail. The area was popular with new residents in the Seattle area. An old high school pal had moved there, even before Jordan had.

  If only he could have managed a more productive first encounter with Nicole. He’d driven over to make a casual contact, to get reacquainted...and lay the groundwork for the articles he was writing for PostModern magazine. He wasn’t sure how Nicole was going to react since Sydnie Winslow had arranged the interviews with Nicole before asking him to do them.

  Jordan cursed mentally.

  As editor in chief, Syd had turned PostModern into one of the trendiest publications on the market. They were old friends and she’d begged him to do the articles, saying it was ideal since he also lived in Seattle. She’d figured he would have an “in” with Nicole because they’d grown up on the same block in Southern California. Syd was wrong, but after everything they’d been through together in the early days of his career, he hadn’t tried too hard to get out of it.

  But that didn’t stop him from wishing he could forget the whole thing and head down to his boat. A sail on Lake Washington would be wonderful. Having the boat was a luxury, but his columns were syndicated in over twelve hundred publications around the world, so he could afford it. Other than traveling and his condo in Hawaii, it was his only serious indulgence.

  His notebook was full of subjects he wanted to write about. He commented on everything from food to politics, religion, relationships and animals. Nothing was out-of-bounds. He’d worked his way up through various newspapers and magazines to become a columnist, but he still felt fortunate to have reached the level where he had the freedom to write about what interested him.

  Jordan stared at his computer as if it was the source of his problems. He didn’t care if a supermodel dropped out of the fashion scene for a while. Nicole had done it before, whether as a ploy for more money or a publicity stunt, he didn’t know. Either way, he hadn’t paid attention—in fact, he wouldn’t have been aware of her absence or reappearance at all if his mother hadn’t gone on and on about how you couldn’t expect anything better from Paula George’s daughter.

  His mouth tightened.

  Too bad Mom hadn’t decided she
disliked the George family when he was a small kid, instead of later. Then he wouldn’t have gotten hog-tied into doing stuff for “precious” Nicole so often. Lord, everyone had been expected to pamper the little princess as if she was made of spun glass. When she was home, that is. Luckily she’d been gone half the time on modeling assignments.

  Still, the past was the past.

  Restless, Jordan dropped to the floor and did a dozen pushups, unable to stop thinking about Nicole now that his past was colliding with his present.

  After a lazy month in Fiji he was sporting a beard, and they hadn’t seen each other since they were teens, so it wasn’t any wonder she hadn’t recognized him. Syd had suggested he refrain from shaving and see how Nicole responded to a stranger in a casual encounter—would she be pleasant or off-putting? He’d been curious as well, which had kept him from introducing himself immediately, though he hadn’t planned to take it very far.

  His cell phone rang again and he pulled it out, hoping it was from his sister, Chelsea. She’d been in her boyfriend’s car when it got broadsided. Her injuries weren’t severe, but he was still concerned.

  The number on the display belonged to his editor. He answered, figuring he’d get off quickly if another call came in.

  “Hey, Syd,” he said in a dry tone. “What a surprise, you’re checking on my progress.”

  “Don’t be a paranoid drama queen.”

  Jordan chuckled. Syd was a beautiful woman who’d stormed her way to the top of the magazine publishing world. She was tough as nails and more than one man had mentioned being hot for her in one breath and wishing he “had her balls” with the next.

  “All right, but don’t try to micromanage me. It won’t work,” he advised. “What do you want?”

  “Have you seen Nicole George yet?”

  “Yes, briefly. She was screaming, so I rushed in to see if there was an emergency.”

  And practically got knocked on my ass by how gorgeous she is, he added silently. It didn’t make sense that he’d reacted to Nicole that way. She’d been a thorn in his side when they were kids, and he had rarely thought about her since, even when seeing her photo on various advertisements.

  “Screaming?” Syd repeated.

  Jordan shook himself. “At her living room wall. She didn’t know that primer is necessary to keep paint colors from coming through. What kind of person doesn’t know about using a primer?”

  “The kind you’re talking to right now,” Syd returned crisply. “Apparently my husband doesn’t know, either, which must be why we can’t get rid of the spectral purple in our bedroom. He’s on a DIY kick that’s driving me crazy. Listen, you promised to do this with an open mind, Jordan.”

  Clearly his diplomatic skills were rusty. “Of course I’ll be open-minded.”

  She snorted. “Maybe I should have listened when you told me you might not be the best choice, but having you in the area was too great an opportunity. Did Nicole recognize you?”

  “Uh, no. But even without the beard, it’s been almost fourteen years since the last time we met,” he said. “Until I shave, my own sisters could probably pass me on the street without realizing I’m their brother, and Nicole sure didn’t expect to see me at her front door.”

  “Okay. What did Ms. George say when you explained who you are beneath the Grizzly Adams impersonation?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself,” Jordan admitted. “I got a phone call and she hurried out, presumably to get more paint. I’ll shave before my appointment with her on Monday. It was great to let it go in Fiji, but not here.”

  “Actually, I think it’s an improvement. Sexy, in a beach bum sort of way. Be sure to have fun with your childhood pal.”

  “Hardly a pal,” Jordan growled. “And, by the way, don’t keep calling me. It messes with my tempo.” “You don’t have a tempo. Sometimes I’m not even sure you have a pulse. But don’t worry, I’ve got better things to do than yank your chain.”

