Several of her friends at school gave up riding when they were teens. Too many other things to do — sports teams, cheerleading and boys, boys, boys. Not Emma. She thrilled when her legs grew longer because she knew it would aid her in riding, give her better balance. She started with English equitation and proceeded into stadium jumping, then foxhunting and steeplechase. She was fearless. Although occasionally the horses changed, her passion for them never did.
When Dad lost his job, Emma was terrified that the family wouldn't be able to pay for her lessons. But she was determined. After getting the news and spending an afternoon in her room sulking, she straightened her shoulders, marched straight up to Mr. Grieder and told him she'd double her work chores, triple them if needed, if she could continue to ride and take lessons at his stables. Mr. Grieder agreed and a partnership evolved. Mr. Grieder added to her chores and used her to exercise the boarded horses whose owners paid for that service. Of course, it wasn't work to Emma. It was what she lived for.
Now, she was a grown woman with a career and an apartment of her own. She'd been riding for over fifteen years now. Although her time commitment had to decrease because of her work schedule and other commitments, her love and passion for the horses never had. She made it a priority to come out here at least once a week. Although money never exchanged hands in either direction, she'd check in with either Mr. or Mrs. Grieder to find out how she could help that day. It was therapeutic.
Today, she pulled her car into the same gravel parking lot she remembered from her first visit. Another mongrel, this one named Rex, came running over, barking. She got down on her knees to make it easier for him to jump up and lick her face.
He got his fill of her and wandered off. She straightened and walked to the barn.
“Hello?” she called when she entered. Quiet peacefulness swept through the large building. Dust from the enclosed riding arena hung in the air, tiny sparkles glittered when intersected by sunbeams. The arena was abandoned of riders. “Anyone?”
Horse snorts and hoof pounds gave her a feeling of home.
“Hey, little lady.”
She turned at the beloved voice. Mr. Grieder stepped up behind her, leading a compact white horse on a line, its neck arched and tail carried high. The animal was exotic-looking with blue eyes, an unusual color for a horse.
“Hi Mr. G. Who do we have here?”
He turned to consider the equine beauty. “This here's Aladdin, a new boarder.”
She stepped carefully to him and offered her outstretched palm. The horse sniffed her hand and then puffed air out. An acceptance of her, if she ever saw one. She dug in her pocket for a stub of the carrot she'd brought, cut into three pieces. She put the treat on her palm and held it out to him again. He nuzzled her palm with his velvety muzzle and swiped the treat away, munching contentedly while twitching his tail.
“Hello, Aladdin. Nice to meet you. He's a beauty.”
“He's a full bred Arabian. Good stock.”
“I don't think I've ever seen an Arabian in person.”
“You got some time?”
Emma smiled. That was his customary way to broach her chore assignment. “You bet.”
“Would you give this one a bath? Use the hose over there and the sponges, and because he's so white, you use the bluing like they use in the laundry. Helps his coat sparkle. Then, walk him around outside till he's pretty dry. Doesn't have to be perfect, but the drier the better. Then put his blanket on him and put him back in the stall.”
She gave a single head bob. “Sounds good, Mr. G.”
“Then feel free to take Apple for a spin. Either indoors or out, your choice. He could stand to stretch his legs, the ole boy.”
She gave him a grin. He knew she loved riding, and loved Apple. Her reward for working hard on Aladdin's coat.
The hours passed happily as she completed her work with Aladdin, then took Apple for a leisurely trail ride in the woods surrounding the stables. They both enjoyed the full-out gallop she coaxed him to, returning home across the open field once the barn was in sight. Nothing caused her heart to pound like the exhilaration of horse racing.
As she walked Apple to cool him down, then groomed him, then fed him and said her farewells, her mind slipped back to the one person she had needed a mental distraction from. Jeremy Harrison. Since she left his house yesterday in an angry huff, a moment barely passed when she wasn't thinking of him. She'd tortured herself several times, replaying her angry interview questions on tape, cringing at her unprofessionalism. She heard his responses and his diligent attempt to answer honestly and calmly until she'd pushed so hard, he couldn't help but explode in frustration. Yes, he'd broken the law. Yes, he'd screwed up his father's company, and along with it, her father's job and livelihood.
But instead of hating him, she now felt something … different. Sorry for him? No, absolutely not. He deserved his sentence and he'd paid the consequence without asking for any special favors. Now he was released from prison and determined to make his own way in the world. He wasn't asking for sympathy.
Intrigued by him? Yes, maybe. Did it have only a little to do with his rugged good looks? His dark hair, flung back from his face, just a bit too long, with a subtle trace of curl at the ends. His jaw line, noticeably pronounced, covered with the faint stubble of whiskers. His bright blue eyes — definitely the most captivating thing about his face, the color of a Carolina summer sky. And his lips. No. She wouldn't think about the man's lips. Definitely not. Because then she'd have no choice but to rate the kissability of those lips — and since they were full and sensual, housing the bright white, straight teeth underneath that he'd graced her with on the rare appearance of his smile — she'd have to give his lips high marks.
