“Good, you’re back!” he called out. The forty-something man stuck a pair of pink leopard-print reading glasses on top of his mostly bald head and folded his arms, crinkling a silk shirt. “Mr. O’Donnell’s assistant called. She’d like you to call her back. Don’t mess this up, Hara.”
Before she could answer, a familiar voice pierced the air behind them.
“Harrrr-aaaa!”
She winced, not turning around. “You told her, didn’t you?”
“I’m sorry.” Carter dipped his head. “I thought she knew—”
“That’s right! He told me. Not you!” Willa Isari marched up to her daughter. “Hara! This is so exciting! How could you keep it from me!”
“Mother, calm down. I just found out today.”
Willa looked like she just might vibrate apart, bouncing on her heels and grinning. The small woman flipped her long, dark curls out of her attractive face—vibrant, despite her years of picking apples and riding tractors in the wind and sun—and put a hand dramatically to her chest. “Hara. Please,” she said quietly, “just tell me it’s true. You’ve been invited to a cocktail party with the richest people in Boston?”
“What? No—”
“Actually,” Carter interrupted them, “yes. The assistant said they’ll fly you in this Friday. They’re going to set you up in a guest suite at the O’Donnells’ house. There will be a cocktail party to celebrate the start of the season. At some point in the evening, you will have twenty minutes with Butler, to ask him questions. Which, by the way, need to be preapproved.” The editor in chief’s lips twitched down. “They are footing the bill, but I’m not sure how I feel about limiting what we ask. I just hope Charles actually answers the questions.”
I guess I will have to wear high heels and makeup, Hara thought. Mom’s dream come true. Her thoughts turned into a swirling blob; an already highly stressful interview had just morphed into an invitation to the palace ball. Wtf? Now she not only had to worry about making a man who was famous for shunning the press actually speak to her, she had to dress up to do it.
“Well, I know how I feel about this!” said her mother. “We have so little time! We need to make an appointment immediately to get your eyebrows under control. You definitely need a bra fitting. And clothes! I have no idea how we’ll afford it, but you are going to that party dressed to the goddamn nines. Those rich, eligible bachelors are going to swoon when you walk down those stairs. I will make sure of it.”
“What stairs? Are you crazy? This is an interview—”
Her boss cleared his throat. “I can lend you a dress, Hara, from my mother’s closets. And there are probably shoes that fit.” Carter’s very wealthy, socialite mother had passed away the year before but the son kept her closets intact, to be close to her, or so he claimed. “You will want to blend in. But it’s more important to spend your time preparing for this story.”
“More important—!” Hara’s mother clenched her fists.
Hara put a hand on her mother’s forearm. While irritated, she had to fight back a laugh at the anguish in the older woman’s eyes. All over clothes and meeting men. “Simmer down, Mom. You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’ll leave you two to it,” Carter tossed over his shoulder as he rose and trotted back to his office.
Patting her mother’s arm, gently, Hara said, “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s not do this where I work.”
Willa peered around the room with an arched eyebrow. “Mm hm.”
“This is my job.” Hara pushed her black-framed glasses up her nose, the better to stare at her mother. “You know, how I make money. To help pay the bills.”
Willa thrust an envelope into Hara’s hand. “Here. Speaking of bills, here’s your mail.” She turned to go but then swung back around. “I do agree with one thing Carter said: This is a chance not to be wasted. I’ll see you at home.”
Hara dropped the student loan bill on her desk. The young reporter’s head began to throb. Hearing the door slam behind her mother, she slumped into a chair.
I need to take up day drinking.
She wished her mother could get behind her on this. Hara’s childhood had ended when her father went away, leaving her with a tightly wound Willa and only a few friends willing to stick by her. For years, walking through the aisles of the local grocery store had been a minefield of gossip and stares. She’d learned how to tune out people who were negative—though that sometimes felt like everyone around her.
She’d thought if she could prove she was smart and likable, the town gossipmongers would realize she was worthy and that her parents were still the same people they’d always been, farmers who’d grown up in this town and met at the local high school. At first, the young couple had struggled with bigoted bullshit aimed at their relationship, but both were so popular, they’d been named homecoming king and queen their senior year.
Hara struggled with plenty of her own bullshit at that school, and still graduated at the top of her class. She did have friends, but had spent zero time partying. Her free time consisted of picking apples, studying for AP literature, and rereading her favorite Jane Austen books. No homecoming title for her.
As a senior, she took on an internship at the local paper and started churning out her version of the Bleacher Report. Hara Isari liked sports and writing about sports. Carter encouraged her, printing her work and helping her get scholarships, but, according to a few of the town’s loudmouthed hillbillies, it was just one more thing wrong with her, a girl who thought she was an authority on football.
It was too bad. There was a lot to love about her little town, including the tree-lined streets circling the quaint city park, and the artists and loggers who coexisted with tech workers and telecommuters. Most of the citizens were decent, hardworking people who kept to themselves.
She’d left for college and hadn’t looked back. At least, until she’d graduated and realized she needed a full-time gig if she wanted to eat.
So here I am. Back in the thick of it.