  Typically, Syd hung up without a goodbye.

  Jordan picked up his laptop and tried to focus on his writing. But his mind kept returning to the rush of attraction he’d felt when seeing Nicole that afternoon... something he was determined to ignore.

  * * *

  NICOLE’S CONVERSATION WITH Ashley Vanders finally ended. Ashley always wanted to talk longer, but Nicole was trying to wean the young woman from needing to be coddled by the agency. That had been how Kevin McClaskey had treated his clients when he’d owned Moonlight Ventures.

  Rachel had warned them about Kevin’s management style before they bought the agency. She’d loved him and his wife dearly, but had wondered if their constant handholding kept her from being as independent as she should have been.

  With a sigh, Nicole started her car again and drove on, reminding herself that every job had its drawbacks. And while Ashley was a challenge, she’d just gotten a contract as the “face” of a huge car dealership chain. It was a three-year deal and maybe she wouldn’t want as much attention once she settled down and started seeing herself on TV.

  For her first two months in Seattle Nicole had worked closely with Kevin McClaskey, and he still came around a lot. It was okay. His old clients missed him and he had volumes of knowledge about the talent business. She sometimes wondered if he regretted selling, but suspected his visits to the agency and other tenants in the building were primarily because he needed company with his wife gone.

  Nicole turned into the hardware store parking lot. There was a woman at the paint counter with “Jo Beth” on her name tag. “Can I help you?” she asked, gazing at Nicole attentively.

  “I’m told primer is an excellent idea when you’re covering bold colors,” Nicole said. “I suppose I didn’t ask the right questions when I was here before.” She held up the paint can. “I also need more of this to go over the primer.”

  The clerk efficiently put together what was needed, gave her a discount and loaded everything into Nicole’s trunk.

  “Ask for me whenever you come in.” Jo Beth handed her a business card.

  Nicole drove home and trotted the cans of paint and primer into the living room. She looked at Toby who’d dashed in to see her. “Okay,” she announced, “we’re trying this again.”

  The beagle seemed to whine a protest.

  She reached down and petted the dog. “I know, buddy, you’re bored watching me paint. Maybe we could work in the garden for a while instead.”

  Toby loved the backyard, but preferred having her out there with him. Perhaps it was from being a rescue dog—the trauma of having been abandoned on the Seattle docks must linger.

  Grabbing a shovel, she went out to where a fence divided the yard. Before moving in she’d had the deck installed and the front section landscaped, leaving space for fruit trees and a vegetable plot in the undeveloped area at the end of the double lot. She’d discovered that digging was therapeutic.

  Her original plan had been to buy a loft in downtown Seattle. In the interim she’d sold her condo down south, furniture included, and rented a studio while she searched for something permanent. But after deciding to adopt a dog she’d known having a yard would be best, and the whole thing had escalated. As soon as she’d walked into this place, it had felt like home.

  Toby lay nearby, drowsing in the sunshine. Nicole figured he liked the outdoors so much because of having been cooped up for months waiting for adoption. He was a sweet animal, barely out of the puppy stage, and loved being able to go in and out through the doggy door whenever he wanted to sniff around the huge fenced yard, or needed to do his business.

  The purchase of the talent agency had gone as smoothly as her house purchase. With four of them sharing the investment, no one would be in trouble, financially at least, if Moonlight Ventures fell apart. But they were anxious to make it a success for other reasons, which was why she’d agreed to work with a report
er from PostModern magazine. They all respected the publication, and the editor had told her the articles would be an unbiased look at how a supermodel was transitioning into a serious businesswoman.

  Nicole sighed. She didn’t want to be the story, and she was no crazier about reporters now than she’d ever been, but the publicity would be good for the agency.

  * * *

  AFTER AN HOUR of yard work, Nicole went back inside, Toby at her heels, and contemplated the living room.

  She wasn’t ready to start painting again.

  “Want to go for a run?” she asked Toby encouragingly.

  He’d promptly curled up on the floor for another nap. At the sound of her voice he opened his eyes briefly, then closed them again. So far running wasn’t his thing; he needed time to build his stamina after living in a kennel. A brisk walk was okay—brisk for his short legs, that is—but right now she needed to stretch her muscles in a way that working in the yard hadn’t accomplished.

  After rubbing Toby’s soft ears she donned her running clothes and headed for the park. Then she saw Harvard Guy again. She instantly turned onto a side path.

  Strange how familiar he seemed. There was something about his eyes that reminded her of...

  Holy Cow.

  Nicole stumbled and righted herself before she went down. Harvard Guy was Jordie Masters.

  Jordan, she reminded herself. As a bratty neighborhood kid he’d been known as Jordie, then in high school he’d insisted on being called Jordan. Now he was a popular newspaper columnist. He’d changed a lot. She’d had no idea he lived in the Seattle area and knew there wasn’t any way he could have been at her house by accident. Nicole got a sinking feeling that he was the reporter doing the articles for PostModern.

  Though she’d avoided Jordan whenever possible as a kid, she had a few vivid memories, such as when she was seven and wanted to learn how to skate. She’d put on her sister’s roller blades and started down the block, doing pretty well until Jordie had run into her. Nicole had always suspected it was deliberate. At the very least, he’d thought it was hilarious.