So why were her eyelids prickling?
Gil stalked across the editorial floor of the Gazette, his mood unbelievably foul.
“Tom in graphics needs to get your okay on the streetcar art,” Lynn, his admin, said as he walked by.
“Later,” he said.
“And Russ wants to talk to you—”
“Later,” he snapped, and slammed his office door behind him, leaving her staring in his wake. Perfect. Now he’d owe Lynn an apology for his uncharacteristic outburst. If he’d been smart, he’d have taken the afternoon off rather than subject anyone to dealing with him.
Dammit to hell, Jillian had found out, she’d found out before he could tell her. And maybe he should have been straight with her from the very beginning but he’d made a promise.
“Look,” Alan had said over beers at the Lucky Lab a few weeks before, “Lisa and I argued for three hours last night about whether you were going to be in the wedding and it was a near, near thing.”
“Hey, three hours of arguing and you’re still getting married?” Gil had taken a swallow of his pint of IPA. “Sounds like I gave you two a chance to see how you handle conflict.”
“This isn’t funny. Lisa feels like she owes a lot to Jillian. It’s important to her that Jillian’s in the wedding.”
And as a Logan, Jillian would consider anyone from the Gazette as the Antichrist. Gil could figure that much without trying. “Come on, Alan, we’re all grown-ups. It’s okay if you need to take back your invitation. It’s cool. I understand. I mean, I’m deeply, deeply hurt, but I’ll get over it. Especially if you get those Trailblazers season tickets you’ve been talking about and take me to half the games with you.”
“Forget it.”
“A quarter of them?” Gil had asked hopefully.
“I mean, forget it about crying off. I want you standing up with me. We go back. You weren’t in my first wedding. Nobody was. I want to do it right this time.”
However much Alan had made his peace with dropping out of college when he’d gotten his girlfriend pregnant at twenty-one, Gil knew that their friendship had remained a talisman of sorts, a memory for Alan of carefree days that had ended too soon.
“Look, I appreciate the thought, but if it’s going to cause a problem with Lisa and her friend, it’s not worth it. I’ll sit out in the audience and wave to you.”
“You’ll be there. Just remember, you work for Blazon Media, not the Gazette.”
“Wait a minute. I’m not crazy about—”
“It’s only for the rehearsal and the wedding,” Alan had interrupted. “After that, you’ll never see her again.”
Only, it hadn’t turned out that way. Instead, the temporary stopgap had turned into a nice little bomb that had blown up in his face. Frustration boiled through him. It hadn’t been his idea. More to the point, there had been nothing wrong with the Gazette’s coverage. They weren’t responsible for what the rest of the media did, but the public had a right to know. He believed that through and through.
His mistake hadn’t been coverage, his mistake had been strategy: Going along with the Blazon idea and then not confessing to Jillian at first opportunity. He should have told her when he’d called, but no, he’d wanted to be cute and do it face-to-face, where he’d be most persuasive. And he definitely should have told her the minute he’d gotten to the restaurant. Except that it had felt good, just sitting and talking as though there was no shadow over them.
Too bad he couldn’t pretend there wasn’t one.
There was something else there between them, though, a connection that he wasn’t ready to walk away from. And there was no way he was going to let her walk away from it, either. There was a way to make it work; he just had to figure it out.
Tapping the desktop thoughtfully, he picked up his phone. “Hey, Lynn, can you get me Dana in the Portland-Works section?”
Chapter Five
“Jillian! Just the person I was looking for. Got five minutes?”
Jillian glanced up through the tendril of steam rising from her mug of tea to see her cousin LJ leaning in her office door.
Cousins. She had cousins now. Incredible to think that after years of estrangement between her adoptive father Terrence and his brother Lawrence, the two families were back in touch.
