Groaning, she entered her brownstone and told herself to get a grip. Luck finally smiled on her and the power came on within fifteen minutes of her return. She jumped in the shower and got ready for a full workday during which she would be focused on her work and not Gannon.
Her phone rang as she was putting on her mascara. She checked the caller ID before answering. Gerald. Answer it, she told herself. For the sake of your sanity, answer it. She snatched up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey, Erika, how’d you survive the storm? I was worried about you when I heard about the power outages in your area.”
How nice, she thought and felt a sliver of guilt at the same time since she’d ended up spending the whole night with Gannon at his great, warm apartment. “I made it okay. We got our power back. How about you?”
“Didn’t ever lose it, thank goodness. I was wondering if I could call in my rain check tonight. I’d like to take you to dinner. It’ll have to be a little late, though.”
Erika held her breath, swallowing her instinct to refuse. Why did she want to refuse? Gerald was a perfectly eligible TDH. Plus he had great genes to contribute to her baby. “What time were you thinking?”
“Eight o’clock. I know it’s late, but I’ll try to take you somewhere worth the wait.”
Nice again, she thought. “Okay, I’d like that.”
“Good. I’ll call you later today after I get reservations so you’ll know where to meet me.”
“Sounds good. Have a good day.”
“You, too. I’m looking forward to tonight.”
Erika frowned as she hung up. She needed to be looking forward to tonight, too. Maybe if she kept telling herself she was looking forward to seeing Gerald, she would start actually feeling that way. “I’m looking forward to seeing Gerald tonight,” she chanted under her breath all the way to work.
She strode from the elevator at the office determined to focus on her work away from Gannon today. That was her best course of action.
No sooner had she taken off her coat and sat at her desk than her phone rang. Erika picked up the receiver.
“Mr. Elliott on line one,” her new assistant said.
“Which Mr. Elliott?” Erika asked.
“Oh. Mr. Michael Elliott.”
“Put him through please.” Erika waited a half second. “Erika Layven. How can I help you, Mr. Elliott?”
“You can call me Michael. You may be calling me something else by the end of the day.”
Erika heard exasperation in his voice. “What’s the problem?”
“We have two feature articles that have to go to print, but they’re disasters. I want you and Gannon to take care of them today.”
Erika blinked. “Gannon?” she echoed, hearing a flushing sound as she saw her time and distance rules go straight down the toilet.
“Yeah. I hope you didn’t have anything else planned today.”
“Of course I had plans, but this sounds much more important. I can reschedule.”
“Good. I’ve already told Gannon. You can work from his office.”
“Yes, sir. ’Bye for now,” she said and hung up, feeling a twinge of suspicion. Had Gannon set this up with his father to force her to be with him? She shook her head. She was being paranoid or maybe placing too much importance on herself. Gannon didn’t have to resort to tricks to get a woman to be with him. Including her, she thought with a scowl. Grabbing her pen and a notepad, she headed for his office.
His assistant waved her inside.
Gannon looked up from his desk, which was uncharacteristically covered with papers and photos.
“How did this happen?” she asked.
“Current events. Breaking stories. Fill-in reporter, new photographer.” He shook his head in disgust. “The good news is the photographer took lots of shots, so we should be able to find something.”
“Okay,” she said, moving to his desk. “Tell me where you want me to start.”
Eight
Erika and Gannon worked nonstop through lunch on the features, rewriting and editing. Erika made phone calls to obtain clarification. Gannon sent the photos they selected to their photo editor.
The time passed like lightning. If she thought about the way they worked together—as if she were one hand and he were the other—then it might have freaked her out. But they were too busy.
With her focus on the feature articles, she shouldn’t have noticed him too much, but she did. She inhaled his aftershave and wanted to drown in it. He raked his fingers through his hair and she wanted to touch his hair. Once, his hand grazed hers and she felt a thrill race through her. She met his gaze and what she saw there stopped her heart.
As if both of them knew they couldn’t let down their guard, they both looked away and forged on. By the end of the day, though, she couldn’t help staring at his mouth when he talked.
At six-thirty, when they finished what had initially looked like mission impossible, she felt giddy.
Gannon sank into his chair and pulled his tie off. He’d loosened it hours ago. He met her gaze and chuckled. “Cheers to us.”
She smiled in return. “Cheers to us. All we need is some champagne.”
He lifted his hand. “I have some,” he said and rose toward a minibar on the other side of his large office. Underneath the cherrywood bar he opened a small refrigerator and pulled out a chilled bottle of champagne. “Cristal.”
She gaped at the bottle, then at him. “That’s a little extravagant, isn’t it?”
“Are you saying we don’t deserve it?” he asked, unwrapping the foil. He grabbed a towel from beneath the counter and popped the cork.
“I guess it’s too late to debate now.” She stood. “Do you have glasses?”
He tilted his head behind him. “Lower left cabinet.”
Erika walked to the cabinet and pulled out two crystal flutes. “These are beautiful. They look like Water-ford.”
“My mother gave them to me. Hinting,” he said, moving toward her and pouring the sparkling wine into the glasses she held. “Have a seat,” he said, pointing to the chairs on the other side of his desk.
Erika sank into her chair while Gannon sat next to her. “To conquering the mission impossible,” she said, lifting her glass, enjoying his mussed look and the hint of a five-o’clock shadow on his jaw. She liked him when he looked a little rough around the edges. She also liked him when he was wearing a black suit. Then again, she really liked him with just a sheet or nothing at all.
He clicked his glass against hers. “To our friendship,” he said.
She took a sip of the wine and then another. “Very good, of course.”
“Very good.”
“So what was your mother hinting about?”
“Me settling down and getting married.”
“Ah. What did you tell her?”
“Same thing I always tell her. When the time and the woman are right.”
She took another sip to cover the odd mix of feelings inside her. “I get some of the same thing from my mother.”
“What do you tell her?”
“I change the subject and ask how her bridge game is,” she said, and thought about the baby