This Just In... (Harlequin Superromance)

by Jennifer Mckenzie

  Crap. In block letters and underlined twice.

  A low rolling boil started in her blood. Her work was not crap. The article was insightful and charming and fresh. The complete opposite of crap. This would have been gold in Wheaton. Sabrina reminded herself that she wasn’t in Wheaton anymore and scowled at the page when she read what was written below the underlined crap.

  You’ve gone soft?

  As if she’d gone soft. She’d fought and clawed and badgered anyone linked to her job for nearly a year looking for a toehold to come back. And she’d found it. How was that soft? Not to mention the fabulous red boots she was wearing. Given the right trajectory and force the tips could draw blood. Not even a little soft.

  In fact, she felt like kicking something right now. Or someone.

  The noise of the cubicled office added to her ire. Fingers hammering across keyboards like they were trying to communicate in Morse code, phones with the ringers turned up full blast and, worse, the conversations that followed, every person seemingly unaware that she could hear every detail being shared. No offense to any of them, but Sabrina didn’t want to know that Nerissa had slept with a guy who had a hair sweater hiding under his dress shirt last night, that Shirley’s niece was refusing to enter rehab and that Marvin’s wife had given the entire family food poisoning on the weekend.

  She thought longingly of her Wheaton apartment where the only sounds were the birds outside or Noah knocking on her door. But this wasn’t Wheaton.

  Sabrina wasn’t used to the cacophony of city living yet. Last night she’d actually woken up when a fire truck siren had roared past The Cave. She told herself that she just needed a little more time to settle in and ignored the tiny voice that asked if three weeks wasn’t long enough.

  Apparently not. It had probably taken her two months to get used to the quiet of Wheaton, so it made sense it would take at least that long to re-acclimate to the bustle of Vancouver.

  And she was doing better. She’d gone out with her old city friends twice last week. So she’d gone home early the second night. She’d been tired and what was wrong with admitting she needed a little beauty rest? She’d even glanced through the vacancy listings in the paper yesterday, though most longtime Vancouverites knew the only way to find a good apartment was through word of mouth or to call apartment management companies directly. By the time listings reached the public, the good ones were long gone.

  Still, she was making an effort.

  Sabrina shoved down the irritation threatening to spill over when the occupant of the cubicle next to hers—someone new who hadn’t been around when she left—answered his cell phone while already talking on his landline and thought it was reasonable to carry on conversations with both parties at the same time. Ridiculous.

  Well, she couldn’t stay here. How could any sane person work in this kind of environment? Without glancing around, she gathered up the papers and crammed them into her messenger bag. She’d deal with them, with everything, back at The Cave.

  Sabrina’s boots slammed against the sidewalk all the way home. She felt marginally better when she entered the dim apartment. For once, the space was blessedly quiet. Just a wash of sunlight trickling through her high windows and the squeaks that were common in older buildings. The Stompson Twins were probably still sleeping off their carousing from the night before. She’d heard them arrive home just after one in the morning, clomping around in their hard-soled shoes, turning on the stereo and walking back and forth until she felt like screaming. Though the noise only lasted about thirty minutes, Sabrina had stared at her water-marked ceiling until four.

  As she plunked her laptop onto the kitchen table—she hadn’t gotten around to setting up an office area—she considered making some noise herself to give them a taste of what it was like to live with ignorant neighbors, but hitting the ceiling with a broom seemed petty and like a lot of work. Not to mention she feared bringing down a rain of plaster on her head and who knew what else. Asbestos? Mold? A dead mouse? She shuddered and pushed aside the desire for revenge. She wouldn’t be here much longer, and she could put up with anything, even the Stompson Twins, temporarily.

  Her laptop hummed to life, and Sabrina pulled out the notes and read through them again. There were a lot. No easy fixes, but that was okay. She’d proved that she could handle tough assignments. Still, a cup of coffee wouldn’t go awry. She made a big pot and after pouring herself a jumbo cup, she sent off a quick email to the editor and staff, letting them know that she’d be working from home today. She didn’t worry that it would get lost electronically. Then she got down to work.