Ostensibly, the two brothers had fallen out over a pair of self-help books that Lawrence had written on families, which included thinly veiled examples from Terrence’s life. Jillian hadn’t needed a master’s degree in social work to understand that the roots went much deeper, though: well-hidden, fiercely denied insecurities that caused both men to look for slights from one another even as they indulged in self-congratulation that edged toward bravado.
Family dynamics, Jillian thought with a sigh. Without them, she wouldn’t have a job. With them, though, she’d felt like a fraud—the woman who counseled families while her own was divided by a rift wider than the Grand Canyon.
It had been a matter of purest chance, really, that things had changed. If she hadn’t gone to the health-care conference in Seattle and seen a Dr. Jake Logan on the program, it would never have happened. But she had gone, and approaching Lawrence’s son Jake had been the first of a series of gradual changes like a slow, ponderous chain reaction that had resulted in a tentative reconciliation between her father and her uncle.
And given her a whole other side of the family to learn about: not just Jake, but his brothers Scott and Ryan, his stepsisters Suzie and Janet. And LJ, whom she regarded now with amusement.
“Do you all have to look so much alike?” she complained. “You ought to wear name badges. A person could get completely confused.”
“Not at all,” he said, stepping into the room and dropping into one of her chairs. “Look for the best-dressed guy in the room and it’ll be me.”
“Big words from a man who left his Armani at home this morning.”
“It’s after Memorial Day. Esquire says it’s linen time.”
She glanced at his olive shirt and wheat trousers. “If you ever wanted to give up marketing and PR, I bet you could make a tidy living as a model, Esquire boy.”
“I’d rather keep my gifts on the small stage.”
“Your modesty is so becoming.”
He grinned. “Isn’t it, though? Is that coffee?” he asked as she lifted her mug and took a drink.
“Tea. Chamomile,” Jillian added. “It’s very soothing. Want some?” She’d been mainlining it since her lunch with Gil three days before. Not that it had helped much.
LJ gave her a disgusted look. “Uh, no. I’ll skip soothing and go straight for the High Test.”
“Your choice.”
“Thankfully.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “So how’s the bicoastal life working out?” Two months before, LJ had been a committed New Yorker with a thriving PR business. Then, while he’d been out to do an image overhaul of the Children’s Connection, the clinic’s doula, Eden Carter, along with her younger son, Liam, had spun his world right around. Now, he was in love, in deep, and busily moving to Portland a bit at a time.
“I’m here with Eden and Liam this week. Life is good.”
“Are you ever going to make an honest woman out of her? I mean, granted you’re bringing your business out and the two of you have moved in together, but it’s not the real deal, is it?”
“I’m working on it. Eden wants to wait for the wedding until everything’s settled back East.”
“Is that what you want?”
He grinned. “Have some faith. I’ve just been waiting to bring out the lethal charm until the time was right. In the meantime, I’ve bought the rock.”
“The rock?”
“Tanzanite, to match her eyes. Any loser can get a diamond. I’ve got a custom jeweler just waiting to make her a setting. All I need to do is drag her in to see him. But that wasn’t why I stopped by.”
“Oh, right, I was supposed to get you my recommendations for the new recruiting brochure, was
n’t I?” Yet another action item she’d let fall off her list. She’d been doing that a lot the past few days.
“I do need your input but this is more about PR for the clinic itself.”
“We can’t possibly have enough of that.”
“I’m gratified to hear that you think so,” LJ said smoothly. “We’ve got an opportunity to run a piece that’ll put the focus on the clinic’s services and some of its success stories.”
“Excellent. Count on me to help any way I can.”
“Well, actually you’re a key part of it.” He adjusted his cuffs. “The key part of it, a person might say.”
Jillian set her tea down slowly. “The key part?”
“I’ve got a publication that wants to profile you for their employment section. You know, a day in the life of a social worker? Although they’d have to shadow you for a week to really get the full picture.”
“LJ, I’ve got sessions,” she protested, “closed-door meetings. They can’t shadow me.”