The biggest difference between then and now was that now she had to cover the town beat in order to get paid. Stories on bunco games, drunken tractor driving, and the new flagpole in front of the Elks Lodge. Mind-numbingly boring, but it allowed her to spend her evenings writing and submitting freelance sports articles. So far, only a few had been picked up and nothing had gone viral.
To be honest, the biggest and most important difference between now and then was that now she realized she was partly to blame for her teen angst, that she’d pushed away the people who might have been there for her. Like her mother, and even Carter. Given a little time and space, she’d come to see that she’d hardened her heart. As an adult, she knew she needed friends, and was willing to look for the good in most people—though she immediately backed away if she sensed something off. Hara had perfected the art of living by first impressions.
Outside, clouds scudded across the sky like rocks skipping in slow motion across a darkened pond. Hara shivered. The wind was really picking up. She hoped it wasn’t going to storm. They hadn’t finished bringing in the apples yet.
Hara was staying out at the orchard for free, helping if her mom was short-handed, even if that meant giving her more opportunities to describe, in detail, how Hara could capture a man. She wasn’t sure how much longer she was going to be able to take it.
It had been a very long and depressing year, in which she’d faced multiple rejections from bigger papers, the usual response being “we aren’t hiring.” The underlying, real message was “we aren’t hiring young girls.” Sportswriting was a tight field, anyway, but throw in her age and her sex and Hara feared she was going to have to settle for beat reporting until she could prove herself. It was one thing to cover the local stories and events for Carter in the interim, but she did not want this as a career. She wanted the excitement of action on the court or in the field.
She wanted what she couldn’t get at a small-town newspaper and definitely not out at the orcha
rd, drowning in apples and unwanted advice.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t want a boyfriend. But she didn’t want someone because they were rich, nor did she want a man drawn to her only because she was thin and had shiny hair. She craved a man who would be drawn to her because she was talented and smart.
Hara wanted to be taken seriously—as a woman and as a reporter. Part of why she stuck with her big eyeglasses and wore bulky cardigans was to de-emphasize her sexuality. Admittedly, that got old, but better than people thinking she was stupid or shallow simply because her face was nice and her boobs were perky. She hated that. More than anything.
Well, okay, more than anything, she hated that she cared what other people thought. But she did.
Somehow the Charles Butler story had dropped into her lap. She had to jump at the opportunity. If she held back, she lost a chance to prove herself to the world. And to her mother. Hara closed her eyes and smiled, resolute not to let anyone spoil the mood.
Truth be told, she was also excited about the chance to go through Carter’s closets. Maybe this was one of those times she could be a smart career-oriented woman and a girl who liked to dress up, and it would be okay.
Hara had a free trip to Boston. Why waste it?
She clicked on the computer and went into her Google Docs. There it was. The most current version of her résumé. She hit print, and then looked up the street address for Boston’s biggest newspaper, City Gazette.
Her boss was back. Carter glanced at the résumé but pretended not to see it, instead handing her a slip of paper. “Here’s the assistant’s number,” he said, drawing up a chair. “You know, I’m not sure why they’re throwing this VIP treatment at an unknown reporter, including a press pass and a stay at the owner’s residence. I want you to be careful, Hara. O’Donnell and the other owners are forcing Butler into this PR stunt and tossing a young reporter to the lion. You won the writing contest, but I’m not sure the prize is worth it. I feel like they are buying a story.” Frown lines marched from his eyebrows back to the middle of his smooth, bald head. “I’m probably doing the wrong thing, letting you go.”
“No way! I can do this! I promise, I’ll be fair and unbiased, even if I have to use their questions.”
“They’re not really giving you a chance to develop much more than a puff piece. Is it worth it?” The older man tapped his chin, thinking. “I guess we can view this as a stepping-stone. Building connections. I just worry you’ll get the reputation as a lightweight writer. Yet, I’d hate to take an opportunity from you.”
“Then don’t. I’m a big girl. I can do this.”
“Should I get you a hotel room? I’ll pay for it myself, if that’ll make you more comfortable. This is just too weird, them offering to host you.”
“Let me talk to the assistant, okay? See how long I’ll be there and what it’s like at the house?” Hara grinned. “I mean, would you turn down staying the night in a mansion? Come on, that alone makes the trip worth it.”
CHAPTER 3
My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.
—Pride and Prejudice
The Boeing 737 finally landed.
It took a while for Hara to get her bearings. Business-class legroom—thanks to Carter—and a comfortable, oversize sweater with yoga pants had not been enough to overcome roller-coaster turbulence and a seatmate who whispered over a rosary for almost six hours.
The ground still swayed as she dragged her carry-on suitcase out of the Boston airport.
Thankfully, the Lincoln Town Car Mr. O’Donnell had promised waited for her at the curb, complete with a chauffeur holding up a small white sign reading Isari. Instantly, her equilibrium was back, righted by a flash of tingling glee. She felt famous. Discombobulated and in disarray, but famous. The driver opened the back door and helped her into the car.
Madeline Bingley waited for her in the vast back seat, separated from the front by a black tinted partition. The doll-sized, doll-faced woman was the executive assistant to the team’s part owner, Mr. O’Donnell, and she was perfect and beautiful and terrifying.