  The overriding tone of the notes was that she’d been too easy on her subject, a sweet nineteen-year-old actress who’d been working in Vancouver since she was a kid but had recently landed a role in a Hollywood blockbuster due to film this winter. Movie reviewers and bloggers believed the film would be the next Twilight or Hunger Games and would catapult the young actress and her costars into the celebrity stratosphere. Sabrina’s editor wanted her to be tougher. Everyone was writing fluff pieces—they’d stand out by being hard-nosed.

  But seriously, there was nothing hard about the girl. She’d been unfailingly polite, well-spoken, cheerful and quite funny. Charm and charisma were the hallmarks of any successful actor, Sabrina knew that, but this girl was the real deal. Exactly what was Sabrina supposed to write? She took a sip of her steaming coffee even though it scalded her tongue.

  Fine. They wanted snarky cattiness? She’d deliver. And she’d show everyone, her editor, her friends, her colleagues that her time in her hometown hadn’t turned her soft. Not even a little. That she was more than capable of handling anything the city might throw at her.

  The morning disappeared while Sabrina slaved over the words. She referenced her interview notes over and over, looking for pauses, phrasings that could be twisted to suit her purpose. She stopped only twice to refill her giant red coffee mug.

  The Stompson Twins arose, stormed around awhile and then left. Sabrina noticed only when their matching spindly legs caused a shadow to fall through her window. How two people with so little body fat could manage to make so much noise was a mystery. Other building residents came and went, their footsteps thumping on the concrete stairs outside. The coffee pot emptied. The sun passed its apex and began to descend.

  Sabrina remained glued to her laptop, writing, deleting, rewriting. She polished, revised and tightened. She checked her notes against the material she’d derived from other sources—the actress’s publicist, other news articles from reputable sources. Then she checked them again. As the last bit of daylight drifted away, she sat back, leaning against the hard wooden slats of her kitchen chair.

  Her butt was numb, her stomach churned from too much coffee and not enough food, her shoulders and forearms were tender from typing, but she was done.

  Her masterpiece was complete, and it was worthy of the title. She smiled as she read the lines. Sharp and clean and bitchy. Her editor would love it. So would all her city friends. Sabrina could imagine them now, laughing wildly over Sunday brunch as they repeated a particularly ruthless sentence.

  It would be her grand reintroduction. Her statement that this time she wouldn’t be leaving and that no one could take her place.

  But instead of soothing her, the laughing faces of her city friends changed and morphed into those of her friends in Wheaton. Marissa and Kyle. The kids. Ellen, Trish, Mrs. Thompson. George and all the friends she’d made at Cedar Oaks. Her customers at the coffee shop. Her parents.

  Noah.

  Only none of them were laughing. Their eyes didn’t shine with schadenfreude or approval. They didn’t smile or nod. Instead, they looked downright disappointed in her.

  Sabrina shook her head to clear it. Why was she thinking about them? The chances of them even reading the article were slim. Okay, fine. Maybe she’d received some em
ails and texts from town residents complimenting her on her article last week. Maybe they would read it. No big deal. They’d know that she was being facetious, that she didn’t really think poorly of the actress, right?

  But her stomach twisted and even when she poured the rest of her coffee down the sink and drank some water instead, it wouldn’t stop churning.

  This was crazy. She wasn’t soft. The actress would understand, if she even bothered to read it. It was just business, a way to sell papers. Nothing personal. And sometimes these snarky articles did more to increase the subject’s profile than the softball pieces their publicists were always angling for. Wasn’t that what the actress and her team were after? Coverage to increase name recognition, building her brand so that she could demand a higher salary and more perks in her next contract?

