by Melody Grace
She shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “No.”
“Me neither,” Cal admitted quietly.
Eliza thought about his life, which on the outside seemed so effortless and easy. But the more she got to know him, the more she realized the weight Cal was carrying, just out of view. “It can’t be easy, being the one in charge.”
Cal looked cautious, as if he wasn’t sure if she was teasing him again, but then he relaxed. “I can’t complain. I know I have all this privilege . . . But actually being CEO?” He gave her a lop-sided grin. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for it. Tish should be the one running things,” he added. “She’s got that steely determination, she can just switch off. Look at the numbers on the page, and not think about all the lives they represent.”
“You say that like empathy is a bad thing,” Eliza smiled.
“For this job? I don’t know.” Cal sighed. “I just don’t want to let anyone down. The work we do at the Foundation is so important, but it couldn’t exist if the Prescott Group wasn’t thriving. Sometimes, I wish I could just quit everything else and focus on that full-time.”
“Heavy sits the head that wears the crown,” Eliza quoted lightly.
He smiled down at her. “Sorry, I’m complaining.”
“You’re allowed.”
“Really? Even as a summer person?”
Eliza winced. “OK, maybe I jumped to conclusions about you. Just a little. But in my defense, losing that job . . . it really hurt.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.” Cal squeezed her shoulder. “Do you want it back?”
Eliza blinked. She pulled away from him, searching his face. “Are you serious?”
Cal gave a bashful smile. “I mean, I am the owner now. If I called the editor and told him to reinstate you . . .”
Eliza’s mind raced. She could be back in the newsroom by first thing Monday morning, working on features, part of the team again . . .
Except . . .
She deflated. “No. You can’t,” she said, realizing with a heavy heart just how impossible that would be. “Everyone would know it was just because we were dating. They’d never respect me again.”
“Are you sure?” Cal checked.
“Yes,” Eliza said, miserable. But it was true. People got parachuted in all the time—interns, the son or daughter of someone important—but the regular staffers kept them at a distance. They hadn’t earned their spot with work or talent, and everybody knew it. She could only imagine the gossip if she showed up there again—only for word to slip that Cal had pulled strings to get her in. “I’ll figure something out on my own,” she said reluctantly. “But thank you, for offering.”
“You’ll find something,” Cal said, sounding more certain than Eliza felt. “You’re too talented to stay out of the loop for long.”
“Tell that to LuAnn’s Manners. It’s my new project,” she explained, seeing his confusion. “The local newspaper. I’m whipping it into shape.”
“Unearthing the big news scandals in Sweetbriar Cove?”
Eliza laughed. “Not so much. The first edition should be back from the printer tomorrow.”
“Put me down for three copies.”
Cal pulled her closer and dropped a kiss against her forehead. She snuggled back against him. She was getting sleepy now, the sound of the ocean lulling her half-asleep. “This is nice,” she whispered, and felt Cal hold her tighter.
“I know. I don’t think I’ve ever been with someone like this . . .”
He stopped, and Eliza saw again the strange, conflicted emotions she felt written all over his face.
“We’re the same, you and me,” she whispered, and she leaned up to kiss him softly. “That’s why we can’t stay away from each other.”
Cal smiled in recognition. “Gee, that sounds familiar,” he teased. “Somebody really smart must have said that.”
Eliza smiled. “He has his moments.”
She yawned and Cal got to his feet. “C’mon, sleepyhead. The news won’t break without you. Time for bed.”
* * *
The next morning, Cal found Eliza silently moving around the bedroom, pulling her clothes back on. He watched under half-shut eyelids, playing at being asleep as she pulled her messy, rain-curled hair up into a top-knot and wriggled into her dress.
Damn, she was beautiful.
He didn’t think he’d ever spent a night like that with somebody before. Guard down, open, wanting her so much it lit the world on fire. Already, he craved her all over again: not just her sinful body, but that late-night conversation, holding her close, feeling for the first time like he was out of his depth. That he’d found the one who understood his crazy, complicated world, whose mind raced fearlessly ahead, who lived life on her own terms.
Eliza retrieved a sandal from beneath the bed and slowly tiptoed towards the door.
“Sneaking out?” he asked, and she leapt with surprise.
“What? No!”
Cal grinned to see her cheeks flush. “Don’t tell me you’re the love ’em and leave ’em type,” he teased. “A trail of broken hearts strewn up and down the Cape.”
