by Jess Vonn
Winnie laughed. “I hinted at Wyatt Clayton’s anger at the commission’s decision.”
“Yeah, he’s the kind of guy who might throw a punch,” he said, his face shadowing unexpectedly.
“You know him?” she asked, her curiosity flared. Wyatt had certainly stuck out at the meeting of mostly retirees. He had to be closer to Cal’s age. With his muddy boots, torn jeans, deeply tanned skin and his shoulder-length hair tied back in a messy ponytail, the man cut quite a memorable figure. He had an edge about him that made Winnie’s skin prickle a bit because she couldn’t tell if he was sexy, dangerous, or both.
“I know Wyatt, alright,” Cal said, his voice lowering in what sounded like aggravation. “He and Carter and I used to run together when we were kids.”
“And throw punches?”
“Yeah, I think the last time I saw him there might have been some of that,” Cal said, practically grinding his teeth in not-quite-concealed anger. “Let’s just say I don’t talk much with Wyatt anymore.”
Interesting. Winnie thought about that for a second. Everyone seemed to get along so well with Cal, but it only made sense that someone who had lived in a community for the better part of thirty years would have some bad history with at least one or two community members. It was also clear that he had no interest in elaborating, no matter how piqued Winnie’s curiosity was.
“So did you get that tax debacle straightened out?”
He looked momentarily confused.
“The one that was going to cause chaos in the Broadsville bleachers on Friday night?”
He rolled his eyes.
“For better or for worse, it’s my job to be civil to leaders in the community, no matter how manufactured their crises may be,” he said matter-of-factly, but the ornery gleam never left his eye.
“Well, it was evident that Mayor Johannsen has a very hands-on approach to community partnerships,” Winnie said. She’d lost track of how many times the woman found an excuse to touch Cal during their few-minute exchange on Friday night, but she was completely aware of how annoyed it made her.
But the comment got a laugh out of Cal. Winnie’s words hung in the charged air between them as he took a long draw from his pint.
“So, how do we do this? How does this go?” Winnie asked, desperate to change the topic away from the awkwardness at Friday’s football game. “How do you usually conduct these candlelit business meetings?”
“Well, I tell jokes, you laugh. Then we repeat.”
Winnie laughed again, perfectly on cue. Bree had always called her a laugh whore because she gave them away so easily.
“Very good. You catch on quickly,” Cal said, seemingly pleased with the reaction he could get so easily from Winnie.
“I feel nervous,” Winnie blurted out with a sudden candor that surprised them both.
Cal’s shift in demeanor sent butterflies through her stomach. Apparently her insecurity-masking-itself-as-playful-confidence trick had been working. He had no idea how out of place she felt at this table with a man like him.
“You have nothing to be nervous about, Briggs.”
If that was true, why did the mere sound of her name on his perfect lips make her feel as if something inside of her was unraveling?
“This is not my typical work setting, and you are not my typical work associate,” Winnie said, an early indication that her mouth would be moving more quickly than her brain tonight.
Cal’s eyebrow rose.
“And how’s that?”
“Well, I interact with cute little kids at school pageants and slightly hostile seniors at the community center and energetic women who run local boutiques. But, not people like…”
Saved by the waiter, Winnie cut off her embarrassing admission mid-thought and took a long, grateful sip of her vodka tonic.
“Not people like me,” he finished for her. Mercifully.
“Precisely.” Winnie refused to elaborate, though she was certain that her flushing cheeks were dropping some hints.
“I have to say, this is new to me too,” Cal admitted. “You make for much more pleasant company than, say, Mayor Simpson.”
Winnie grinned, remembering her first, odd introduction to the man. She bet that Cal had some stories he could share about the mayor.
“Seriously though,” he continued, “I hoped we might get to know one another first before jumping right into business. We’ll be working together regularly, and I think it would be best if we weren’t complete strangers.”
“That makes sense,” Winnie thought, silently continuing… even if that’s also what you do on a date.
