Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

ZEVA

I wake with a groan, rolling onto my back to stare up at the ceiling. How could I have read June so wrong? The uneasiness that appeared in the pit of my stomach yesterday before sending the article returns. This time, guilt accompanies it. I have two choices. One is to come clean and risk him putting me out, or the second is to buy myself and Francis a little time before telling him. Either way, telling him I wrote an article without hearing his side of the story is inevitable.

The article!

I scramble out of bed to call Daniel when I hear Andreas’s bedroom door open, followed by his light footsteps to the bathroom. Calling my boss with Andreas within ear shot risks him finding out what I’ve done. Instead, I slip on a pair of jeans and my favorite mustard sweater and head downstairs.

Breakfast is a good start to winning him over, I decide. The kitchen is as sterile and unused as the rest of the house and the empty fridge doesn’t give me many options as I fire up the stove.

His footsteps bouncing down the stairs tell me he’s close and I rush to the dining room before he slips out the front door.

“Hi.”

He pauses, staring at me for a solid five seconds before squeezing his eyes shut. His eyes snap open and I fidget when his gaze rakes my body from head to toe. I snatch my bonnet off my head. “You’re not a dream.”

My skin tingles. I flush almost as deeply as I did the night before. “You dreamed of me?”

He grunts. “I’m going to work. Stay ... and?—”

“Any suggestions on what I should do while you’re gone?”

He gives me that odd look again, as if he doesn’t know what to make of me. “Do whatever it is guests do.” He grabs the doorknob.

“I made breakfast,” I say, and he pauses.

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

“Don’t be silly.” I take his hand, intending to drag him to the island, if that’s what it takes. I give his chest a little shove and he falls back good naturally onto the stool. “You didn’t have much for groceries, but I managed toasts, coffee, and eggs.” I grab the pan from the stove with the sorry looking sunny egg, placing it onto the plate.

“An egg.” He stares at his plate.

“Huh?”

“You said eggs.” He points to his plate. “But there’s only one here.”

“Well, the other almost hatched when I cracked it open.”

His lips twitch, but he hides it behind a generous sip of coffee. “It’s generous of you to make me breakfast, but you don’t have to and my aunt will ring my neck if she finds out I ate the last of the food.” He pushes the plate toward me and I have a feeling he doesn’t trust the egg.

“No more generous than you for letting me stay in your home.” He stands and I instinctively begin straightening his collar so that it sits neatly under his suit jacket. “The least I can do is feed you.” I brush imaginary lint aside. “Perhaps I can take you to dinner, then?” When he doesn’t answer, I glance up and suck in a shallow breath as traces of black swirl with the stormy gray in his eyes. His jaw flexes and un-flexes so tightly it’s a wonder he doesn’t chip a tooth. If I ignored the electric pulse surging between us before, the current is impossible to ignore now. It rages and licks every inch of my skin and I’m acuity aware that I’m not the only one not immune. Clearing my throat, I snatch my hands away and step back, attempting to put distance between us. But I don’t get far.

I don’t know when he moved or how I didn’t notice his finders in my hair, but I do now and I tremble. My eyes widen when he lowers his head, his mouth fusing with mine. All my good sense shatters, leaving only him and the taste and sensation of his lips moving against mine. When his tongue sweeps into my mouth, my knees buckle and my head falls back to drink all of him in. He was delicious. Like salty daw ice cream, just after church on a hot summer Sunday.

He growls and for an instant before he releases me; I feel the waves of a barely leashed storm promising to sweep me away.

“Well, if it isn’t my new up-and-coming journalist!” Daniel says loudly into the phone. There’s amusement in his voice, which means he’s in a good mood.

If there were ever a time to make a request, it would be now.

“I knew you had it in you, Zeva.” A loud slap echoes in the background as he slaps his hand against his desk. “Shame that you waited this long to show Brad and Steve up.”

I cringe. Brad and Steve, two journalists whose consistently compelling stories dominate the first three pages of our newspapers, leaving the remaining space for a mix of lighter entertainment, fashion features, inconsequential fluff pieces, and advertising. Showing anyone up is not my intention. In fact, I avoided tossing my hat into the ring for the open position for this very reason. Writing columns aren’t the best paying gigs or the most prestigious, but it makes me happy.

“About the article,” I begin.

“It’s the best piece I’ve read all week.”

“It is?” A sense of pride fills my chest for a dangerous second.

“Darn scooting. I love it.”

“You need to scrap it.” I explain that June didn’t tell me the whole truth, and that Andreas isn’t really the villain. I mention my predicament and how I’d have nowhere to go if Andreas didn’t offer me a room. I told my editor everything except about my attraction for Andreas or the steamy, sensuous kiss we shared.

“Well, how I see it is, June is still out of a job and this Andreas fellow gave her the booth.”

“Yes but–”

“No lies detected.”

“But he has good reason to fire her,” I protest.

“Sure, but that changes nothing. June thinks she is in the right and deserves to be heard.”

I want to yank my hair from my scalp. The more my boss speaks, the more I’m convinced he has no intention of deleting the story. “I still have time to write something better,” I promise.

“No can do,” he says. “In fact, it’s going out on Saturday’s paper.”

I gape. That’s tomorrow. “I thought you needed a piece for next week?” I thought I had more time to come up with a new piece.

“I bumped Steve’s piece and replaced it with your.”

I swallow. My palms turn clammy. What am I to do now?

“I’ll tell you what. Write a second article with his side of the story. We’ll publish it just after Christmas.”

“But that’s ten days away.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, sounding pleased with himself again. “That’ll give the readers time to stew in outrage throughout their Christmas dinner.”

I glare at my phone as the line goes dead. Daniel isn’t just a scrooge. He’s scrooge’s mean uncle.