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Authors: Cassie Wright
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to talk to him. A quick check reveals that I've missed hundreds of important tweets while climbing to the cairn. The world keeps ticking, and I feel like I've fallen off the map. My finger's no longer on the pulse, and it feels weird, almost disorienting. I've also got direct messages and emails from Mercia. I read a couple, and put off writing her back.
I still don't know what I'm going to do.
I flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. To write or not to write, that is the question. I know now that Alexander fled his father and the cairn, and maybe even his nature, when he left Honeycomb Falls. I'm starting to get a sense of why he decided to run for mayor, why he might dedicate himself to public service. The story is right there. Dramatic. Scandalous. A big reveal. The scoop of my career. And yet... I can't bring myself to write it. Can't bring myself to shatter the man who stands at its center, delicious and handsome and mysterious: Alexander Adams.
Finally I sigh and sit back up. Lying around mooning about the man won't change anything. Before I can lose my nerve, I dial his number, and then bite my lower lip. He won't answer. It's going to go to voicemail. He's a super important, busy guy. He's probably flirting with twelve gorgeous -
"Ms. Cole?"
How did I forget about the effect his voice has on me? Low and rumbly, a kind of growly hotness that sends a flush from the nape of my neck down to the area between my legs. Oh, my.
"Mr. Adams." I swallow as I try for a stern voice. "We have to talk."
"I know." He sounds strangely calm.
"You know?" I blink. That I didn't expect.
"Yes, Helen said it might be best."
"Helen? From the Gypsy Cafe?" My voice is getting higher and higher with each question.
He laughs quietly. "The same."
"But... Did she call you?"
"No. I stopped in for coffee."
I can tell he's enjoying this. My mind is like a car that's trapped in a parallel parking spot. It keeps reversing and going forward, but going nowhere. "You're here? In Honeycomb Falls?"
"First time in almost two decades." I can vaguely hear wind over the phone line. "Hasn't changed a bit."
"But. But." This isn't fair. Why can't I ever sound smooth and sophisticated? "I thought you never wanted to come back here. That this was, like, the black hole of your life, the one thing you refused to even think about?"
"It is. It was. But then along came a certain Ms. Cole, looking ravishing and innocent but with claws of her own. I knew you'd come here. I knew you'd start asking questions. And that simply saying no to you wouldn't be enough. We have to talk. So I drove over this morning. Eric - my aide - has put my schedule on hold. Until I've... dealt with you."
"Dealt with me?" I cross my legs and squeeze. "That sounds almost like a threat."
"Oh, no." How can his voice sound so intimate, when all we've done is shared a bottle of wine? "It's not a threat. It's a promise. Before the day is through, we're going to have reached an understanding."
"Oh," I say. "Well." My mind is blank. I feel like just smiling and trying to imagine what that might involve.
"Meet me at the Wise Salmon. They have a nice wine bar. We'll talk there."
"Wise Salmon. Check. OK. I'll be there in half an hour."
"Good. I'll see you soon, Ms. Cole." And then he hangs up.
Oh, my. I fan my face. He's going to deal with me. We're going to reach an understanding. I have so many questions to ask him, but I realize that right now, at this very instant, there's only one thing that truly matters: what am I going to wear?
Half an hour later I'm all tricked out in one of Rachel's outfits. That girl has got style, and thank god she checked in on me as I was about to head out in a dirty shirt and tomorrow's pair of jeans. One decisive emergency intervention later and here I am, wearing a form-fitting purple top with a subtle metallic tint and black paisley patterns worked over it, my arms bare, and black pants that hug my hips and ass yet feel comfortable and
I still don't know what I'm going to do.
I flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. To write or not to write, that is the question. I know now that Alexander fled his father and the cairn, and maybe even his nature, when he left Honeycomb Falls. I'm starting to get a sense of why he decided to run for mayor, why he might dedicate himself to public service. The story is right there. Dramatic. Scandalous. A big reveal. The scoop of my career. And yet... I can't bring myself to write it. Can't bring myself to shatter the man who stands at its center, delicious and handsome and mysterious: Alexander Adams.
Finally I sigh and sit back up. Lying around mooning about the man won't change anything. Before I can lose my nerve, I dial his number, and then bite my lower lip. He won't answer. It's going to go to voicemail. He's a super important, busy guy. He's probably flirting with twelve gorgeous -
"Ms. Cole?"
How did I forget about the effect his voice has on me? Low and rumbly, a kind of growly hotness that sends a flush from the nape of my neck down to the area between my legs. Oh, my.
"Mr. Adams." I swallow as I try for a stern voice. "We have to talk."
"I know." He sounds strangely calm.
"You know?" I blink. That I didn't expect.
"Yes, Helen said it might be best."
"Helen? From the Gypsy Cafe?" My voice is getting higher and higher with each question.
He laughs quietly. "The same."
"But... Did she call you?"
"No. I stopped in for coffee."
I can tell he's enjoying this. My mind is like a car that's trapped in a parallel parking spot. It keeps reversing and going forward, but going nowhere. "You're here? In Honeycomb Falls?"
"First time in almost two decades." I can vaguely hear wind over the phone line. "Hasn't changed a bit."
"But. But." This isn't fair. Why can't I ever sound smooth and sophisticated? "I thought you never wanted to come back here. That this was, like, the black hole of your life, the one thing you refused to even think about?"
"It is. It was. But then along came a certain Ms. Cole, looking ravishing and innocent but with claws of her own. I knew you'd come here. I knew you'd start asking questions. And that simply saying no to you wouldn't be enough. We have to talk. So I drove over this morning. Eric - my aide - has put my schedule on hold. Until I've... dealt with you."
"Dealt with me?" I cross my legs and squeeze. "That sounds almost like a threat."
"Oh, no." How can his voice sound so intimate, when all we've done is shared a bottle of wine? "It's not a threat. It's a promise. Before the day is through, we're going to have reached an understanding."
"Oh," I say. "Well." My mind is blank. I feel like just smiling and trying to imagine what that might involve.
"Meet me at the Wise Salmon. They have a nice wine bar. We'll talk there."
"Wise Salmon. Check. OK. I'll be there in half an hour."
"Good. I'll see you soon, Ms. Cole." And then he hangs up.
Oh, my. I fan my face. He's going to deal with me. We're going to reach an understanding. I have so many questions to ask him, but I realize that right now, at this very instant, there's only one thing that truly matters: what am I going to wear?
Half an hour later I'm all tricked out in one of Rachel's outfits. That girl has got style, and thank god she checked in on me as I was about to head out in a dirty shirt and tomorrow's pair of jeans. One decisive emergency intervention later and here I am, wearing a form-fitting purple top with a subtle metallic tint and black paisley patterns worked over it, my arms bare, and black pants that hug my hips and ass yet feel comfortable and
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