Chapter 3
Chuck stood in the doorway of Bret’s temporary office, shrugging into his coat. “Need anything else before I go?”
Bret leaned back from McCrea’s desk. This was almost too rare to pass up. At five o’clock on Friday, Chuck usually took off fast enough to leave his chair spinning in a puff of smoke.
“Let’s see.” Bret squinted in thought. “I don’t suppose you’d care to help me get a head start on Sunday’s layout.”
“Seriously?” Chuck froze, car keys already in hand.
In all fairness, Bret had never known Chuck to say “no” when he was needed. But Chuck had two small girls to get home to, so he wasn’t one for staying late unless it was absolutely necessary.
“No, I’m not serious. Or crazy.”
“This place would burn down without me and you know it.”
Bret did know it. “Yes. Probably shortly after you left the building with the matches.” He gave Chuck a nod. “Have a good weekend.”
With that, Chuck was out the door, leaving Bret to the article on his monitor. Chloe’s third real story for the week, not counting all the press releases he’d given her to write up. She’d turned it in about half an hour ago. Looking back on the week, Bret realized Chuck had probably filed more stories than Bret and Chloe combined.
Bret ran his cursor over the text of the lighter-than-air piece about a local woman who’d turned her talent for metal lawn sculptures into a self-sufficient business. They’d been short on freelance photographers—Ned had stayed home this week with Debbie and their new baby boy—so Chloe had shot some decent-resolution photos using the camera on her phone. Bret’s mouth quirked upward. He’d never seen a lawn flamingo with a coffee can for a body before.
And the writing was . . . okay, it was more than just passable. What could have sounded like something out of a school paper was executed with nicely chosen quotes woven neatly through the story. And with only two AP style errors. He suspected she’d gone over every word until she felt it gleamed. That seemed likely, considering how long it had taken her to write it.
But he decided McCrea wasn’t so crazy after all.
Bret sent the piece over to the night editor’s in-box and got back to work on the article he’d started writing this morning.
A clattering sound down the hall from the newsroom told Bret that he and the night editor weren’t the only ones left in the building. He glanced at Chloe’s desk and saw her coat still draped over the back of her chair. No real surprise there; she’d stayed after office hours every night since she started here.
Bret rose, stepped outside his door, and listened. A distant whir of machinery came from the room that housed the photocopier. The whirring was cut off by another clattering noise.
The copy machine was an ancient, temperamental beast that jammed at the drop of a hat. He wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. Bret started down the hall to see if she needed help.
As he reached the door to the copy room, he heard a colorful four-letter word he wouldn’t have expected from his new reporter. One that definitely wasn’t printable.
* * *
Chloe pulled her hand out of the jaws of the copier, her fingers flying to her mouth. She tasted blood. And toner.
“What happened?” a now-familiar voice said behind her.
If she hadn’t had her fingers in her mouth, she probably would have sworn again.
She turned to face Bret, putting herself between her boss and the open door of the front of the copier. Belatedly she pulled her fingers from her mouth, cupping her wounded right hand in her left. It was still bleeding. Great.
“Hey. Let me see that.” He reached for her hand and she flinched, aware now that her hand was not only bleeding, but it hurt.
She pulled her hand back. “I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig. And swearing like a sailor. Let me see it.”
“I didn’t—”
“Hush.” He didn’t give her a chance to argue. He took her hand. Before she knew what was happening, he’d pulled a handkerchief from out of nowhere and wrapped it loosely around her fingers.
A handkerchief?
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s for the glasses. When they get smudged it drives me crazy.”
With deft fingers, he cradled her hand and dabbed at it with the handkerchief, trying to determine where she’d been cut. Chloe realized she hadn’t been this close to Bret since she poured him that refill for his coffee at the diner. She held still and tried not to breathe too loudly as she took in the fact that he was taller than he seemed, that his fingers were surprisingly gentle, and that she was now oozing red blood onto the clean white fabric of his handkerchief.