“Hara, so nice to meet you.” Madeline briefly offered a dainty hand, then smoothed back her short, white-blonde hair. She wore a striped business suit, cropped and tailored to fit her slender frame, paired with satiny pumps and an on-point popped collar. The fancy leather portfolio on the seat beside her probably cost more than Hara’s monthly paycheck from the paper.
After the greeting, the executive assistant spent the ride turned away from Hara, speaking in code during a continuous stream of phone calls. Hara had to consciously unclench her jaw a number of times. Not because she was ignored, but because Madeline had the odd habit of fluctuating between a professional tone one minute to a baby voice the next.
“Teddy, we are going to need that account opened by this afternoon. Okay? Kisses!” the assistant cooed into the phone with a high-pitched giggle—yet her face remained stony. The woman dealt with sports stars and millionaires, apparently getting her way by adapting different personas.
They had been slogging through Boston traffic for what seemed forever, Hara pretending to answer emails, when Madeline suddenly pulled the cell from her ear, looked at an incoming message, and jabbed at a button on the car ceiling.
“Driver? I need to make a stop at the administration offices before we go to O’Donnell’s residence. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the crackly response over the intercom.
Soon enough, they were pulling up in front of a row of high-rise office buildings. Madeline gracefully extracted herself from the back seat with a promise to return in a few minutes. Before the assistant could cross the wide sidewalk, however, Hara realized she was letting an opportunity slip by and rolled down the window. She called out, “Madeline? Do you think I could come in with you? Start getting the flavor of the organization for my story?”
The assistant blew air out of her dainty nose, running her eyes over Hara pointedly. “Hmm. Maybe another time.” She went into the building without another word.
Deflated, Hara looked down at her street clothes, touched her messy bun. The woman might have a point but not manners.
Cacophonous city street sounds and Boston’s clammy fall air flooded the car’s interior. She tried to roll up the window but found it locked. When she pushed the intercom button, the driver didn’t respond.
Before she could get up the gumption to lean forward and tap on the partition, a man’s voice came from somewhere behind the Lincoln, surprising her not only because he sounded so close but because his voice was so deep. His baritone rolled across her like a smooth drum, resounding through her body, soothing while tantalizing.
“I told you, I won’t be at the meeting. I need to fill out some paperwork,” he said calmly. Then his voice went up in pitch, agitated. “Seriously? Why do we have to keep having this conversation?”
He must have been on the phone, considering the silent pauses. Hara wanted to get a look at the guy with the gorgeous radio voice but he was out of her immediate line of sight and she didn’t want anyone to think she was eavesdropping, at least not on purpose. She jabbed at the window control, trying again to roll it up, but still a no go. She let her head drop back onto the seat and closed her eyes, faking sleep.
“Stop saying that. I’m not just playing at games. I’m good at what I do.” Hara jumped when the invisible man barked out a harsh laugh, one which revealed quite a bit of hurt. “Oh, okay, Dad. Only you would be embarrassed to have a professional athlete as a son.”
The man with the amazing voice and terrible father had to be a Fisher. He was standing in front of the Fishers’ administrative offices; he had to be one of their basketball players. How did someone get to be a professional athlete and still have a father who put him down? Never thought I’d feel sorry for a guy paid to play a game. At least her dad believed in her, even if he couldn’t be around. Slowly edging across the seat, she tried to poke her head out the window just far
enough to see who was talking without being seen.
Leaning against the hood of the car parked behind her was Derek Darcy. The rookie she’d been discussing with her father.
In real life, this close, the full impact of his melodious voice and square jaw and height and his broad shoulders and his taut chest muscles was not lost on her. Not in the slightest.
“I take it you won’t be at the game tomorrow—” He glanced over his shoulder and stopped.
Their eyes locked. Hara, caught spying on him, felt a blush sizzle up her neck to the top of her head. But his eyes … she had never seen anything like them. A stunning molten copper color, fringed with heavy black eyelashes, contrasting perfectly with skin that reminded her of a polished stone, dark, smooth, and glistening. His laser-focused gaze was reminiscent of that of a lion, noble and intense, possibly ready to attack.
Before she could duck her head back inside, he quirked an eyebrow and said evenly, “Can I help you?”
She didn’t answer at first, hoping he was talking to the person on the phone, that he wasn’t staring right at her. But, no. He hung up, lowered the phone, and kept eye contact, his coppery eyes revealing nothing.
“S-s-sorry,” Hara stuttered. Quickly, she leaned back … and cracked the side of her head on the window frame. “Fuumphhh,” she said in a moan, clamping down on a curse. Only she could be so brilliantly clumsy in front of a basketball star. Pressing her body into the seat, she put a hand to her head, mortification and pain combining to create a fantastic fireworks show behind her eyes.
“You might consider minding your own business,” Derek Darcy’s voice rumbled from out of her view. “That was probably karma.” It was hard to tell if he was irritated or amused.
“Yep. You’re right, thanks,” she called out, trying to sound cheery, groaning internally. Nothing to see here, move along now. Hara scooted to the far side, as if that could rewind time.
The Wrong Mr. Darcy Page 2
