Read Online The Fiance Thief by Tracy South - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tracy South
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and Alec went to the taping, remember? You’re here early.”
“I’ve got to write a story. Kind of nervous about it,” Mick said, hanging up his hat and pouring the remaining dregs of the coffee Hank had made earlier. “Where’s Lissa?”
“She had to run an errand. I’m sure she’ll be back,” Hank said.
“I don’t care one way or another,” Mick told him. “If I didn’t have this story breathing down my neck, I’d be out on my boat. You ought to head out early, too. When Alec’s away, there’s no better time to play.”
With that, Mick disappeared into his office, and Hank, despite all his past confidence in Mick, couldn’t help worrying a little about the mental sharpness of the man who seemed to forget that Alec worked for him, not the other way around. Hank was still brooding about how to stretch Lissa’s scrawl into a story when the door to the publisher’s office creaked open and Mick stuck his head out, paler than Hank had ever seen him before.
“Hypothetical question for you, buddy.” Mick’s voice rang out in false cheer. “Would it be possible for someone to throw the entire editorial content of the paper into the computer’s trash?”
Hank’s voice, when he could speak, was a whisper. “Did you empty it, too?”
Mick nodded.
A LL RIGHT , here was the new theory Alec was working on, one fueled, no doubt, by the greasy fast-food sausage and biscuit he’d just downed, followed by a twenty-ounce coffee to go. Claire had also graciously forked over some of her giant cinnamon roll, and the sugar high he was getting from that was probably contributing to his current line of illogical thought. Because he was on the verge of an idea so preposterous that he knew he wasn’t thinking rationally. He was beginning to think Claire made him nervous.
He knew that all the evidence indicated that exactly the opposite was true. But what if her own nervousness was simply a reaction to his? What if he was the one who was jittery whenever he was around her, and she was so put off by his herky-jerky demeanor that it made her a wreck just to be near him? He thought back to the first time he’d met her, on the elevator headed upstairs. He had a clear vision of what she looked like that day. Her hair swung to the left side, and she had on an oversize white dress with pink flowers. He remembered feeling this odd jolt of recognition when he saw her, only it was the kind of feeling you get when you run into a college professor at the gym after you’ve faked a case of mono, or when you run into your landlord at an expensive restaurant when you haven’t paid your rent in two months. He had this strange notion he’d disappointed her somehow.
Then she’d tripped him, and all that déjà-vu stuff was gone. Once he’d extracted his tie from between the elevator doors, he’d studiously avoided her, bounding out of the close space before the doors were barely open in his haste to get away from her. She’d followed him, and the rest was their history.
Revisionist history, he told himself. That’s what he was engaging in, trying to talk himself into this crazy idea. Couldn’t he point to plenty of times when he’d tormented Claire with his wicked coolness, while she’d quaked before him? Smiling to himself, he remembered some of them. There, he felt better. At least until he looked at Claire in the seat next to him, happily reading the daily paper without an apparent care in the world. She didn’t even seem to mind that her dress had hiked up to an even more risqué level than its original one.
Alec tapped on the paper. “Trying to make friends with the truck drivers, Claire?”
She put the paper aside. “What?” She glanced down. “Oh, I understand.” She yanked the fabric back down and primly crossed her legs at the ankles. Her mad blushing cheered him, and when he spoke again, he put a note of concern in his voice.
“Are you sure this is the right thing to do?”
“This whole trip is
“I’ve got to write a story. Kind of nervous about it,” Mick said, hanging up his hat and pouring the remaining dregs of the coffee Hank had made earlier. “Where’s Lissa?”
“She had to run an errand. I’m sure she’ll be back,” Hank said.
“I don’t care one way or another,” Mick told him. “If I didn’t have this story breathing down my neck, I’d be out on my boat. You ought to head out early, too. When Alec’s away, there’s no better time to play.”
With that, Mick disappeared into his office, and Hank, despite all his past confidence in Mick, couldn’t help worrying a little about the mental sharpness of the man who seemed to forget that Alec worked for him, not the other way around. Hank was still brooding about how to stretch Lissa’s scrawl into a story when the door to the publisher’s office creaked open and Mick stuck his head out, paler than Hank had ever seen him before.
“Hypothetical question for you, buddy.” Mick’s voice rang out in false cheer. “Would it be possible for someone to throw the entire editorial content of the paper into the computer’s trash?”
Hank’s voice, when he could speak, was a whisper. “Did you empty it, too?”
Mick nodded.
A LL RIGHT , here was the new theory Alec was working on, one fueled, no doubt, by the greasy fast-food sausage and biscuit he’d just downed, followed by a twenty-ounce coffee to go. Claire had also graciously forked over some of her giant cinnamon roll, and the sugar high he was getting from that was probably contributing to his current line of illogical thought. Because he was on the verge of an idea so preposterous that he knew he wasn’t thinking rationally. He was beginning to think Claire made him nervous.
He knew that all the evidence indicated that exactly the opposite was true. But what if her own nervousness was simply a reaction to his? What if he was the one who was jittery whenever he was around her, and she was so put off by his herky-jerky demeanor that it made her a wreck just to be near him? He thought back to the first time he’d met her, on the elevator headed upstairs. He had a clear vision of what she looked like that day. Her hair swung to the left side, and she had on an oversize white dress with pink flowers. He remembered feeling this odd jolt of recognition when he saw her, only it was the kind of feeling you get when you run into a college professor at the gym after you’ve faked a case of mono, or when you run into your landlord at an expensive restaurant when you haven’t paid your rent in two months. He had this strange notion he’d disappointed her somehow.
Then she’d tripped him, and all that déjà-vu stuff was gone. Once he’d extracted his tie from between the elevator doors, he’d studiously avoided her, bounding out of the close space before the doors were barely open in his haste to get away from her. She’d followed him, and the rest was their history.
Revisionist history, he told himself. That’s what he was engaging in, trying to talk himself into this crazy idea. Couldn’t he point to plenty of times when he’d tormented Claire with his wicked coolness, while she’d quaked before him? Smiling to himself, he remembered some of them. There, he felt better. At least until he looked at Claire in the seat next to him, happily reading the daily paper without an apparent care in the world. She didn’t even seem to mind that her dress had hiked up to an even more risqué level than its original one.
Alec tapped on the paper. “Trying to make friends with the truck drivers, Claire?”
She put the paper aside. “What?” She glanced down. “Oh, I understand.” She yanked the fabric back down and primly crossed her legs at the ankles. Her mad blushing cheered him, and when he spoke again, he put a note of concern in his voice.
“Are you sure this is the right thing to do?”
“This whole trip is
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