Past Imperfect

Then reality slapped her upside the head. The last person she wanted to blab to was a journalist, for heaven’s sake. But if he were any other friendly companion, she knew she’d really give some serious thought to allowing a man like Ian Beck to give her some relief.

And maybe even in more ways than one.

Fleetingly, she imagined leaning her head against his chest, closing her eyes as he enveloped her with his strong arms, breathing easy as he stroked her back, his hands slipping under her shirt to caress her bare skin.

Warmed by the fantasy, she smiled at him, then tentatively walked closer, reaching in to the bowl for a handful of popcorn.

Unexpectedly, he did the same thing.

Their fingers brushed, sending giddy shivers up her arm, through her skin, down to her belly.

“If you want,” he said softly, keeping his hand near hers, “I can show you my rough draft tomorrow. You can give me your thumbs-up before my deadline.”

Wow, he was really trying to earn her trust and reel her in.

Curiously, she skimmed her finger over his as she picked up a kernel, acting as if the contact was an accident, even if they both knew it wasn’t. As she brought the food to her mouth, he didn’t look at the popcorn so much as her lips.

She allowed herself to rest the snack against her mouth, enjoying his frank interest, still thrown off balance by it, too. “Thank you. I’d really like that.”

Pushing the snack into her mouth, she knew what he was probably thinking: that she wasn’t merely liking the chance to preview his reporting.

That there were so many other things for her to like about him.

Things that just might get her through these troubled times.

After polishing off the popcorn last night, Ian had offered to take Rachel out for a more substantial dinner, but she had declined, saying that she planned to get up early for a painting class at the local learning center.

Even though he knew there was a current of attraction running between them like a live wire, he’d accepted her excuse, thanked her for the snack and made arrangements to meet her at the art shop the next morning.

Back in his hotel room, he’d burned the midnight oil, punching out his story on his laptop, satisfied enough with the results to get a few hours of shut-eye.

Morning didn’t come soon enough. But when it did, he shined himself up, sent an e-mail to a loop he’d created for his nine nieces and nephews and, by the time eleven o’clock rolled around, traveled by subway to meet Rachel.

Her class was located in a shop on a quiet, tree-lined block that included knitting and crocheting boutiques, a small Italian restaurant and an antique emporium. Thank God the place was tiny enough so that he could see the students through the lettering of the front window. Ian didn’t go into these kinds of stores unless he was chasing a story. And it’d have to be a damned good one, at that.