The Bachelor Chronicles

“Yes, Mr. Warfield. I’m Erin James from the Beacon.” She extended her hand over the counter.

He shook her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Ms. James, but I’m Dan Swopes, the manager. This is Mr. Warfield.” He gestured to the man who had just walked behind the counter, a tray of dirty coffee cups in his hands.

Erin barely kept her jaw from falling. That was Jared Warfield, maverick entrepreneur, casually dressed in beige khakis and a navy-blue polo shirt? He looked more like the cashier than the millionaire owner of one of the fastest growing businesses in the city.

As Erin struggled to shift gears, her feminine interest exploded. Jared Warfield was good-looking—very good-looking—in an unconventional kind of way. His buzz-cut dark hair, while severe, enhanced the chiseled bone structure of his face. His mouth was generous yet masculine, and his eyes, which he turned toward her as she stepped closer, were the most unusual shade of brown she’d ever seen. They reminded her of the steaming coffee in mugs being handed over the counter. Rich, dark, yummy coffee.

His well-fitting, short-sleeved shirt accentuated a toned chest, broad, capable shoulders, nicely muscled arms and a taut waist. He was tall and lean and hot, and on second look, much too self-assured and imposing to be the cashier.

Her heart spasmed in her chest and she faltered, but quickly recovered, chiding herself as she moved toward the register. She wasn’t about to have a heart attack over the first really handsome man she’d encountered since her divorce. Brent had been just as gorgeous on the outside, but as ugly as a worm-filled, rotten apple on the inside. Appearances, she’d discovered, were very deceiving.

She took a deep breath and smiled politely. “Oh, I see I’ve made a mistake.” She extended her hand. “Erin James, Mr. Warfield.”

He put the tray down, wiped his hands on a towel and reached out and shook her hand. “Ms. James,” he said, pressing his lips together in a strange scowl. “I’ll finish up here, and then we can sit down and have some coffee and talk.”

As Erin wondered about his frown, hot sparks shot up her arm at his firm, warm handshake. She extracted her hand and words stuck in her throat like a glob of peanut butter. She had finally fulfilled her mother’s dream. She was speechless.

Jared pulled his brows together tighter. “Is that all right?”

Erin cleared her throat, thrown off balance by the ribbons of fire shooting from her hand into her bloodstream and by how unhappy he looked to be meeting her. It didn’t bode well for the interview. “Uh, sure, sure, whatever you say,” she said, hoping the warm blush she felt spreading through her face wasn’t too obvious. “I’ll wait over there for you.” She gestured to a blue flowered couch against the far wall.

He nodded and Erin walked over to the overstuffed couch and sat down. She took a deep breath and plastered a calm expression on her face. Heavens, she hoped her strange reaction to him was only surprise at finding him to be so good-looking yet so unflashy—at least on the outside. Whatever the case, with her house on the line, this was the wrong time to get in a muddle over a man.

But as she sat and waited, her eyes kept wandering in Jared’s direction to watch his capable movements behind the counter. She couldn’t help but notice how his muscled torso bunched and moved beneath his blue shirt as he reached for coffee mugs and made cappuccino.

When he came out from behind the counter and headed her way, she bit her lip hard. Figured. His bottom half was just as well put together as his top half. When he turned and greeted a customer, she found her interested gaze glued to his backside.

“Wow,” she whispered, her jaw hanging. He had the cutest, tightest pair of buns she’d ever seen.

She dragged her gaze away and closed her mouth, wondering why she was so enthralled by Jared Warfield. Maybe she’d been alone for too long. Yes, that was it. Not allowing a man in her life since Brent, who had cut out her heart, was obviously the problem. She was sure any reasonably attractive guy would have the same effect on her.

Relaxing, she leaned over and rummaged in her brief-case for her small tape recorder. She reminded herself it really didn’t matter how movie-star gorgeous this Warfield guy was. She didn’t need or want a man now, especially not after her disastrous marriage and gut-wrenching divorce.

As if the only man, other than her father, that she’d ever loved walking out on her wasn’t bad enough, the icing on the cake had been when Brent had announced he was broke because of bad investments. The day their divorce had been final, she’d sewn her tattered heart back together as best she could, thrown out all of Brent’s stuff, sworn off men and promised herself to avoid anything resembling love. She intended to stick to that vow and concentrate on writing her story, digging herself out of debt and saving her house and her self-respect. No man was worth the heartache or distraction, not even one with café au lait eyes and a body to die for.

Though he would rather shove bamboo under his fingernails than give an interview, Jared moved toward the stunning redhead from the Beacon, still puzzled by her strange behavior. A few minutes ago she’d looked downright flustered. He shrugged irritably and passed it off as simple embarrassment for mistaking Dan for himself.

Of course, she could just be putting her antennae up to scope him out, like he’d seen loads of women do to the Warfield men, hoping to marry a millionaire.

Balancing a mocha cappuccino in one hand and a plate laden with a fresh apple turnover in the other, he navigated over to the reporter. Hopefully this interview would be done soon and he could get back to work. He resented wasting his time on this stuff. He’d only consented because Warfield’s needed the publicity. If not for Warfield’s, he wouldn’t go anywhere near the press. He had Allison to think of now.