“Not all the time, but enough to get a picture of what you do and maybe interview the clients who are open to it. We need this, Jillian.”
Just the idea made her uncomfortable. “They’ve got to follow me around? They can’t just interview me?”
“That wouldn’t give them enough information for their format.”
She frowned. “What’s the publication?”
He coughed. “The Portland Gazette.”
Jillian stared at him. “The Portland Gazette? Are you out of your mind? They’ve taken every opportunity they can to trash the Children’s Connection. They tore Lisa to bits when her birth father showed up spreading lies and now they’ve driven Robbie away. And you want to work with them?”
“Actually, yes.”
His calm answer took some of the wind out of her sails. “Would you mind clarifying that for me?”
“We need the good press, Jillian. They can do things for us. We don’t have to like them to benefit from them.”
“What makes you think they won’t send someone who’ll twist everything out of shape?” she demanded. “Don’t you see? They’re coming in to dig up more dirt. What if they find out Robbie’s gone? If his probation officer finds out, he’ll be in violation. And being gone makes him look guilty.”
“Guilty of what?”
“Whatever they want, once the tabloids get hold of it.”
“First of all, I’d defy anyone to spend five days with you here and come away with anything but positive output. Second, this is a job profile, not a news piece. They run one every Sunday, starting on the front page and jumping to the employment section. I’ve read the series. They’re universally positive. The reporter guarantees it will focus on your work, not on the clinic. And I trust him.”
“You trust him? Who is—” And suddenly it all clicked. “Oh, no.”
“What?”
“No—” she shook her head “—it’s Gil Reynolds, isn’t it?”
“You know him?”
“I know him, all right, and this doesn’t have a lick to do with my work. This has to do with—” She stopped abruptly.
LJ gave her an interested smile. “This has to do with?” he prompted.
“Nothing,” she muttered. She wasn’t about to unveil her ridiculous private life to LJ. Or what passed for a private life for her, anyway. “How can you possibly want to work with him? He approved all those stories on Robbie.”
“I know,” he soothed. “But the Gazette’s a reputable paper. So they dropped the bomb on the Children’s Connection and Robbie. If they turn around and carry a story that plugs the clinic, it’ll carry that much more weight.”
“And what if the tabloid vultures come swooping in?”
“We can’t control what the tabloids do, Jillian. The Gazette can be our ally, if we let it. What helps the Children’s Connection helps Robbie.”
“You’re putting me in a corner, LJ.”
“Of course I am. And for the sake of the clinic, I’d do a lot more. In this business, you work with who you need to, not who you like. Come on, Jillian,” he coaxed, “do it for your favorite cousin?”
She glowered at him. “All right,” she said finally.
“Great.” He rose.
“You know, when I’d said you were my favorite cousin, I lied.”
“Drink some more of your tea,” LJ advised. “I’ve heard it’s calming.” Whistling, he walked out of the room.
It was absolutely infuriating. A job profile, her foot. The whole scheme had nothing to do with jobs—it had to do with Gil Reynolds being constitutionally incapable of taking no for an answer. He was a guy who’d always gotten exactly what he wanted without earning it, she diagnosed, one who’d never had to work because everything fell in his lap. And because she wasn’t dropping for him, he’d concocted this ridiculous scheme in a blatant attempt to get past her guard.
Which she hoped to God he couldn’t do. No way did she want Gil Reynolds in her head—bad enough he was already popping up in her dreams. Not that that was anything other than her subconscious processing anxiety, she reassured herself. It had nothing to do with actually wanting him. She didn’t know what wanting even was. Even the sex dreams she’d had about him were incomplete. One minute, they’d be kissing and clinching and she’d know—she’d know—that this was it. The next, he’d disappear, leaving her confused and wanting.
The same way he would probably disappear in real life if she told him she was a virgin at thirty-three. She was fully aware of just how freakish that was. And every year that went by, the thought of looking at a potential lover and confiding her secret was more daunting.