She began her walk to the car, waving over her head at Mr. G. Stop it. His face was simply his face. Everyone had one. So, his happened to be handsome. So what? It had absolutely nothing to do with her involvement with him. From this day forward, her interest in him was purely professional. He was an interview subject, he had an unpleasant connection to her family and he was trying to make his way in the world. She'd do her job, get her interview, and then leave him the hell alone.
She drove north back to Myrtle with her plan made, her work cut out for her. Research his story so she could make good use of their limited time together. Keep her anger in check and her head on straight. And ignore the completely inappropriate budding of attraction that she felt for him. No problem.
She sighed. Now, she just needed to wait for his call.
* * *
The doorbell rang and as many times as he'd lectured himself about staying calm and steady, his pulse started to race. Along with it, his breath got a little shaky. Dang! What was wrong with him? He'd faced plenty of conflict and adversity in his life. Facing a beautiful female reporter with a connection to someone he'd wronged ten years ago, and answering her justifiably angry questions about his actions, didn't even hit his Top 10 Most Difficult Life Situations.
Did he say beautiful?
He made his way to the door, willing his mind to ignore the fact that yes, the fair Ms. Slotky was beautiful with her long brown hair, fit body and a face that could grace the cover of beauty magazines.
He came to a stop with his hand on the knob and gave his head a stern shake. But her appearance had nothing to do with him, or why she was here, or what he needed to do today. He would try to neutralize the situation, and give her the information she needed to write a decent story about him. A story that would satisfy Neil and allow him to move forward and focus on his business.
He took a breath, pushed it out and opened the door. “Ms. Slotky. Nice to see you again. Please, come in.” He gestured with a broad arm of welcome.
“Thank you.” She came in and looked up at him. “Please, no need to be so formal. Call me Emma and I'll call you Jeremy. Is that all right with you?”
“Of course. Could I interest you in a cold drink?”
This time, she accepted so
he strode to the kitchen and got her a class of iced water. She had followed him into the kitchen so when he turned, she was sitting at the table, readying her laptop. He got himself a glass too.
“Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
“No.” He wondered if she'd listened to the recording of their last conversation.
When it appeared she was ready to begin, he said, “Emma, I …” just as she began with, “Jeremy, there's something …”
They both came to a stop and Emma chuckled. Jeremy said, “Go ahead.”
She nodded. “I just wanted to apologize for my unprofessionalism last time I was here.”
He shook his head. “No, please. That's not necessary.”
“No, really. My job is to ask you appropriate questions so you can open up and tell me your story. I was angry when I came in here and I let that anger affect the interview. So, I'm sorry.”
He held his tongue. He wasn't used to people apologizing to him and no matter what she'd done, it wasn't nearly as bad as what he'd done — to her family, if he'd gotten his intel right.
“Well, I was going to apologize to you, so you beat me to it.”
She furrowed her brow. “Why would you apologize to me? I was the one who was rude.”
He sighed and moved his glass in a small circle on the table, widening the wetness on the wood. “You gave me your business card, and your last name sounded familiar. So I asked my dad for help and he reminded me that we'd hired your father. Gary Slotky?”
Her face blushed a sudden red, and she turned away.
“Is that your dad?” he asked quietly, not wanting to hurt her, but needing to bring the truth out in the light.
“Yes.” She brought her hands up to her hair and pushed it off her shoulders, flung it behind her so her face was unencumbered.
He put his head down and wondered what to say next. “Then your anger was warranted. I had it coming.”
A slight glimmer of a smile passed her lips. “Regardless. I pride myself on my professionalism. Our last meeting wasn't my finest hour.”
He turned his head so he could see her. “Would you like to talk about our … connection?”
Her response was swift. “No.”
That was fine with him. He didn't really want to talk about it either. He just wanted to do a conflict-free interview so she could move on and write her article.
“How long ago were you released from prison?”
“Three months ago. This past August.”
“How has your assimilation into society been?”
“Just fine.”
She looked up at him. “You want to expand on that?”
He cleared his throat. “It's good to be out.” He smiled.
She grinned. “King of the understatement, I see. So, what is your routine like now?”
“Right now, I’m working out of my home here, in my backyard, so I just get started. No commute.” He took a look at her face to see if she’d acknowledge his lame attempt at levity. She had been making some notes on paper. She stopped and looked at him again.
“Then what?”
“On a really good day, I have hours on end to work on my furniture. Once I'm in the zone, I could go all day and night. Sometimes I have several pieces going at the same time, in different stages of development. Sometimes just one and I focus all my energy on that. I build wooden furniture, tables, dressers, chairs, whatever the customer wants, really.”
“Where did you learn to do it?”
“In prison. They had a woodshop and I signed up for classes twice a week. Once my work was done for the day I was allowed to work on my wood pieces for an hour or so a night. I ended up finishing a few and sold them online. They let me deposit the money in my account and I'd use it to buy more supplies. I gained some good skills.”