“So tell me about yourself,” Cal started.
“Oh that will be quick. I’m terribly boring.”
“I highly doubt that. You’re all anyone around Bloomsburo can talk about these days.”
Winnie blushed a bit, even if she knew he may be right. Fortunately she also knew that this had everything to do with a small town’s insatiable hunger for novelty and gossip, and nothing to do with her in particular. It would pass.
“No, really. My life is a model of pathetic-ness. I work. I sleep. But mostly I work.”
“Why did you become a journalist?”
Winnie looked taken aback for a second.
“Wow, you don’t even ease in with ‘what’s your favorite color?’”
Cal shook his head.
“It’s green, by the way,” Winnie offered, unable to ignore the very stunning green eyes smiling back at her from across the table. Had that always been her favorite color, or were recent influences at play? Suddenly she couldn’t remember.
“But why did I become a journalist? I always loved to write. At first I wrote fiction, but then I started to dabble in non-fiction, and eventually I came to believe that it’s an honor to tell people’s stories, and to keep the public informed on the issues that matter to them.”
Cal nodded, seemingly pleased with her dutiful career speech.
“Why are you in public relations?” she asked.
“Because I did some research on the average salary for journalists,” Cal joked. Winnie rolled her eyes even if the dig was well justified. Nobody went into journalism for the money.
“No, really. Why PR?”
“Because there was a cute girl in the major when I started college,” he said, not missing a beat.
“No, really,” Winnie insisted, her glare firm on Cal, who hesitated, but finally complied. He was an ornery interviewee who did not like to stay on topic.
“Well, there were many lovely ladies in the major, that much was true. But I guess I’ve always loved working with people. I’m good at communicating visually. I get a charge out of the marketing component. I like to take a concept from some messy, scattered idea and polish it into a successful campaign.”
“Better.”
Cal’s eyes narrowed again, alerting Winnie that the questioning was coming back to her.
“What do you do for fun?” he asked.
“What is this ‘fun’ you speak of? Did you not catch on to my sad work/sleep cycle?”
“You have to do something for fun.”
Winnie thought for a moment.
“I like to watch junky reality TV because it makes me feel like a better person. I love to see movies in the theater, but my pockets are always full of contraband candy that I’ve smuggled in from the dollar store because I’m a cheapskate. I still enjoy creative writing.”
“What do you write?”
“Nothing for public consumption.”
“Just romantic poems in your diary?”
Winnie flushed again, despite herself. “Hey, enough grilling here. I’m the interviewer. What do you do for fun? Or do I even want to know?”
Cal laughed lightly.
“I think you may have the wrong idea about me, Briggs.”
“Oh, I’m a pretty good judge of character.”
“I’m not so sure, otherwise you might not be sitting here with me now.”
&n
bsp; The insinuation caused Winnie’s heartbeat to quicken. “Touché,” she admitted, sipping again at her drink.
This is only a business meeting. This is only a business meeting.
“I cook,” Cal finally offered.
“You cook?” She knew it didn’t make sense, but she just found Cal too handsome to cook. Sure, he seemed like the kind of guy who, like a Matthew McConaughey character in a romantic comedy, would have one impressive meal under his belt that he could use to impress women and get them into bed, but not a whole culinary repertoire.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” Cal defended himself. “What did you think my hobbies were?”
“Jetting off to Vegas for cards and strippers? Conning recently widowed cougars out of their savings? High-contact meetings with the blondest of area mayors?”
Cal laughed in mock outrage. “Well, I hate to ruin your cruel little fantasy of me, but I cook, and then when I’m done cooking, I put on my pajamas and crash on the couch and read Cook’s Illustrated or Bon Appétit and I decide what I’m going to cook next.”
Speaking of fantasies, suddenly Winnie couldn’t shake the mental image of Cal, lying on the couch in a tight grey T-shirt and plaid pajama pants. But then it begged the questions about what was underneath. Boxers? Briefs? Nothing…
Winnie cleared her throat, her mouth going dry again. She was surprised but not surprised to notice that her vodka tonic was already nearly gone.
