room.”
“Pewter,” Bert murmured.
“Pardon?”
“You keep calling it gray.” He clucked his tongue. “The color is pewter.”
Bunny bit her lip then forced a smile. “Sorry.”
“Well,” Bert stood, pacing the length of the room and back, “I can’t come up with a thing either.”
“We need to create energy.”
He pivoted on one heel, shooting a disbelieving frown in her direction.
Bunny straightened. “We need something to ease our focus on the problem. Something to free our creative juices.”
Bert sank into a chair and rubbed his chin. “Do you still have the batteries for the hamster?”
Bunny felt her tension ease. “No. I thought it best to dispose of the evidence.”
He shook his head. “Pity. That was a diversion of epic proportion.” His brow furrowed. “Refresh my memory. What other tricks did you have in that box of yours?”
Bunny thought for a moment then grinned. “How do you feel about basketball?”
A slow smile spread across Bert’s face. “I was once feared for my bank shot.”
Bunny straightened. “I’ll be right back.”
A few moments later, she reentered the conference room. She pulled a trash can from behind the credenza and snapped the plastic hoop onto its rim.
“What do we do now?” Bert looked at her expectantly.
“We brainstorm.” Bunny slipped into her seat, giving a quick shrug.
“I know that, but how does the basketball hoop help?”
“Distraction.” She grinned.
“Distraction?”
“Here.” She ripped off a sheet of notebook paper and slid it across the table to Bert. “Crumple it up and shoot.”
She watched as Bert’s pale brow arched. She warmed in response. In the little time she’d known this man, she’d had a glimpse into the real Bert Parks. The softie.
Bert made a dramatic display of crumpling the paper. “Do I shoot standing or sitting?”
“Up to you.” She waved one hand. “Be creative with it.”
“Okay.” Bert nodded. He twisted to shoot the wad of paper from behind his back. It nipped the edge of the rim and bounced to the carpet.
“Try again.” Bunny scrambled to retrieve the paper. She tossed it back to Bert. “This time, throw out a slogan.”
Bert squinted, carefully aiming his shot. “The Cup for All Canines,” he called out. His shot caught the lip of the rim and fell into the basket. He let out a whoop and grinned.
“Nice shot. Lousy tag line,” Bunny teased.
Bert extended his hands, wiggling his fingers. “Give me another one.” Bunny slid a second piece of paper across the table. Bert crumbled the sheet and aimed. “Your turn.”
“This is not your father’s dog show,” Bunny blurted out.
Bert let the shot fly. The paper hit the floor more than a foot from the basket.
“That was sad,” he said.
“So was your shot.”
“You think it’s so easy?” Bert asked. “You try.”
Bunny crumpled a sheet and took aim. The shot fell perfectly into the hoop.
“You’ve practiced.”
She shrugged. “True.”
“What’s your slogan idea?”
“Dog shows. They’re not just for poodles anymore.”
Bert snorted and the pair laughed until tears filled their eyes.
They continued to brainstorm until a list of twenty slogans sat scribbled across their notes. They had settled on a revolutionary idea when Nate’s deep voice sounded outside the door.
“Damn,” Bert whispered.
The doorknob rattled. Bunny dove for the trash can and hoop, sweeping both beneath the conference table. She dropped into her seat just as Nate entered the room.
“What have we here?” he asked suspiciously.
“Brainstorming,” Bert answered.
Nate turned his dark brown gaze in Bunny’s direction. Anxiety flickered in her chest. As attractive as this man was, he was still the ticket to her job security. And that job security was the ticket to keeping a roof over her head.
Nate frowned. “Sounded like laughter.”
A dimple winked from his cheek and Bunny’s anxiety morphed into butterflies. Between the
“Pewter,” Bert murmured.
“Pardon?”
“You keep calling it gray.” He clucked his tongue. “The color is pewter.”
Bunny bit her lip then forced a smile. “Sorry.”
“Well,” Bert stood, pacing the length of the room and back, “I can’t come up with a thing either.”
“We need to create energy.”
He pivoted on one heel, shooting a disbelieving frown in her direction.
Bunny straightened. “We need something to ease our focus on the problem. Something to free our creative juices.”
Bert sank into a chair and rubbed his chin. “Do you still have the batteries for the hamster?”
Bunny felt her tension ease. “No. I thought it best to dispose of the evidence.”
He shook his head. “Pity. That was a diversion of epic proportion.” His brow furrowed. “Refresh my memory. What other tricks did you have in that box of yours?”
Bunny thought for a moment then grinned. “How do you feel about basketball?”
A slow smile spread across Bert’s face. “I was once feared for my bank shot.”
Bunny straightened. “I’ll be right back.”
A few moments later, she reentered the conference room. She pulled a trash can from behind the credenza and snapped the plastic hoop onto its rim.
“What do we do now?” Bert looked at her expectantly.
“We brainstorm.” Bunny slipped into her seat, giving a quick shrug.
“I know that, but how does the basketball hoop help?”
“Distraction.” She grinned.
“Distraction?”
“Here.” She ripped off a sheet of notebook paper and slid it across the table to Bert. “Crumple it up and shoot.”
She watched as Bert’s pale brow arched. She warmed in response. In the little time she’d known this man, she’d had a glimpse into the real Bert Parks. The softie.
Bert made a dramatic display of crumpling the paper. “Do I shoot standing or sitting?”
“Up to you.” She waved one hand. “Be creative with it.”
“Okay.” Bert nodded. He twisted to shoot the wad of paper from behind his back. It nipped the edge of the rim and bounced to the carpet.
“Try again.” Bunny scrambled to retrieve the paper. She tossed it back to Bert. “This time, throw out a slogan.”
Bert squinted, carefully aiming his shot. “The Cup for All Canines,” he called out. His shot caught the lip of the rim and fell into the basket. He let out a whoop and grinned.
“Nice shot. Lousy tag line,” Bunny teased.
Bert extended his hands, wiggling his fingers. “Give me another one.” Bunny slid a second piece of paper across the table. Bert crumbled the sheet and aimed. “Your turn.”
“This is not your father’s dog show,” Bunny blurted out.
Bert let the shot fly. The paper hit the floor more than a foot from the basket.
“That was sad,” he said.
“So was your shot.”
“You think it’s so easy?” Bert asked. “You try.”
Bunny crumpled a sheet and took aim. The shot fell perfectly into the hoop.
“You’ve practiced.”
She shrugged. “True.”
“What’s your slogan idea?”
“Dog shows. They’re not just for poodles anymore.”
Bert snorted and the pair laughed until tears filled their eyes.
They continued to brainstorm until a list of twenty slogans sat scribbled across their notes. They had settled on a revolutionary idea when Nate’s deep voice sounded outside the door.
“Damn,” Bert whispered.
The doorknob rattled. Bunny dove for the trash can and hoop, sweeping both beneath the conference table. She dropped into her seat just as Nate entered the room.
“What have we here?” he asked suspiciously.
“Brainstorming,” Bert answered.
Nate turned his dark brown gaze in Bunny’s direction. Anxiety flickered in her chest. As attractive as this man was, he was still the ticket to her job security. And that job security was the ticket to keeping a roof over her head.
Nate frowned. “Sounded like laughter.”
A dimple winked from his cheek and Bunny’s anxiety morphed into butterflies. Between the
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