When he arrived at the couch, the reporter looked up at him, her beautiful moss-green eyes glinting behind her tortoiseshell glasses.

“Thanks for waiting.” He set the cappuccino and pastry down on the low coffee table in front of the couch, ignoring his sudden, strange urge to study those eyes and her flawless, creamy skin. Lowering himself into the wing chair behind him, he told himself to loosen up. He’d give a few stock answers and then send the reporter on her way. “Okay. Let’s get started.”

“Do you make a habit of working behind the counter?” she asked, her brows raised.

He sensed the surprise behind her question. “Not usually, but we’re short on help today, and I pitch in where I’m needed. I started Warfield’s with one store and one employee, so I’ve had plenty of experience waiting on customers.”

She picked up a small tape recorder. “Do you mind if I tape this interview?”

His first instinct was to refuse; why make her job easier? But it wasn’t as if he had anything against this particular reporter. Besides, he reminded himself, Warfield’s would benefit from a spread in the Beacon. “No, not at all,” he replied, striving to keep the impatience from his voice. “And help yourself to the cappuccino and apple turnover.”

She pulled her mouth into a tiny smile. “I love apple turnovers and cappuccino.” She picked the flaky pastry up and took a big bite. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

He smiled. Her enjoyment of the pastry, one of his own favorites, pleased him. Maybe this interview wouldn’t be so bad after all. Relaxing against the back of the chair, he drew his leg up and propped his ankle on the opposite knee, liking the sight of her unselfconsciously demolishing the turnover.

He knew he shouldn’t stare but did, anyway, letting his gaze wander over her rose-tinted face, liking the light freckles that dusted her straight, just-the-right-size nose. He wondered if that thick mane of auburn curls falling like waves of flame to below her shoulders was as soft as it looked. He wished he could run his fingers through the fiery strands to find out.

Enjoying his exploration, he let his eyes roam lower, taking in her full lips, the exact color of the delicate carnations he’d planted in his backyard. Drawing a deep breath, he moved his gaze downward past her blue skirt to her legs. Though her skirt wasn’t particularly short, it still displayed her legs below her knees. And what perfect, stunning legs they were, willowy and curved exactly the way he liked.

His heart began to beat heavily in his chest. Heat enveloped him. He looked back up and found her delicately licking pastry sugar from her fingers. He stifled a groan, unable to help watching in blatant fascination as her pink tongue came out and cleaned her fingers of sugar, one…by one…by one. Swallowing, he averted his gaze again, fighting for control, and repositioned his watch on his wrist.

Don’t go there, buddy. Don’t want what you don’t need. Getting hung up on a reporter would be the one, surefire way to expose little Allison to the rabid media, which had burned him before.

When he looked back at Ms. James, she had thankfully finished cleaning her fingers. She flicked on the tape recorder. “First, I’m going to ask you some questions, like your age and what you like to do. Then I’ll let you talk for a while, all right?”

He nodded tersely.

She scooched over on the couch until she sat just a foot from him. Her delicate scent—roses—floated over him, and he fought the urge to sniff the air and drag in more of the wonderful, feminine smell through his nose. The last time he’d smelled anything that good was while standing in the middle of his flower beds when they were in full bloom.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirty-two.” He tried to make his voice sound like her perfume wasn’t wreaking havoc with his senses.

“And have you always lived in Portland?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Soooo…what are your interests?” She licked at the sugary coating on her lips again.

He watched her tongue stroke her lip, and the heat in his body was stoked back to life. “Uh, interests?”

She pursed her sugary lips, then picked up her cappuccino. “You know, hobbies, likes, dislikes. That kind of thing.”

Jared ruthlessly forced his eyes, and thoughts, away from her mouth and how much he wanted to take care of that sugar himself. “Well, I like to ski and work in my garden—”

She stopped midsip and looked at him over the rim of the cup. “You like to garden?”

He lifted a brow and nodded. “Sure. I grow enough vegetables to keep me supplied all summer.”

“Oh, come on.” She put her cup down. “You grow your own vegetables?”

He gave her a stony glare, feeling his strange attraction being replaced by his earlier irritation and wariness. “Yes, I do, Ms. James. I also like to cook. Surprised?”

“Quite frankly, I am,” she said, tucking some stray strands of hair behind her ear. “Most men like you wouldn’t want to get their hands messy enough to garden or cook. I figured you’d be more interested in fast cars, wild parties and loose women in lingerie, stuff like that.”

He clenched his jaw and dropped his foot to the floor. Loose women in lingerie? Damn, how he hated what everyone expected him to be, the wealthy guy without a care in the world, tooling around in his hot car, chasing women day and night. Sure, he had nice things and a nice car, but he’d worked his butt off to make Warfield’s what it was today and to enjoy the perks that came with being a successful business owner. And, yeah, he’d had his share of chasing women in his younger days, but he was over that now that he had Allison in his life.