Who Needs Decaf?

Abandoning the attempted Chardonnay telepathy, Sheryl whirled around. “Reward wrongdoing? We didn’t do anything wrong!”

And sales might be up in the short run, but Sheryl was worried about the long-term results. If this case actually went to court and they lost…People in the industry had predicted Hammond Gaming Software would be the Next Big Thing, but the company wasn’t big yet and couldn’t afford any substantial financial setbacks. Or a damaged reputation.

Dropping her knife, Meka held up both hands in an I-surrender pose. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I am on your side. He’s just very persuasive.”

“I know.” Sheryl narrowed her eyes. “That’s what bothers me about him—his talent. He doesn’t sensationalize, he’s careful to use the right words like alleged, but it’s not those words that stick with you, it’s the overall impression. The impression that he’s a man of integrity on the side of justice.”

“You sound almost admiring.”

“Hardly!” Sheryl poured herself some apple juice, deciding to pretend it was hard cider. “It’s just that it would be easier to get the public to hear our side if Hall didn’t seem so damned credible. We’re the victims here!”

“Not to change the subject from the nemesis you’re all fired-up about while we’re in a room full of sharp utensils or anything, but what’s Brad doing that’s making you crazy?”

“Two things. One, he asked me to go on a date.”

“Oh, no!” An expression of amused horror settled across Meka’s pretty mocha-colored features. “Don’t tell me that incompetent shrink of his convinced Brad he can win you back.”

Laughing, Sheryl clarified, “You don’t understand, he wants me to go along on his date with another woman.”

“Didn’t think our man Brad had it in him to be kinky.”

Another laugh, this time with the unpleasant side effect of choking on apple juice. “He wants me to try to spot possible trouble areas in the relationship. He says it’s the least I can do since I won’t commit a few hours of rehashing our relationship. I told him this prospective new relationship wouldn’t go anywhere if he brought along an ex to chaperone.”

“For a boy who’s such a genius in some areas…”

“Tell me about it.”

“So what’s the second thing?”

Sheryl’s fingers tightened, and she was glad the glass in her hand was actually made from shatterproof plastic. “He wants us to extend an olive branch to Nathan Hall.”

Reaching for a bag of russet potatoes, Meka froze, blinking. “You’re the relations expert, but isn’t that just begging for mercy and making yourselves look weak?”

“Trust me, I’m not happy about it.”

Gritting her teeth, Sheryl recalled her meeting that morning with Brad. He’d asked her to personally deliver the latest press release in case the Sojourner wanted to use it—though history had proven that unlikely—and, as HGS’s official publicity representative, let Hall know that Brad was readily available for comment and welcomed Nathan’s questions. She’d tried to get Brad to reconsider or at least get their attorney’s opinion, but Brad had insisted the attorney worked for him, not the other way around.

She’d suggested Brad actually send their attorney on this errand, but her boss had felt a six-five man who spoke in stern legalese didn’t promote the friendly, accessible image he wanted to convey. Also, Brad had seemed to think that sending a lawyer to see the man who’d been writing carefully derogatory articles about him was an implied threat of some sort.

Sheryl could usually cajole Brad into seeing her point, but he was being strangely stubborn about this. Was it just because he hated the thought of being disliked by someone? Especially someone with a loyal readership.

With a sigh, she told Meka, “I’m afraid Brad half believes it’s as simple as convincing Mr. Hall what swell folks we are, then he’ll stop writing those mean articles and the whole mess will go away.”

“First, swell folks make boring headlines.” Meka enumerated her observations on her fingers. “Second, even if the columns stop, Brad still has the lawsuit to deal with. Third, Nathan may view your ‘olive branch’ as sucking up to get him to stop and become even more self-righteous.”

Sheryl settled herself on one of the two soft-covered stools that sat at the raspberry-colored breakfast counter. Decorated in raspberry and cream with soft lighting and an almost-view of the Space Needle, the kitchen was so inviting that she and Meka had most of their conversations here even though the living room furniture was expensive and comfy, while the kitchen bar stools eventually put one’s butt to sleep.

“All good points,” Sheryl agreed with her roommate. “Points I tried to make earlier today. Three hundred and sixty-four days a year, he’s Mister Mellow, letting his savvy staff advise him on what to do—which is what he pays us for—but then there’s that one other day, out there lurking…”

“And today was that day?” When Sheryl didn’t answer, Meka added, “Too bad Nathan Hall isn’t one of those columnists with a picture next to his byline. Then we’d have something to blow up and throw darts at.”

Sheryl had never thought about what the journalist looked like, but it wasn’t hard to imagine him as green and hairy, à la a certain, bitter Seuss character bent on sucking the joy out of the holiday season for others. Draining her glass, she decided that pretend hard cider wasn’t cutting it. What she really needed was a vacation, but since that was out of the question…

“Meka, what are your plans for the weekend? It’s been a while since we had a really good girls’ night out.”