Eliza laughed at that. “I wish. No, I just thought . . . You know . . .”
“That we shared too much, and things might be weird and awkward in the harsh light of day?” Cal finished for her. Eliza’s smile turned rueful.
“You need to stop reading my mind.”
Cal sat up in bed, wide awake now. If Eliza was feeling anything like he was, she was still reeling from the epic night they’d shared. But he didn’t want to lose this, to have it just become one single, precious memory.
They were still teetering on the edge of each other. He needed this to become something real.
“How about coffee?” he suggested, not wanting her defenses to slam back down. “There’s nothing weird and awkward about going to get coffee.”
Eliza paused. “I have to get to the newspaper office,” she said, sounding regretful. “I need to check the issue and hand them off to the delivery guy.”
“Then I’ll meet you there. You can show me your new empire.” Cal got out of bed and went over to her, caring less about the fact that he was stark naked, and more about giving her a gentle good-morning kiss. Eliza sighed happily against him, her lips soft in the morning light, and when he pulled back, she was smiling at him, the way she’d looked in the moonlight.
To hell with coffee, he had everything he needed right there. Cal was just about to pull her back to bed and spend the morning worshipping every inch of her, when Eliza gave a nod.
“OK,” she said. “I’ll see you there. Town hall, top floor. I take mine black with sugar.”
She kissed him again, swift and hot this time, and then whirled out the door before he could say another word.
Cal grinned. Ravishing may have been his first choice of activities, but coffee and newsprint was a close second. It sounded like a perfect Sunday morning to him.
* * *
He showered and dressed and took the back road, strolling into town. And he had a magnificent woman waiting for him.
OK, so Eliza probably didn’t wait on anyone, but that just made the invitation more of a victory. Slowly, surely, he was peeling back those layers and learning more about her, and every minute they spent together only made him want her more. Stubborn and brilliant, beautiful and completely unexpected; Cal knew he was getting sappy, but damn if the morning skies didn’t seem brighter and the colors in Sweetbriar more spectacular as he stopped by the coffee shop and picked up her order, just the way she liked it.
“Are you . . . whistling?”
He turned. Declan entered the café behind him, looking like he’d just stumbled off a two-day bender. He had dark sunglasses on and winced when the radio started playing.
“You look terrible,” Cal said, taking him in. “Do I even want to know?”
“Let’s just say, it involved two girls, a bottle of tequila, and my late-night puttanesca at 2Am.”
&
nbsp; Cal laughed. “Chef Michele wouldn’t put up with that,” he said, naming Declan’s old boss.
“Perks of running your own kitchen.” Declan flashed the girl at the counter a pained smile. “Black coffee, please, mate. Big as they come.” He turned back to Cal and gave him a swift once-over. “You look far too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. We need to get you out on the town, see some action of your own.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Cal said casually.
“Oh really?” Declan waggled his eyebrows. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
Cal wasn’t about to kiss and tell, but he couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face. “Eliza,” he admitted.
Declan hooted with laughter. “You’re a brave man,” he said. “Lucky, but brave.”
Cal didn’t feel brave. Now that he’d seen the sweetness behind Eliza’s smile, he wondered why he wasn’t beating every guy in the Cape away to get his place in line.
Probably because Eliza had already sent the pretenders scattering.
“Does this mean she’s going to be skipping work to make mushy eyes at you?” Declan sighed dramatically. “Just when things were running smoothly.”
“I think Eliza’s more than capable of handling her own schedule,” Cal replied. “Don’t let her hear you talking like that.”
“Good point.” Declan slapped him on the back. “We should all get a drink sometime. I’ll bring one of my friends.” He paused, clearly imagining Eliza’s reaction if he rolled up with one of his perky coeds. “Or maybe not. Either way, just say the word.”
“Will do.”
Cal took their coffees and strolled across the square. The Town Hall was a creaking, classic building, and—three flights of stairs later—he found the office, tucked away in the attic space. The door was open, and for a moment, he just stood in the hallway, watching Eliza at work.
She was behind a big wooden desk, covered with papers and stacks of newspapers. She’d changed into jeans and a pale linen shirt, knotted loosely at her waist. Her hair was still damp, twisted up in a knot that was secured by a couple of pencils, and she had another between her lips, idly nibbling on the eraser as she scanned the pages in front of her.
“Special delivery,” he said, tapping the open door.