“Well, that’s a great skill to have. I’m jealous. I can’t cook.”
“Surely you could learn. You’re a smart woman.”
Winnie felt disproportionately touched by the comment. Her ex, Anthony, who spent his days with some of the sharpest legal minds in the country, had often treated her like a silly, frivolous thing.
“No, it’s a fairly well-established fact that I can’t cook. There’s at least one Chicago-based fire battalion that can attest to this.”
“I could teach you,” he offered.
Now Winnie’s mental image transformed to Cal (still in his irresistible plaid pajama bottoms, the morning after) standing behind her as she scrambled eggs on the stove, his arms coming around her waist to guide her hand. The feel of his breath warm on her neck…
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable being indebted to you.”
“I’m sure we could come up with a creative payment plan.”
This is only a business meeting, imagination. Knock it off!
“Have you seen the waiter? My drink disappeared.”
Cal smiled, then looked out into the restaurant, signaling to the waiter, who came over and took a second round of drink orders, as well as their meal choices.
“So what do you say, are you up for a lesson?”
Winnie recollected her thoughts. The cooking lesson.
“Oh, that would be a waste of your talent, especially when I’ve gotten by this long with Pop-Tarts and microwaveable mac and cheese.”
Cal clutched at his chest as if he were in pain.
“Oh, you can’t tell me these sorts of things. It’s inhumane to let you go through life eating those food-like substances.”
“So just cooking?” Winnie diverted, trying to change the subject and discourage her wild imagination.
“I also run.”
“Clearly,” Winnie said under her breath as she took a sip of her replenished drink and tried not to think about the muscular contours of his legs.
“Pardon?” Cal asked, ornerily.
Winnie nervously cleared her throat again.
“Um, clearly, because…” she started, her mind frantically trying to dig her way out of that hole, “because you were running the day we first met. You know, when you tried to arrest me.”
He grinned.
“And clearly it’s time for me to eat something, since I’m so malnourished by the Kraft company.”
He kept his gaze locked on Winnie for a minute, a pleased expression slowly spreading across his face.
Winnie couldn’t keep the contact, so she reached to replace the drink menu across the table and with signature grace, managed to smack the edge of it into Cal’s water glass, sending it crashing to the table and splashing its contents onto his lap.
“Woah!” he cried, lifting his bottom up off the booth in a natural reflex.
“Oh God, Cal!” Winnie shrieked, bolting up from her side of the booth, cloth napkin in hand. “I’m so, so sorry.”
She scooched in next to him in the booth, and began dabbing furiously at his waist and the top of his thighs, which were now sopping wet and three shades darker blue than the rest of the suit material.
“Oh, this is such a good-looking suit. I hope it’s not ruined,” she said earnestly.
She dabbed fervently several more times before realizing that Cal wasn’t dabbing at all. He was simply watching Winnie, his eyes slightly widened at the spectacle unfolding before him.
“So you like the suit, huh?” he asked, his voice low, as Winnie transformed to roughly the color of a beet.
Suddenly so close to Cal, closer than she had ever been and with his arm nearly around her. Suddenly enveloped by his cologne, which happened to be every bit as intoxicating as she imagined. Suddenly so close to that plush, tempting mouth.
Realizing that her hand was still pressing firmly into his very pleasant thigh, she felt the weight of embarrassment crash like a boulder into the pit of her stomach. She desperately wanted to crawl under the table and hide until Cal had finished his meal, paid the bill, and exited the restaurant.
“I’m sorry. I’m making a spectacle. Clearly you’re capable of taking care of your own crotch.”
The statement flew out of her mouth before she had the chance to capture it and prevent herself serious embarrassment.
She was on a roll now.
Cal didn’t say a word, he just maintained his amusement, which made Winnie want to click her heels and disappear, Dorothy style.