Not that it even mattered in this case. She was not about to let Gil Reynolds get to her. He’d already come after Lisa and Robbie with the Gazette. He wasn’t going to get his chance with Jillian.
Suddenly, her chamomile tea wasn’t remotely appealing. She needed something more. Rising, she stomped down the hall and over the land bridge to the break room in the hospital across the street. Chocolate. She knew it was only a crutch, but dammit, it was a crutch she needed.
She’d been neatly boxed in. She didn’t even want to speak with Gil, let alone have him glued to her hip for a week.
Glued to her hip.
That brought up way too many images she just didn’t want to deal with. Instead, she debated the merits of chomping nuts in a Snickers or crisps in a Kit Kat, finally electing to pass on both in favor of mainlining a Dove bittersweet chocolate bar.
Bittersweet. That about said it.
“You’re not looking happy.”
She turned to see Eden Carter standing behind her, all gorgeous and curvy and blond.
“Would you take it personally if I strangled the love of your life?” Jillian asked.
“Since he just got in about two hours ago and we haven’t had sex yet, yes,” Eden replied. “At least let me get in an orgasm or two, first.”
“He’s out of his mind.” Jillian stabbed the button that released her candy bar.
“He mentioned that you were a little upset.”
“Do you know what he wants me to do?” Jillian demanded. “Work with the Gazette. That paper’s been after us for years and he wants me to make nice with them.”
“News is news,” Eden said philosophically, feeding coins into the machine to get a package of fruit bites. “Give them a good story instead of something negative and maybe you can undo some of the damage.”
“That’s what LJ says.”
“And as much as it fries me to admit it, the man is usually right. Of course, if you tell him I said that, I’ll deny it to my dying breath.”
“Why couldn’t it be someone else?” Okay, so she was whining but wasn’t she allowed to once in a while?
“I don’t imagine anyone could come off as well as you do. You’re tops at your profession. You make people’s lives better and you never get ruffled. There’s no way that reporter’s ever going to get you to say the wrong thing.”
/> If anyone could, Jillian reflected, it was probably Gil Reynolds.
“Jillian, trust LJ,” Eden said. “We need all the help we can get.”
“I suppose,” Jillian said.
“I know.” Eden slung an arm around Jillian’s shoulders. “Anyway, it’s only a week. How bad can it be?”
She should have stayed and worked at bringing her notes up to date, Jillian knew. After staring into space for half an hour, though, it was clear to her that she wasn’t going to get anything done. She needed some peace to stop her mind from going in circles and she wasn’t going to get it in her office.
Jillian had never used the generous trust fund her parents had established for each of their children, preferring to make her own way in the world. The one exception was the money she’d drawn out for a down payment on her home in the Ladd’s Addition neighborhood of Portland. She barely remembered the first four years of her life, the ones where she didn’t have a home, but they’d been subtly encoded in her makeup. She craved security and she’d found it in the green-shingled Craftsman bungalow with its broad, welcoming front porch and dormer windows.
She’d bought it at twenty-five after grad school, when she’d jumped into the working world. It had been a labor of love, from the furniture and floors she’d refinished to the garden she lovingly tended. Working on it was her own form of meditation. It was the one place she truly felt safe.
And so she went to the garden and talked to the azaleas and rhododendrons and lilacs, plants that were like old friends, each of them known by face and by name. Barefoot, in shorts and a T-shirt, she pulled weeds, thinned the carrots in the vegetable garden. She watered the tomatoes, hot peppers and tomatillos in her salsa garden and admired the fuchsias that had begun to bloom in her hanging baskets. With shears, she cut some sweet pea blossoms to go into the old milk bottle that sat on her kitchen table.
“I thought I might find you here.”
Jillian jumped and whirled around to see a tall man with thick, undisciplined dark hair walk up.
Always A Bridesmaid (Logan's Legacy Revisited) Page 6
