She put a hand on his bare arm, not necessarily to stroke his forearm, but, well, accidents happen. “Come on, admit it. You were surprised.”
“I was not.”
“Not even a little?” she asked, leaning forward, letting her jacket gape open. His eyes drifted down. Sheldon felt a flush that had nothing to do with the summer heat.
Under her fingers, she felt the tension in him, and she wished he would let go. “Put it away, Sheldon.”
She removed her arm, closed her jacket and crossed her arms across her chest. “Fine. What happened to your sister?”
“She went off to write. Inspiration like you doesn’t happen to her very often.”
Sheldon couldn’t keep her lips from curving up. “What can I say?”
He glared so quickly she changed the subject. “So, what’s next on the five-point plan?”
The glare in his eyes softened, and for a minute she felt that tug inside her. “You really hate that, don’t you, Sheldon?” he asked, his voice lingering on her name.
“No, what made you think that?”
His look said he knew the answer, but he didn’t call her on it. “Fine, let’s move on. The next one is easy. We go to a Mets game on Saturday afternoon.”
“You’ll come with me, then?” she asked, mulling the possibilities.
“You think I’d let you go by yourself?”
“Well, no, but I would like having you there.” It was the truth. Jeff was the first man to see through her. Most men couldn’t get past her veneer, but Jeff had veneers of his own.
“You’ll behave?”
She blinked. “Certainly. I’m a team player.”
THE NEXT MORNING, WHEN JEFF arrived at work, he knew there’d be hell to pay. Although he wasn’t prepared for it that early.
Phil greeted him with a jaunty wave. “Wayne Summerville will be here in ten minutes. I took the liberty of assembling the press clippings from your daytime excursion yesterday. USA Today. New York Times—I like what they did with the pixilation, very natural looking—and here’s a press release from the AFL-CIO. They were very happy with the publicity.” He took out another sheet of paper. “And the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, Local 47, wants to give Ms. Summerville a plaque for her efforts to advance their cause.”
Jeff glanced at the clippings and noticed one piece absent. “Was there anything in The Red Choo Diaries?”
“I didn’t see that in Google,” answered Phil, as he typed in some keys, and then brought up Mercedes’ Web site on his computer. “It’s a story on…oh, my,” he said, leaning into the screen. Finally, he looked up. “It’s not Miss Summerville unless she suddenly took a job as an intern at a brokerage house.”
“I can’t believe she didn’t print the pictures,” muttered Jeff. Mercedes? His sister? Actually practicing restraint? He’d have to thank her for that.
“Do you want me to print this story about the intern, sir? I should tell you that corporate policy forbids the use of the company computers for nefarious means. Page forty-three in the manual. Would you like to read it?”
Mercedes’ good deed notwithstanding, the articles about Sheldon were enough to cause a man serious pain. Jeff took a deep breath. “No, thank you, Phil. I’m going into my office now. Can you bring me some aspirin?”
In less than two minutes, Phil was in Jeff’s office, plopping two pills on the desk, along with a glass of water. “Extra-strength.” Then he propped himself on the corner of Jeff’s desk. “I really like that shirt. Where’d you get it?”
Jeff took the pills and downed them with water. “So you can go out and buy one just like it?”
“I was merely asking. Don’t get snippy.”
“I’m not snippy,” snapped Jeff.
Phil got up in a huff.
“Snippy,” he said, and then shut Jeff’s door behind him.
EIGHT MINUTES LATER—Jeff was counting—Wayne Summerville arrived, his beefy face flushed from the heat. “Morning, boy,” he said, settling himself in the chair opposite Jeff. “I suppose you’ve seen the papers.”
Jeff swallowed. “Yes.”
“Then I suppose you know why I’m here.”
“I can guess. However, I saw where Summerville Consumer Products stock rose two percent yesterday.”
Wayne didn’t look happy. “So, what are we going to do about this problem, Jeff?”
“We’re moving on to step two now. I’ve got tickets to the Mets game on Saturday afternoon. It’ll be good.”
Wayne steepled his fingers. “And do you think my daughter will be able to keep her clothes on for baseball?”
Jeff met Wayne’s gaze evenly. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, sir. Are you sure that Sheldon’s all right with this marriage? Have you thought that this might not be what she wants?”
“Sure, this is what she wants. There’s only one thing that drives Sheldon, and that’s Sheldon.”
“Well, yes, that’s probably true, but have you asked her?”
Wayne leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not a stupid man, Mr. Brooks. I may be from the country, but I know people. I’ve asked Sheldon lots of times if she’s okay with this. I explained to her the advantages, the disadvantages and the realities of the situation. And time and time again, do you know what she’s told me?”
“What?”
Wayne drilled his finger on the desk. “That this is what she wants. I love my daughter, Mr. Brooks, and if I thought she wasn’t one hundred percent on board, I wouldn’t go through with it.”
“And she’s one hundred percent on board with it?”
“Has she told you otherwise?”
“No.” Jeff paused, then tried again. “Have you talked to Sheldon about her behavior yourself, sir? She might listen to her father.”
Wayne’s face twisted into a pained grimace best suited for an antacid commercial. “We don’t communicate much. I love my daughter, truly, but sometimes I think she’s off on another planet.”
“I’m not sure I can get through to her either.”
Wayne leaned forward. “But you gotta try, boy. I know you media types. Y’all can sell air conditioners to Eskimos, so I figure you can sell Sheldon on your ideas, too. I think she listens to you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“A man’s got to believe in something.”
“Oh,” sighed Jeff, wishing that there was some tangible evidence that Sheldon was coming around.
“Well, good, then we’re all in agreement. Now, let’s talk about this plan of yours. Since we can safely say that step one was shot to hell in a great big ball of smoke, let’s up the ante a bit.” Wayne pulled out his checkbook and began to write. “See here, this is a check made out to Jeff Brooks. Check out all those zeros, Jeff.” He waved the check under Jeff’s nose. “In my world, money talks. And this money is saying, ‘boy, you should hope that Sheldon behaves, the Mets win and that my wife stays happy.’” Then he took the check and put it back in his shirt pocket. “I give you my word, that check is yours if Saturday goes through like a greased cat in the dairy.”
Jeff nodded in an appropriately deferring manner. “Of course,