  Sabrina rinsed the cup out and stuck it in the rack to dry. Or would the actress feel like Marissa? As though she’d been betrayed by someone who’d acted like a friend. The churning grew more aggressive. Was this how Noah felt when she told him that she’d used her article on him to get her job back?

  Sabrina told herself it wasn’t the same situation at all. She and the actress had no personal connection and if the girl was naive enough to think that they were friends, then that was her fault. It would be a good lesson. She shouldn’t be so trusting with the media because there were plenty of jackals out there who wouldn’t pause to consider her feelings. They’d jump all over anything she said; some would even create rumor and supposition if they thought they could get away with it. Sabrina would be doing her a favor because her article wasn’t that nasty, just a little reminder of what the actress could expect from others if she didn’t protect herself more carefully.

  The taste of coffee lingered in her mouth. Sharp and bitter, even after she brushed her teeth. This wasn’t just about the coffee. She put her toothbrush away and returned to her computer. Maybe she could ease up on some of her snarkier observations a tad.

  But when she clicked on the menu to open her recent documents, a different title caught her eye. George Cuthbert. It had been the last article she’d written for the Wheaton Digest and had run the week after she left.

  No one had taken over the series. Sabrina knew because she checked the paper online every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. She knew she should be a bigger person, but she was glad the series had folded. It was hers, her idea, her baby and she didn’t like the idea of someone else putting their grubby paws all over it.

  Those interviews had been fun. There had been no publicists in the background ready to put a stop to the proceedings if they didn’t like the way the questions were framed or the answers their client gave. There was no hedging of words or spinning of stories. Of course people had wanted to show themselves in their best light. That was human nature. But no one had lied or obfuscated, refused to comment or claimed that a particular subject was off-limits.

  The young actress hadn’t, either. And Sabrina wondered who she herself had become. Was she really the kind of person who repaid someone’s openness and honestly with a vicious, baseless article?

  She blew out a breath, but the roiling inside her didn’t abate. Did she want to be the kind of reporter who attacked through words? Who made someone else feel bad to make others feel better?

  For the first time, she saw her article on Jackson through his father’s eyes. She’d gone after his boy with guns blazing and his father had fought back. And he’d been right. No, his son wasn’t a civic-minded, charitable member of society, but he wasn’t evil, either. Just shallow and self-centered.

  What she’d done to Marissa had been worse. Sabrina closed her eyes. So much worse. And yet Marissa had forgiven her. Had acknowledged her hurt and moved past it. And what had Sabrina done with all the goodwill that had been shown to her? Used it to get out of Wheaton, away from the kind hearts that had surrounded her and back to the cold, unforgiving city lights.

  She reopened the article on the actress. Then she highlighted the entire piece and clicked delete. Done.

  The corners of her mouth turned up even before the page blinked into a blankness. She wasn’t that kind of reporter anymore. Maybe she never had been. She’d just been fooling herself to think she could keep up the charade forever.

  The pain that had attached itself to her over the past weeks loosened. She wasn’t high-rise condos and metal furniture. She was a shared duplex with fuzzy couches and warm rugs and a lush garden out back. She wasn’t experimental theater and night clubs. She was concerts in the park at the annual Northern Lights festival. She was dinner with friends, not brunch after a night of heavy drinking. She wasn’t Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks. Okay, wait, she could still be those things. But she was also cotton dresses and bandannas for her hair, jeans and plaid shirts. She was red cowboy boots.

  Relief at finally admitting the truth trickled through her. Her arms no longer hurt and her stomach finally settled. Even that persistent ache behind her heart that she’d come to believe would be a constant companion eased, replaced by a radiating warmth. This was who she was, and she was okay with it. She didn’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not anymore. And she refused to spend another minute being someone she wasn’t. The deleted article was only the start.

