by Lynde Lakes
At least the ordeal with the strangler was over. While writing the series, she’d gotten the journalistic high of a lifetime. She’d written about the mayor being duped by Zombolas and Tormont’s involvement, and about wealthy Coble who had started the ball rolling with his payoff for the removal of the toxic-waste. But even before it was all in print, the high faded, and she was left with her hunger for York’s hands touching her, his body sinking hotly and deeply into hers...
Good grief. She was a mess.
The rough times were at night when she went home to her empty apartment. She knew now that she wanted more than her job. She wanted York, and a little boy like Buddy, or a girl like Lisa, or both. Too bad, she couldn’t be an old-fashioned woman. In an especially bad moment, some wistful part of her drew her to make brownies. Afterward, feeling foolish, she froze them for the guest who would never come.
She clicked on her computer. She’d become a workaholic, putting in as many hours at home as at the office. It kept her from thinking, and the extra work had made her a star with Dirk. He’d strutted around the office, saying her series was the best of her career. Now it was time to write the ending. Interest in the dead Boston Strangler would soon fade.
At lunch the next day, Dory handed her one of the tabloids. “Have you seen this?”
Jen scanned the article and frowned. “Oh, no!” The scum rag had romantically linked her with both the strangler and the detective in charge of the case, giving names. The trumped up scandal was a double-edged sword—embarrassing to her and York, but good for The Globe because it rekindled interest in the strangler story.
“You’d better call Wylinski and smooth things over,” Dory said.
“No way. This just proves his opinion of reporters. Don’t be surprised when he comes storming into the office with fire in his eyes.”
But he didn’t come, and she was glad when Friday night finally rolled around. She left work early and escaped to her apartment.
While she showered, she listened to her favorite positive thinking tape. “Just get over it, and move on,” the man ordered. Platitudes. But they helped—a little.
She dried off, sprayed on White Shoulders to pick up her spirits, and put on the old-fashioned dress she’d worn when she’d first met York. She’d known from the start that the dress wasn’t her, never would be. Still, some tender part of herself wouldn’t let her take off this poignant reminder that their love was impossible.
Funny, she knew he loved her. Too bad he hated her job. Her skill as a reporter was the one thing she could count on.
York, York. Tears welled in her eyes. So she loved him, and he loved her. But he didn’t want her. She touched the bodice of the dress. He wanted a woman who would feel at ease in this lacey creation with its full skirt and tiny pearl buttons. Forget him. She groaned. As if she ever could.
Her door bell chimed, followed by annoying repeats. York? Had he come to chew her out for the tabloid article? Damn it, she wasn’t about to take flak for something that wasn’t her fault.
A surge of adrenaline sent her stomping across the apartment. She swung open the door and stared into York’s intense blue eyes. Her heart skipped a beat. He had a newspaper under his arm, but to her surprise there was no anger in his face.
The white and beige V-neck knit shirt he wore exposed a hint of dark chest hair and emphasized his broad shoulders. White jeans showed off his narrow hips and long legs to a mind-boggling advantage.
“Hi.” He looked her up and down and gave a half smile, revealing a glimpse of a dimple. The stupid dress probably gave him the wrong idea. She tried to speak, but couldn’t get the words past the constriction in her throat. The silence charged the atmosphere with ions that slammed against her whole being.
His imposing height and fit body with that iron-man stomach made her feel fragile and far too vulnerable. She cleared her throat. “What are you doing here?”
“I wondered,” he said in a husky voice, “that is...got anything sweet to eat?”
She blinked in surprise, then stepped back and gestured for him to enter. “Maybe.” Trying to hide the sly smile that stole across her lips, she whirled and headed for the kitchen. York followed and eased into a chair at the table, filling the room with his magnetism.
She put the coffee on, then with trembling hands removed the brownies from the freezer. She felt York’s gaze on her as she warmed them in the microwave. Chocolate wafted in the air.
When she placed a steaming square in front of him, he smiled. “Expecting me?”
No way would she admit that she’d made them hoping he’d come by. She joined him. “Is this visit about the case?”