“So your hope is to build up this furniture building business into a livelihood?”
“Yes.”
“Have you thought about getting a day job, then doing your furniture at night?”
He hesitated and wondered how honest he should be with her. He shrugged. “It's difficult for someone in my position to get a full-time job.”
“Your position?”
“Yes, someone with a record, an ex-offender. Employers aren't usually willing to give a chance to someone with a past. Not that I blame them, don't get me wrong. There's so many people looking for work in this economy, why not take the best choice you got? And that's rarely someone who's spent time in jail.”
“Do you think someone like yourself couldn't work successfully for an employer?”
“Oh no, no that's not what I meant at all. If given a chance, I would work hard and be very loyal to an employer. And maybe someday I'll find one. But for the most part, for every job opening there's a line out the door applying for it. Employers have the luxury of weeding out the candidates and picking the best. In most cases, an employer wouldn't allow someone with a record to rise to the top.”
“Do you feel discriminated against?”
Jeremy was starting to wish he'd never gone down this line of conversation. Verbal communication was never particularly his strength; he was best with his hands. How would he get his meaning across without sounding like he was a) complaining or b) feeling sorry for himself?
“Do I feel discriminated against, because I broke the law and went to prison? Yes, I'd have to say I do. But do I deserve every bit of that discrimination? Yes, I do. If I were in the employer's place, making decisions about who to bring into my business and I had a choice between a solid citizen with a good work record, and some guy who'd just been let out of the joint, I'd pick the non-offender too. I can't blame them. But I still have to support myself somehow.”
“Have you considered going on social services like welfare?”
“No. I'm healthy, educated and I have skills. I just need to work hard and produce and stay clean and honest, and I'll make it. I've never been afraid of hard work and I don't mind putting the hours in. I just made some really stupid mistakes when I was younger and I'll do whatever I have to, to get over those.”
They wrapped up the interview and Emma asked to see the furniture. She grabbed her bag, unzipped it and pulled out a big camera with a long lens. He opened the back door and let her pass in front of him, trying not to take a subtle sniff of her hair as she walked by.
Coconut scent.
He had pulled a few in-progress pieces from his shed and they sat on a tarp in the backyard. A twin dresser and the long kitchen table, then the start of a bookshelf. The dresser was virtually done, just awaiting one more coat of stain. The table was solid and sturdy, but required more sanding. The bookshelf was just a shell right now, a frame and four shelves. Emma stalked around them, snapping photos from different angles.
“Tell me about these pieces,” she said, squatting to get a better angle of the dresser's intricate wood design.
“These are all commissioned pieces. I'm being paid to custom-build them for clients.”
“How does that work?” She moved to the kitchen table and leaned in close to its surface, making him wonder how the final shot would look.
“I have a catalogue on my website to give clients ideas of what I could make them, but I'm also able to customize whatever piece they have in mind. Usually I sit down with a client and get an idea of what they're looking for — dimensions, color, style — before I get started on it.”
She moved on to the bookshelf and took a few shots before turning back to him. “Do you have more?”
He nodded. “Yes. I don't have the space here to store my completed inventory. My sister has a storage shed and she's been nice enough to give me some space at her place.”
“How much do you have stored over there?”
Jeremy thought. “A couple desks, a few more bookshelves, a full bedroom set.”
Emma dropped her arms holding the camera. Without thinking, he moved closer and took it from her. She gave him an odd look.
“Oh, I'm sorry
. It looked heavy. I didn't mean to grab it from you.” He handed it back to her.
She chuckled. “It does get heavy. I only use it for article photos. The magazine prefers the type of shots it takes.” She took it back from him. “I'd love to see the rest of your pieces but I don't have time today. How about I write the article and take a look at the photos I already have, then I'll decide if I have room for more in the layout?”
“Sure.”
“I'll be in touch.” She walked toward the door. Jeremy hustled to keep up with her. Guess they were done. Good. Ever since Neil had told him about the article, he couldn't wait for it to be over. This was what he wanted.
He followed her through his house to the front door. As if as a second thought, she stopped suddenly and turned back to him, almost causing him to collide into her. He caught himself and stepped back.
“See? We were able to be professional.”
He nodded and soaked in the sight of her happy grin, her striking lips spreading to expose straight white teeth, transforming her eyes into sparkling beacons of happiness. “Yep, you're right, we were.”
She ducked her head, staring at her feet for a second, then back up at him. “I'm glad I gave you a chance. You're not exactly the monster I'd made you out to be in my mind.”
With that, she took off down the front porch steps, across his tiny yard and into her car. Good thing she hadn't hung around because he had no idea how to respond to that sentiment.
* * *
Emma started her car and drove away from there as quickly as she safely could. She'd done her professional duty. She'd gone back to her interview subject, apologized for her previous rude behavior (as much as it had killed her to do it) and she'd conducted a successful interview. She now had the information and photos she needed to complete her assignment; write her article and layout the format for the magazine pages.
Pawleys Island Paradise boxset, Books 1 - 3 Page 29