  Sabrina Ryan was going home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE SOFT TAP AT THE dealership office door irritated Noah. A lot of things irritated Noah these days. Hadn’t he told the staff that he wasn’t to be disturbed this morning unless it was an emergency? Since there hadn’t been a loud boom indicating an explosion, there was no smoke sneaking under his door hinting at an inferno already ablaze, nor was there the splash and rush of water pouring from a pipe, he saw no explanation for why his orders had been ignored. Which meant they were bugging him over nothing. As usual.

  “Come in.” He was careful to keep the snappish tone out of his voice. No one at the office had done anything wrong and it wasn’t fair to take his irritation out on them. Still, he didn’t understand why they couldn’t grasp that he didn’t want to be bothered.

  The election was in one month and his campaign was in full gear. He and his team were going around this evening, putting up signs and posters around town. He noticed Pete had done so last night, which was illegal. Candidates had to wait until the election was thirty days away before posting election materials, but Noah wasn’t going to report the man. He’d beat him despite it.

  “Got a minute?” Kyle walked in without waiting for Noah to answer and shut the door behind him.

  “Just one.” Noah found that if he kept busy or gave the illusion of looking that way, people left him alone. It made the days easier to get through.

  “Make it two.” Kyle sank into the chair across from him.

  Noah met his brother’s gaze and tamped down his annoyance. Kyle wasn’t one to wander in for a chat or to ask a simple question. In fact, his brother had done a good job of running interference for him at the office by taking on a greater amount of the responsibilities and training the staff to come to him for certain questions. But Noah crossed his arms over his chest as encouragement for Kyle to state his business and then leave. “What is it?”

  Kyle paused to crack his knuckles. An old habit he’d had since he was a kid and a sign that Noah wouldn’t like what he was about to say.

  Tension coiled around Noah’s chest. He didn’t move. Just stayed silent. Watching and waiting. Knowing the hammer was about to drop.

  “I just got off the phone with Marissa.”

  Oh, hell. Was she pregnant? Again? Noah bit back the nudge of jealousy that rose. His baby brother already had four kids and a loving wife while he had none.

  Kyle kept talking. “She talked to Sabrina this morning.”

  The pressure flowed from Noah’s chest, up his neck and intensified along the line of his jaw. He could feel the muscle twitching, practically threateni
ng to pop through the skin and did his best not to let the strain seep into his voice. “I’ve told you I don’t want to hear this.”

  Kyle leaned forward, hands on his knees. His blue eyes pinned Noah. “She’s coming back.”

  For a second, Noah thought Kyle was playing a joke on him. A sick, cruel joke that would have any logical person filing for emancipation from his family. But the worried look in Kyle’s eyes told Noah this was no joke. He was telling the truth. Sabrina was coming back.

  He forced a shrug though it pained the muscles in his neck, which regularly felt like concrete when he got up in the morning. He rubbed at them now. “And?”

  “And I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”

  Noah started to shrug again, then realized that it probably looked like he was trying to project an image of disinterest. He was, but if he saw through it, so would others. Even his sweet, good-natured, look-for-the-best-in-others brother. So he converted the movement midshrug into an awkward shoulder roll that probably wouldn’t fool anyone, either.

  Kyle was polite enough not to mention it. But he watched. His kind eyes taking in everything. Everything Noah wanted to keep hidden.

  “So now you’ve told me.” Noah forced the words through the tightness in his throat. They scratched and clawed as they fought their way free. “Anything else?”

  So casual. As if this wasn’t a blow. As if he didn’t curse himself every day for letting Sabrina past those barriers he’d erected over the years. As if he hadn’t let his life twine with hers, twisting and merging together like the ivy that grew up the sides of the porch at the house. As if he hadn’t believed they were building something special together.

  He should have known. She’d told him she wasn’t staying. Not even implicitly with suggestions and hints. She’d been clear that she was in contact with her old editor, that she wanted her old job back. If he’d believed that her actions spoke louder than words, that with every turn of her head, every coy glance over her shoulder and stretch of her leg she was letting him know that she wouldn’t leave him, he had only himself to blame.