A Word With The Bachelor. Teresa Southwick
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her new room Erin lay on her back trying to get to sleep, but the sound of pacing upstairs was distracting. So much for not waking her if he couldn’t catch some z’s and decided to work. Hard to type when you weren’t sitting in front of a computer.
She was on the futon in the spare bedroom downstairs and it was surprisingly comfortable. That wasn’t to blame for her restlessness; that was Jack’s fault and not just on account of his walking back and forth, hitting that one squeaky board every time. Earlier he had opened the futon to make it flat and she’d been mesmerized by the play of muscles underneath the smooth material of his snug T-shirt.
Then she thought about one hundred and one ways to be romantic. Bring a woman flowers. Make her breakfast in bed. Surprise her with a B and B weekend. Picturing Jack doing any of those things made her smile. Forget romantic. He was barely civil.
A different sound caught her attention. The door to the upstairs apartment closed and heavy footsteps sounded on the outside stairway. Erin tensed, waiting to hear him come inside. She could feel him when he was nearby and every cell in her body seemed to say “notice me.” Which, of course, was never going to happen.
A few minutes passed and she still didn’t hear him come inside. Wide-awake now, she tossed the sheet aside and turned on the light. The room was pretty big but had no personality. Unpacked boxes were stacked on the opposite wall. A lamp sat on what looked like an apple crate turned on end.
Erin grabbed the lightweight summer robe that matched her white cotton nightgown and slipped her arms into it. She pulled the pink satin tie tight around her waist, then let herself out of the room. It was time to find out if there was anything wrong. Then maybe she could get to sleep. One needed all of one’s strength to deal with Jack Garner.
The house was dark and she felt for the hall switch to turn on the light. Brightness spilled into the empty living room. Cool air from outside washed over her and she realized that the front door was open. Looking through the screen, she saw Jack on the porch, staring out at the marina and Blackwater Lake beyond. She turned on the lights in the living room.
Barefoot, she walked outside and let the door close behind her. Between the lights and the screen door it was enough to guarantee he wouldn’t be startled. “Is everything all right, Jack?”
He didn’t flinch in surprise or bother to look over his shoulder for that matter. “Fine.”
“It’s late.” Duh.
“Not for me.”
She moved forward a couple of steps. Earlier when he’d asked her to move downstairs, she’d figured it was about keeping her away from his office space. The part about him working at night didn’t ring true, but apparently she’d been wrong. “So you’re up at night a lot?”
“Yeah.” He finally turned to look at her. “You learn to sleep light, one eye open, waiting for something to happen.”
“Doesn’t sound restful.”
“It’s not.” He slid his fingertips into the pockets of his worn jeans. “But you get used to functioning on little to no sleep.”
“I suppose.”
She could see a nearby full moon just above the dark silhouette of the mountains beyond the lake and there was a sky full of stars. The air was filled with the scent of pine and man, but she wasn’t sure which was more intoxicating. One hundred and two ways to be romantic, she thought.
“Okay, then. I just wanted to make sure there was nothing wrong.”
Before she could turn away, he asked, “Why aren’t you asleep?”
Now wasn’t that a valid question for which she had an embarrassment of answers. No way she’d confess to being distracted by his broad shoulders, muscular back and the romantic notions his research had stuck in her mind. And she didn’t want him to feel bad about pacing. This was his home and moving around at night might be his creative process. She also didn’t want to imply that moving downstairs had been a problem and make him feel guilty. But he’d already told her she was a bad liar.
So, she gave him the truth with a twist. “I was thinking.”
His mouth curved into a slow, sexy smile. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“I don’t know,” she hedged. “Why doesn’t it?”
“Because you’re the kind of woman who thinks too much. Shakes things up.”
“In a good way? Or bad?”
“Both,” he said.
She had a feeling he wasn’t just talking about the job she was sent here to do. That maybe he was hinting at something a little more personal. The thought made her heart race and she had to stop herself from pressing fingertips to the pounding pulse at the base of her throat. He’d know why and that would show him her vulnerability and give him more of an upper hand than he already had.
“I’ve been thinking about you.” Oh, dear God, that was no better and she desperately wanted the words back.
“Oh?”
She saw the gleam in his eyes and felt a shiver clear to her bare toes. “Now that I have your attention—” She drew in a breath. “What I meant was, I’ve been thinking about what the military must have been like.”
“Civilians don’t have a clue.”
“You’re right, of course. But there are basics. You’re expected to follow orders.”
“From a commanding officer,” he pointed out.
“Right. I’m not giving orders. But I was getting at the discipline factor. You’re told where to go, when to report for duty and what job to do.”
“Chain of command is followed,” he admitted. “If not there would be chaos in the ranks.”
“In civilian life we call it a schedule.”
The look on his face said he was bracing himself for whatever she had in mind. “What’s your point?”
“A schedule.”
He moved his shoulders as if they’d tensed up, then stared at her for several moments. “Oh, you mean me.”
“Actually I mean both of us.” She curled her toes into the wooden porch. “You had discipline in the military and it would behoove you to establish that in your writing life.”
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Who says behoove in actual conversation?”
“An English teacher.”
“Right.” He folded his arms over his chest. “What did you have in mind?”
“Breakfast first. Your mind and body need fuel.” She had not expected him to be even this receptive. “Then we meet in your office for a...let’s call it a status meeting. We discuss what you’re going to work on and you can give me a list of research topics for anything necessary for the story. Think of it as punching a time clock.”
“Don’t tell me. This status meeting would be at nine in the morning.”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Just a guess.”
“So, what do you think of the idea?”
“Do you really want to know?” he asked.
“Of course. This needs to work for you. It’s all about fine-tuning your process. You’re the author.” She watched him watch her, his gaze flicking over her body, and wished she was wearing jeans and a big, bulky sweatshirt. A thin cotton nightgown and matching robe came under the heading of Didn’t Think It Through. Where was a girl’s body armor when she really needed it? “Sometimes it’s just about putting your butt in the chair. Sheer boredom will force you into doing something.”
“Doing something—” His