And the cut still throbbed. Chloe pulled in a deep breath and held it, trying to remember if she’d ever met anyone in real life who carried a handkerchief.
Biting her lip, she sneaked a look up at Bret, but his head was bent to assess the damage. It looked like she’d sliced her third finger on whatever piece of metal wouldn’t let go of the jammed paper.
“I wouldn’t have thought there was anything that sharp inside the copier,” he said.
“It felt like a corner,” she said. “I was pulling out the paper and I guess I yanked pretty hard. It was the third time the thing jammed and I was—frustrated.”
“It’s a prehistoric monster,” Bret agreed. “Corporate isn’t really into spending money on us here in the hills. Come on. Let’s get this cleaned up.”
He started down the hall, and since he still held her fingers wrapped in his handkerchief, she didn’t have much choice but to go along.
At the far end of the hall was a break room Chloe had visited a couple of times to heat up some ramen noodles. It boasted a vending machine, a microwave, a bunch of mostly empty cabinets, and a kitchen sink. Bret brought her to the sink and rinsed and soaped her cut with calm efficiency. Somehow, without ever releasing her hand, he replaced the handkerchief with a paper towel torn from the dispenser over the counter. She resumed bleeding, more slowly, onto the towel.
His eyes met hers over her wounded hand. Up close, his stare felt even more penetrating than usual. She wondered if he could see how nervous she was, or if he felt her hand tremble.
Her fingers still cupped in his, he said, “Have you had a tetanus shot?”
That brought a smile out of her. “Please. My mom’s a retired nurse. There’s no way I could dodge that bullet.”
“Really.” He reached up to the cabinet above their heads and unerringly, with one free hand, retrieved a little plastic first aid kit. “Where did she work?”
“Tall Pine Hospital.”
“Mm. What part?”
“Labor and delivery.”
Well, he was getting her mind off the cut, and somewhat off the fact that he’d been holding her hand for about five minutes. “Sounds like a pretty cheerful department, as hospitals go.”
“Usually. It gets pretty dramatic, though.”
He gave a faint chuckle. “Ned—the photographer with the new baby—told me his wife said, ‘Get this thing out of me.’ Ten minutes later she was ecstatic.”
“I hear that’s how it usually goes.”
He managed to open the first aid kit one-handed. “Here, hold on to that for a minute.” He released her hand, and she held the paper towel around it. “Iodine or Neosporin?”
“Please. Neosporin. I’m not a masochist. You know, I can—”
But he already had her hand again. He spread the medication over her cut, then wound a strap of gauze around her finger. Not too loose and not too tight.
And then he returned her hand to her as if it were a book he’d borrowed, and put the first aid kit back into the cabinet.
“How’d you know where the first aid kit was?” Chloe asked.
“Because I put it there.” Another slight smile. “Former Boy Scout. Eagle Scout, actually. ‘Be prepared.’”
“Neither of my brothers did scouting.”
“The nerd gene probably doesn’t run as strong in your family.”
“No, I’m the sole carrier.”
Chloe cradled her bandaged hand, feeling it throb again. She bit her lip.
And they stood, face-to-face, in the fluorescent glare of the break room. For a minute or two, he hadn’t felt like her boss. He’d been downright human. But now that her moment in Bret’s urgent care ward was over, Chloe wasn’t sure how to close the transaction.
“Thanks,” she said finally. She took a step back. “This was really nice of you.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” He flicked another brief smile at her. “It’s not like I’m the kind of guy who kicks puppies, you know.”
Chloe felt her cheeks flush. “I didn’t say that.”
“I know. But just for the record, I love puppies. It’s kittens and babies I can’t stand.”
That was a closing line if ever she’d heard one.
