Her Secret Fling. Sarah Mayberry
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glass of wine.
Like a needle in the groove of a record, his thoughts circled to Poppy Birmingham. He’d never interviewed her, but he’d interviewed plenty like her. He knew without asking that she’d discovered a love of swimming at an early age, been talent scouted by someone-or-other, then spent the next twenty years churning up various pools.
She’d sacrificed school, boyfriends, family, whatever, to be the best. She was disciplined. She was driven. Yada yada. She could probably crack walnuts with her superbly toned thighs and outrun, outswim and out-anything-else him that she chose to do.
She was a professional athlete—and she had no place on a newspaper. Call him old-fashioned, but that was how he felt.
He leaned back on the couch, legs straight in front of him, feet crossed at the ankle. His stereo stacker switched from REM to U2—the good angry old stuff, not the new soft and happy pop they’d been serving up the last decade.
He swirled the wine around in his glass, shaking his head as he remembered Poppy’s brown suit and how wrong she’d looked in it—like a kid playing dress up. No. Like a transvestite, a man shoehorning himself into women’s clothing.
Honesty immediately forced him to retract the thought. He might not approve of her hiring, but there was nothing remotely masculine about Poppy. She was tall, true, with swimmer’s shoulders. But she was a woman, no doubt about it. The breasts and hips curving her suit had been a dead giveaway there. And she had a woman’s face—small nose, big gray eyes, cheekbones. Her mouth was a trifle on the large size for true beauty, but her full lips more than made up for that. And even though she kept her blond hair cropped short, she didn’t look even remotely butch.
He took another mouthful of wine. Just because his new “colleague” was easy on the eyes didn’t make what Leonard had done any more acceptable. A smile curved his mouth as a thought occurred—if Poppy was anywhere near as inexperienced a writer as he imagined, Leonard was going to have his hands full knocking her columns into shape. It felt like a fitting punishment for a bad decision.
JAKE WALKED TO WORK the next morning, following the bike path that ran alongside the Yarra River all the way into the city. A rowing team sculled past. He watched his breath mist in the air and kept his thoughts on the interview he wanted to score today and not the words he hadn’t written last night.
He was the first one in, as usual. He shrugged out of his coat, hung it and his scarf across the back of his chair then headed for the kitchen to fire up the coffee machine.
Someone had beaten him to it. Poppy Birmingham stood at the counter, spooning sugar into a mug. He counted four teaspoons before she began to stir. That was some sweet tooth.
She glanced over her shoulder as he reached for the coffee carafe, obviously having heard him approach.
“Good—” Her mouth pressed into a thin line when she saw it was him and the rest of her greeting went unsaid. Her dark gray eyes gave him a dismissive once-over. Then she turned back to her sickly sweet coffee.
She was pissed with him because of his gibe about the dictionary yesterday. Probably couldn’t conceive of a world where athletic ability didn’t open every door. Because he was a contrary bastard, he couldn’t resist giving her another prod.
“Bad for you, you know,” he said.
She glanced at him and he gestured toward her coffee.
“All that sugar. Bad for you.”
“Maybe. But I’ll take sweet over bitter any day,” she said. She picked up her mug and exited.
He cocked his head to one side. Not a bad comeback—for a jock.
He picked up his own mug and followed her. He couldn’t help noting the firm bounce of her ass as she walked. Probably she could crack walnuts with that, too. He wondered idly what she looked like naked. Most swimmers didn’t have a lot happening up top, but she clearly had a great ass and great legs.
She sat at her desk. He glanced over her shoulder as he passed. She’d started writing her debut article already. He read the opening line and mentally corrected two grammatical errors. As he’d suspected last night, Leonard was going to have his work cut out for him editing her work into something publishable. Thank God it wasn’t Jake’s problem.
Then Leonard stopped by his desk midmorning and changed all that.
“No way,” Jake said the moment he heard what his boss wanted. “I’m not babysitting the mermaid.”
Leonard frowned. “It’s not babysitting, it’s mentoring. She needs a guiding hand on the tiller for a few weeks while she finds her feet, and you’re our best writer.”
Jake rubbed his forehead. “Thanks for the compliment. The answer is still no.”
“Why not?” Leonard asked bluntly.
Jake looked at the other man assessingly. Then he shrugged. What the hell. What was the worst thing that could happen if he told his boss how he really felt?
“Because Poppy Birmingham doesn’t deserve to be here,” he said.
He wasn’t sure what it was—his raising his voice, a freak flat spot in the background noise, some weird accident of office acoustics—but his words carried a long way. Davo and Macca looked over from where they were talking near the photocopier, Hilary smirked and Mary looked shocked.
At her desk, Poppy’s head came up. She swiveled and looked him dead in the eye. For a long moment it felt as though the world held its breath. Then she stood and started walking toward him.
For the first time he understood why the press had once dubbed her the Aussie Amazon—she looked pretty damn impressive striding toward him with a martial light in her eye.
He crossed his arms over his chest and settled back in his chair.
Bring it on. He’d never been afraid of a bit of truth telling.
2
POPPY HAD PROMISED HERSELF she’d speak up if he did something provocative again. She figured broadcasting his antipathy to all and sundry more than qualified.
Leonard looked as though he’d swallowed a frog. Jake simply watched her, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable.
She offered Leonard a tight smile. “Would you mind if I had a private word with Mr. Stevens?”
Her new boss eyed her uncertainly. His gaze slid to Jake then to her. She widened her smile.
“I promise not to leave any bruises,” she said.
Leonard shrugged. “What the hey? Tear him a new one. Save me doing it.”
He headed to his office and Poppy turned to face Jake. His mouth was quirked into the irritating almost smile that he’d worn every time she spoke during their meeting yesterday. She wanted to slap it off his face. She couldn’t believe that she’d once thought he was good-looking.
“What’s your problem?” she asked.
“I don’t have a problem.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been taking shots at me since I arrived. I want to know why.”
He looked bored. “Sure you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t want to hear what I really think. You want me to be awed by your career and treat you like the department mascot like everyone else,” he said.
She sucked in a breath, stung. “That’s the last thing I want.”
“Well, baby, you sure took the wrong job.” He turned away from her, his hands returning to his keyboard. Clearly he thought their conversation was over.
“I’m still waiting to hear what you really