His Executive Sweetheart

Jane e-mailed her right back: Since you’re driving yourself, I’ll go ahead and stay at the store until six.

Jane owned and operated a bookstore, the Silver Unicorn, in the heart of New Venice, right on Main Street. It was next door to the Highgrade, the cafе/saloon/gift shop that Caitlin Bravo, Aaron’s mother, had owned and run for over thirty years.

Celia stared at the computer screen, remembering….

Aaron and his brothers used to hang around on Main Street. They all three worked on and off at the Highgrade—in the gift shop or in the cafе, where they bussed tables or even flipped burgers on the grill. But they were a volatile family. People in town said those boys needed the influence of a steady father figure and that was something they would never get with Caitlin Bravo for a mother.

They were always getting into trouble, or just plain not showing up when it was time to go to work. Caitlin would pitch a fit and fire them. Then they’d end up hanging out on the street with the other wild kids in town—until they got into some mischief or other. Then Caitlin would yell at them and put them to work again.

Once, when she was eight, Celia had borrowed her big sister’s bike and ridden it over to Main Street. It was twenty-six inches of bike, with thin racing wheels, and she’d borrowed it without getting Annie’s permission. But she figured she wouldn’t get in trouble. Annie was over at the high school, at cheerleading practice. By the time Annie got home, the bike would be back on the side porch where she’d left it.

It was a stretch for Celia’s eight-year-old legs to reach the pedals and she kind of wobbled when she rode it. She had wobbled onto Main Street—and lost control right in front of the Highgrade. The bike went down, Celia with it, scraping her knees and palms on the asphalt of the street as she tried to block the fall.

Her legs were all tangled up in the pedals. She grunted and struggled and tried to get free. But it wasn’t working and she was getting more and more frustrated. She was on the verge of forgetting all about her eight-year-old dignity, just about to start bawling like a baby in sheer misery.

But then a pair of dusty boots appeared on the street about three feet from where she lay in a clumsy tangle. She looked up two long, strong legs encased in faded jeans, past a black T-shirt, into the face of the oldest of those bad Bravo boys, Aaron.

He knelt at her side. “Hey. You okay?”

She didn’t know what to say to him. She pressed her lips together and glared to show him that she wasn’t scared of him and she wasn’t going to cry.

He said, “Here. I’ll help you.” He gently took her beneath the arms and slid her out from under the bike. She was on her feet before she had time to shout at him to let go of her.

He stood her up and then he knelt again, just long enough to right the bike. “There you go.”

Her tongue felt like a slab of wood in her mouth. She knew if she tried to answer, some strange, ugly sound would be all that came out. She managed a nod.

He frowned at her. “You sure you’re all right?”

She nodded again.

“Maybe you should get a smaller bike….”

The cursor on her computer screen blinked at her. Celia ordered her mind back to the present and read the rest of Jane’s note. Key where it always is. Jane.

She typed, Can’t wait. See you. And sent it off.

Then she shut down the computer and went to bed. She didn’t sleep all that well. She kept obsessing over what Aaron might say when she told him she had to be at the airport at four.

He did depend on her. He could be angry that she was leaving for two days on such short notice. He often needed her on the weekends.

Well, if he said he needed her, she’d just have to cancel, she’d have to call Jane and—

Celia sat up in bed. “Oh, what is the matter with me?”

She flopped back down.

Of course, she wouldn’t cancel. She’d promised her dear friend she’d be there, and she would not break her word.

And what right did Aaron have to be angry? She’d worked weekend after weekend and never complained.

She was going. And that was it. No matter what Aaron said.

Chapter Two

A s it turned out, she needn’t have stayed awake stewing all night.

Aaron was staring at his computer screen when she mentioned her plans. “Hmm,” he said. “You’ll be here until four?”

“Well, I’d have to leave by three or so.”

“Three…” He frowned at the screen, punched a few keys, then added, “No problem. God knows you deserve a little time to yourself. Your parents all right?”

“I’m not going to visit them. They don’t live there anymore. None of my family lives there anymore. Remember I told you my folks moved to Phoenix last year?”

“Yeah, that’s right. You did.” He typed in a few more commands. She knew that he hadn’t really heard her. The next time she went home, he’d be telling her to enjoy her visit with her parents.

“I’ll be staying with my friend, Jane Elliott,” she volunteered brightly—as if he really cared or needed to know.

“Jane. The mayor’s daughter, right?”

The Elliotts were the closest thing New Venice had to an aristocracy. Jane’s father was a judge, like his father before him.

“No,” Celia said. “It’s Jane’s uncle, J. T., who’s the mayor.”

A half smile lifted one side of that wonderful, sculpted mouth of his—though he never took his eyes off his computer screen. “J. T. Elliott. Her uncle. Got it.”

J. T. Elliott had once been the county sheriff. If Celia remembered right, he’d locked Aaron up in his jail more than once in the distant past. Or if not Aaron, then surely his baby brother, Cade, who was the wildest of the three bad Bravo boys.

“So it’s all right, then, if I go?”

“Of course. Have a good time.”

Somehow, it felt worse that he didn’t seem to care she was leaving than if he’d been a jerk and demanded she cancel her plans and remain at his beck and call the whole weekend through.

Celia told herself to snap out of it. She was getting what she’d asked for and she would take it and be happy about it.

She worked until two-thirty and she was on that plane, flying to Reno, by a little after five that evening.

It was the second bottle of Chianti that did it. Celia probably could have kept her mouth shut if they’d stuck with just one.

But it was such a perfect evening. The three of them—friends since the first day of kindergarten, bosom buddies all through high school—together again, like in the old days.

Jane had cooked. Italian. Something with angel-hair pasta and lots of garlic and sun-dried tomatoes. After the meal, the three of them kicked off their shoes and gathered around the big fireplace in the front parlor. Jane had the stereo on low, set to Random, playing a mix of everything from Tony Bennett to Natalie Imbruglia.

Jillian raised her glass. “Triple Threat.” That was the three of them, the Triple Threat. Though, of course, they really hadn’t been much of a threat to anyone.

They were three nice girls from a small town, girls who studied hard in school and got good grades and didn’t get breasts as early as they would have liked—well, not Celia and Jillian, anyway. At the age of twelve, Jane had suddenly sprouted a pair of breasts that instantly became the envy of even the most popular girls at Mark Twain Middle School, eighth-graders included.