"Who Needs Decaf?". Tanya Michaels
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.
“But thanks for looking out for me,” he added, still with that sexy half grin.
“Hey, it’s what I do,” she said, thinking of times she’d helped her siblings and the too-frequent occasions she’d felt compelled to “mother” Brad, which had led to their breakup. A woman couldn’t feel passion for someone who aroused mostly her maternal instincts.
Her current companion didn’t look as if he needed mothering, though. Quite the contrary. He looked like the type cautious mothers warned their daughters about.
“This is what you do?” he asked. “Look out for people in elevators?”
She smiled at his gently teasing tone. “I’m underappreciated, but, yes, I’m Sheryl, patron saint of elevators and caffeine addicts. And since you gave me such good advice down in the lobby and kept me from getting stuck in a faulty elevator, I’ll put in a good word for you with The Guy Upstairs.”
He chuckled. “I should introduce myself formally, then, so you get the name right when you make the recommendation.” He stuck out his left hand. No wedding ring. “Nathan Zachary Hall, which I know sounds horribly like a dormitory.”
Sheryl’s smile froze. The elevator stopped and the doors parted, but it took great effort to force her feet forward, onto a busy fifth floor alongside…Nathan?
“You’re Nathan Hall?” Even the dimmest bulb would be able to deduce he was, since he’d just said so, but he bore no resemblance to any of her beady-eyed, furry green imaginings.
“That’s me.” His once teasing tone was now puzzled.
He—a guy with a sense of humor who could wear jeans like that—was her nemesis?
As Meka would say, yikes.
2
NATHAN FELT A LITTLE SILLY standing there in front of so many desks and cubicles where his co-workers could witness this odd exchange. But the cacophony of buzzing phones, chirping computers and occasional cursing of the frustrated reporter assured him that people had