“Well, yes, I’m a big boy,” Cal said as she moved her way back to her own side of the booth.
“That much was evident during the dabbing,” Winnie joked, much to Cal’s shock and delight. This time, the big laugh came from him.
Winnie covered her face with her hands.
“I’m kidding. I didn’t touch anything. I mean, I was dabbing around…it. I didn’t even see anything, not that I would be looking, because what would I even need that kind of information for?” she sputtered.
Cal’s grin grew as Winnie took a long drink and grew redder by the second.
“Sorry. Sometimes I forget that I’m not with my girlfriends and I fail to keep my true sense of humor in check,” she said, talking into the hands that were failing to cover her bright red face.
“If off-color humor is officially on the table, then you just became my all-time favorite work associate,” Cal said.
“Does that mean you’re not going to sue me for sexual harassment?” Winnie asked.
Cal almost coughed out his last sip as a laugh took him off guard. “No, no I’m not. Not this time at least.”
“Because this is a business meeting,” Winnie maintained, repeating the evening mantra that so far had done absolutely no good. “But I promise to keep my hands far from your private parts at all of our future encounters.”
“Thank you for the assurance.”
Lord, this was only a business meeting, right?
Cal excused himself to the bathroom and Winnie tried to remember how to breathe like a normal human being.
Chapter 11
Cal stepped into the single stalled men’s room, locked the door, and raked his hands quickly through his hair in an attempt to regain the self-control that Winnie Briggs seemed especially suited to demolish.
He’d almost kissed the woman, right in the middle of the damn restaurant. She had been there, tucked beneath his arm on his side of the booth, her body giving a merciless amount of attention to his upper thighs. In mere seconds, he could have scooped her closer, devoured her mouth, filled
his hands with piles of that unruly hair that always seemed to be springing in a dozen directions. He could have set her atop his lap and let her feel for herself just how much he appreciated her firm touch on his body.
Shit. No. He was in here to cool down, not to get worked up again. Winnie had her charms, but hell, he was hardly an inexperienced teen. He’d been with plenty of gorgeous women with tempting bodies. Yet somehow, none of them had gripped his mind or his balls like the very real woman sitting out at that table fifty feet away.
Tonight’s meeting really had been born of good intentions. Winnie needed community information that he possessed, and some professional accommodation toward her would get his mother off his back. Two birds, one stone. So he’d texted her and set the date.
But his first wrong move was suggesting Cafe Gioia. No matter how good the food was, the place felt too intimate. Too flooded with soft, golden light that made the smooth, creamy skin at the top of Winnie’s breasts positively glow from where they peaked out above that satiny lavender top.
No, he ordered himself again. No thoughts of her low-cut blouse or her heavy breasts or how nice the latter would be without the former. His dick needed a breather if he was to step back out in public any time soon.
Income taxes. Polar plunges into icy lakes. Nails on a chalkboard. Undercooked meat. His mind filtered through the least pleasant thoughts possible. Jesus, Winnie reduced him to a middle school kid dealing with his first gym class erection.
Somehow, Winnie’s absolute lack of awareness about the sensuality she emitted made her all the more potent to him. She didn’t understand the effect of her bottomless chocolate eyes. Her infectious laugh. Her pink mouth, so quick to smile. Her full breasts. Her thick, swinging hips atop strong legs.
But none of this was Winnie’s fault. Simply put, it had been too long since he’d been with a woman. Six months? Eight? The fact that he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d relieved himself in the tight, warm clutches of a woman reinforced the urgency of his current situation. He had set himself up for this.
Last night, feeling rattled about Winnie after the football game and the Sunday dinner altercation with his mother, he’d pulled up Tinder for the first time in months. He flicked through his matches, hoping to identify someone who might be available for some quick, mutual relief, but none of the women’s profiles managed to hold his interest. In fact, just looking through the list of random women available one swipe away felt off-putting.