“Nah.” York sipped his coffee. He held her gaze as though trying to figure something out. His eyes darkened. He took a deep breath and remained silent for several seconds. “I read your articles. Great stuff. You were meant to be a reporter.”
Meant to be a reporter, not his old-fashioned wife.
She wished she could’ve been both. Somewhere along the way, she’d even begun to consider ways to stay home long enough to start a family. There was always freelance work. But... “Coming from you that means a lot,” she said softly. She couldn’t tell him about the sleepless nights, the tears, how she’d thrown herself into her work like a drowning woman.
“I’m sorry you had to go through the aftermath alone. But I—” Pain flickered in his eyes. He covered her hand with his.
She should withdraw from his touch, but it felt too good. Jen looked at him, wanting some sort of explanation for his disappearance, but knowing he owed her none. She shifted in her chair. “I was surprised to learn you’d taken leave.”
“My dad took a turn for the worse—”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, God, no!” In all her imaginings, his father’s illness was never part of the scenario.
“It’s okay. He made it. But I couldn’t leave him or Mom as long as he was critical. I tried to call—”
“I’m sorry. If I’d known I would’ve come.”
“I know.” He picked up the newspaper he’d placed on the table. “Thought you might have missed something in here.”
He handed her the classified section. One of the ads was circled in red pen. Wanted: Thoroughly Modern Woman, Jen Lyman. No others need apply.
Hope flooded her heart. “But I thought—”
“Since the moment I set eyes on you, I knew you were the one.”
She touched the full skirt of her dress and gave it a swish. “This dress isn’t me, never will be.”
“We’ll discuss the dress later. I need to tell you something before I lose my courage.”
“You? Lose your courage?”
He gripped her upper arms and gave her a gentle shake. “Listen, will you? This is important stuff. I’ve learned to love your independence, your stubbornness.” He grinned. “Your brownies. And to appreciate your fierce loyalty. I didn’t want to. I thought I wanted a plastic woman who never existed.”
Her heart pounded. “But, you want me to give up my job?”
“I don’t want you to give up anything. Just add me to your life.”
“What about your stay-at-home wife?”
“We’ll work it out. Hire a housekeeper, a nanny. Anything you want. You do want children, don’t you?”
Her pulse fluttered in her throat. She nodded. She was afraid to believe her dreams were coming true.
He laughed, and she smiled at how happy he sounded. “Good,” he said. “We’ll make terrific kids together. Smart, loving kids.”
Jen stepped into his arms. They closed around her, solid and warm. She buried her face against the soft knit of his shirt and whispered under her breath, “I didn’t know it at first, but this is where I’ve always wanted to be.”
York’s hand brushed at a tear of joy that slid down her cheek. He lifted her chin, and she stared at him. His eyes riveted on her mouth. He lowered his head slowly, his heart thundering against her breast, matching her own wild heartbeat.<
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“Mmm,” she murmured at the familiar touch of his warm lips. He tasted so good, like chocolate and coffee. Like coming home. She feasted on his tongue sliding slowly and deeply inside the hungry cavern of her mouth. He slid a hand between their bodies and began to slowly unbutton the tiny pearl buttons on the bodice of her dress.
He stopped kissing her and met her gaze with mischievous eyes. “Like you said, this dress isn’t you, so let’s take it off.”
She laughed and tugged his knit shirt up over his pectorals. He bent a little to help. They slipped away one another’s clothes, hands trembling with eagerness, their bodies, growing hotter with each caressing stroke. Her delicate, sensitive core tingled and grew moist in anticipation.
When they stood naked before each other, their breathing quickened to eager gasps. York swept her from her feet and headed for the bedroom. Jen laughed. Never again would she wonder where she belonged. It was right here in his arms.
Epilogue
Six months later, her belly swollen with a symbol of their love, Jen smiled as she read about herself in the morning edition. Jen Lyman-Wylinski, The Globe’s star reporter took the city by storm with her Pulitzer prize winning Boston Strangler-Toxic Waste story, documenting corruption and collusion between the mayor’s assistant, Diego Zombolas, the Director Of Refuse, Tim Tormont, and wealthy businessman, Finstead Alexander Coble.
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