Chloe returned to the copy room and scooped up her copies, remembering at the last minute to take out the original. She peered into the belly of the photocopier and didn’t see anything left of the jammed paper, so she closed the plastic door in front. The machine belched out a series of chugging-whirring noises, and it didn’t beep at her. It must be satisfied. She went back to Bret’s office and found him fixed on his computer screen. “Bret?”
It felt strange to say his first name. Maybe that was why he raised his head so sharply, as if she’d startled him. She realized that so far, she’d avoided calling him anything at all.
Now he looked at her with barely a trace of recognition. Certainly not as if he remembered bandaging her finger five minutes ago. Maybe you had to be bleeding to hold the guy’s attention.
She shouldn’t have poked her head in. “I just wanted to say . . . I’m headed out. I think the copier’s okay now.”
“Okay.” He was virtually expressionless. “No more bloodshed?”
So he did remember. “No, I’m fine. Thanks again.” She ventured a smile.
He didn’t give one back. “No problem. Rest up this weekend.”
Okay, then.
Chloe left, the cumbersome AP style guide weighing down her briefcase.
* * *
Once Chloe left, Bret dropped his head forward and clasped his fingers at the back of his neck, trying to stretch away the tension. The words he’d read for the last ten minutes had barely registered. He would have liked to blame it on an exhausting week. But he kept remembering the little hot and cold flashes he’d felt while he was holding Chloe’s hand.
He’d be back in the office tomorrow; that went with the territory. He’d taken plenty of calls from McCrea on a Saturday afternoon, asking about some fine point on one of Bret’s stories for the Sunday or Monday edition.
Pace yourself had been McCrea’s last words of advice to Bret before he left last Friday. For tonight, maybe the smart thing for Bret was to go home and get some food and a good night’s sleep before he tried to put together two more days of news. He could take copies of the layouts home with him and glance over them before he went to bed. Give his brain a chance to process them while he slept.
So he took the layout sheets to the copy room. When he hit the button to make the first copy, the photocopier revved up, whirred, and beeped in annoyance.
Bret sighed without surprise. Finding every source of a jam on this machine was a lot like trying to find an itch in the middle of your back. He opened the front of the copier and looked. Nothing in the middle of the machine, the site where Chloe had sliced her finger. He tried another lever, pulled a latch, and fished out a sheet of paper. It was curled, half-torn, and smudged with toner. He glanced at it.
Chloe’s résumé.
And suddenly, he recalled the way she’d stood in front of the machine when he walked in. Concerned about her hand, he hadn’t questioned it. Note to self: Chloe wasn’t too bad at subterfuge. He’d have to remember that.
Better than remembering the pretty gray-green eyes that had looked at him so uncertainly, or the way she’d bitten her lip to try to hide the obvious fact that the cut hurt. Or how small her hand had felt in his. How he’d liked the chance to take care of her. Just for a few minutes. You’d think, by now, he would have had enough of taking care of people.
More to the point, after one week in this office, she was already updating her résumé. Either a slacker, or she really didn’t like it here. Maybe it wasn’t hard to imagine why that would be.
He glanced over the résumé, printed on smooth ivory-colored paper that was thicker than the photocopier’s standard stock. He’d never seen Chloe’s résumé before, since McCrea had hired her before he told Bret about it. Like the résumé of most people in their early twenties, there was basically nothing on it. Waitress at the Pine ’n’ Dine for two years, plus the recent addition of her job here, vaguely dated from the current year to present. Just as much space was devoted to her college years. B.A. in English with an impressive grade point average, graduated summa cum laude, volleyball team.
Volleyball?
He wondered if she had any prospects. Tall Pine wasn’t exactly rife with job openings. Maybe she’d try to take her vast journalistic experience down the hill. A few days ago, that wouldn’t have sounded so bad to Bret. But if she left, he’d end up doing more writing himself, or trying to find someone else with some ability. And train them.
As green as she was, her writing skills were good, and she took direction pretty well.
That lip-biting, though . . .
Bret crumpled the tattered résumé and threw it into the waste paper basket next to the copier.