Her roommate stared down, seeming oddly intent on making eye contact with the potatoes. “You’re right, it has been too long, but this isn’t a good weekend. I’m sorry, but Tyler and I—”

“You don’t have to sound contrite.” Sheryl forced a smile for her friend’s benefit despite a small pang of disappointment. “He is your boyfriend.”

“I know, but you’re just as important and I feel like we’ve barely spent any time together the last few months. I’d cancel, but Ty’s parents are coming into town this weekend and he’s asked me to meet them Saturday.”

Sheryl let out a low whistle. She couldn’t remember the last relationship she’d been in where she’d reached the meet-the-parents stage. Of course, not everyone’s parents lived as close to their children as hers. “Meeting the parents.”

“Yeah. In a word, yikes. I’m terrified already, and it’s still days away. You and I could go out Friday night, but I wouldn’t be any fun.”

“Besides, it would probably be better not to show up hungover on Saturday,” Sheryl teased, even though neither of them were hardcore party drinkers.

“Well, I promise you that we’ll do a girls’ night soon,” Meka said, her smile grateful. “In the meantime, I can at least offer dinner. Some comfort food to take the edge off your day?”

Though Sheryl quickly accepted the offer of her roommate’s gourmet cooking, she chose to look at it not as comfort food, but as the traditional feast soldiers of old enjoyed the night before battle. Tomorrow, she faced Nathan Hall.

SHERYL STOOD in a lobby full of modern art sculptures, waiting for one of four elevators to open and take her to the floor that housed the Sojourner’s staff offices. She hadn’t scheduled an appointment, merely called to ask what time Nathan was expected in today. Sheryl wanted to have the element of surprise, not give the journalist an opportunity to devise questions so pointed, she couldn’t possibly answer them safely. And, of course, not answering a question only made a person look guilty.

With an impatient glance, she assessed her distorted reflection in the mirrored elevator doors. Meka had suggested that her navy blue cashmere sweater over a well-tailored calf-length skirt would be feminine enough to keep her from seeming combative, while the dark colors said “take me seriously.” Not wanting to look girly, Sheryl had neither applied much makeup nor curled her hair. She’d stuck to the basics around her green eyes, applied some lipstick and just brushed her brown hair until the natural red highlights shone. Cosmo wouldn’t be calling to ask her to cover-model any time soon, but she looked good enough for this meeting.

A small beep sounded and a light glowed above the elevator to her right. She moved toward it, but a slight masculine chuckle behind her stopped her.

Turning, Sheryl located the owner of that low chuckle—a man much taller than she, probably even taller than Meka. He wore a brown leather jacket over a Sonics sweatshirt—both of which merely seemed like adornments for his broad shoulders—and jeans of indeterminable age. The dark denim didn’t look worn or faded, but the pants molded to the man’s lower body well enough to give the impression that they were comfortably broken-in.

Berating herself for staring at his rather promising lower body, Sheryl jerked her head up and fell into eyes the same rich brown color as his hair. His entire appearance made her think of things hot and delicious. Chocolate, coffee, dark caramels melting…

“That one’s broken,” he said, angling his chin toward the elevator she’d approached. “It lights up, but only goes down. No idea why maintenance still hasn’t fixed it, but the only place it will take you is underground parking.”

The elevator to her left lit and opened, and she instinctively stepped aside for the people exiting. Then she entered the empty conveyance, and the man with the espresso eyes joined her, his clean, soapy scent a relief in the overly perfumed air left by the elevator’s last passengers.

He reached for the number panel the same time she did, and their hands brushed. Both of them stilled, but neither moved away, so the contact and the strange humming it stirred in Sheryl’s blood continued.

Finally, she pulled her hand back, saying softly, “Five, please.”

The man stared for a moment as though he were going to ask, “Five what?”, but then he nodded with a self-conscious laugh. “Oh. Five, right.”

Sheryl bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling. If it had taken him a moment to realize she was talking about which floor she wanted, then she hadn’t been the only one affected by their shared, electric touch. Had she ever had such an immediate reaction to a man?

He belatedly processed her request and hit Five, but when he didn’t select a button for himself, Sheryl lost her struggle with the suppressed smile. “Um, don’t you want to hit a button for your floor?” she reminded him gently. Wow, maybe she really had rattled him.

“I’m headed to five myself.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “So I don’t need another button.”

Right. Idiot. Why hadn’t she realized the obvious? Because her brain was still somewhat short-circuited from the brush of his fingers against hers? And here she’d thought he’d been flummoxed.