Eliza looked up. “Hey.” She smiled at him, and just like that, Cal felt something unfurl in his chest.
“So this is where the magic happens . . .” He stepped inside and looked around. There were old cabinets and furniture. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, and high above the square, it felt like they were hidden on top of the world.
Eliza looked bashful. “I don’t know about that. It’s a long way from the newsroom.”
He could hear the wistful note in her voice, and was reminded of the choice she’d made, last night. It would have been easy for him to call her old editor and insist she get her job back, and even easier for her to accept it. Most people would have, but he was learning Eliza wasn’t most people. She cared about doing things the right way, with integrity. Half the Prescott board could learn a few things from her.
“Black, extra sugar, as the lady desires.” He deposited her coffee on the desk.
“Thank you!” She grabbed it and took a long gulp. “Ow, hot!” She winced—and then kept right on drinking. “I didn’t stick around long back at the house,” she added. “Mom was yakking up a storm with Aunt June, and I wasn’t about to walk into the middle of that interrogation.”
“Your mom seems sweet,” Cal argued. He pulled up a chair and took a seat beside her. “She clearly cares about you.”
“Say that again, after she’s spent twenty years telling you to marry well.” Eliza gave him a look.
He smiled. “Can’t your sister distract her with a wedding and babies? Paige is older than you, right?”
Eliza nodded. “Just a couple of years. And, yes, things were on track with this one guy, Doug. But they broke up a few months ago, she won’t even say why. Just that it didn’t work out.” She made a rueful look. “You can imagine how Mom took that. Paige is almost thirty. Practically a spinster,” she added in a teasing voice.
Cal laughed. “If it makes you feel any better, my Uncle Arthur’s been reading me the riot act too, about settling down. ‘A man my age should be starting a family,’ ” he added, mimicking his uncle’s stern tone.
“We should put them in a room together, let them wear themselves out.” Eliza grinned, but Cal could only imagine what his uncle would make of Linda and her eager questions about their summer home and property back in Boston. And as for Eliza . . .
He shook off the thought and turned his attention to the desk. “So, this is the famous Cape Cod Caller,” he said, surveying the pages.
“Yes!” Eliza brightened. “I picked up the samples from the print shop. I was just checking them for errors. Not that it would matter,” she added. “They’ve already printed five thousand copies. The delivery guys are already on their way out.”
“Looks good.” Cal scanned the headlines: a mix of local news and soft lifestyle stories.
Eliza made a sound, something like a snort. “It’s OK, you don’t have to pretend,” she said with a wry smile. “I know it’s a long way from a real newspaper.”
“No, I mean it,” Cal protested, but Eliza didn’t seem convinced.
“I picked it up last-minute after Wilber moved south—long story. Anyway, they were going to stop running altogether, but I couldn’t let it just fold. How else would the good citizens of Sweetbriar Cove find out about the two-for-one on malt shakes at the coffee shop, or that the lighthouse is celebrating its 120th anniversary?”
Eliza’s voice was clearly affectionate, but there was a defensive note there too. Cal could imagine that going from a Pulitzer-winning big-city paper like the Boston Herald to this shoe-string affair might feel like a step down in the world. But seeing the interesting collection of articles, the bold layout, and the lists of local events, Cal really was impressed.
“What’s the circulation?”
“It’s quieter now in spring,” Eliza said, “but when the summer season kicks in and all the tourists arrive, that’s when things really heat up. You know, real-estate ads, special event calendars. I found the print orders,” she added, flipping through some files. “And come June, the circulation goes up to thirty, forty thousand.”
“That’s not bad,” Cal said thoughtfully, his business brain already ticking over. “There are probably hundreds of small, local newspapers like this, all over the country.”
“Thousands.” Eliza nodded. “But they’re dying out. I mean, there’s no money in it, and unless you happen to have someone willing to pitch in and do it all for free . . .”
“But a lot of the writing isn’t necessarily about Cape Cod,” he said, looking at the pages with fresh eyes. “I mean, gardening columns, recipes, cartoons . . . Those could run anywhere. You could build out each issue from a central template, then you’d really only need to slot in local events and classified ads, and it could be distributed all over the country. The Boise Independent, or the Santa Clarita Record.”
“Yes,” Eliza said slowly. She narrowed her eyes at him. “But you’d still need to print and distribute, and those are the costs running everyone out of business.”
“Not if you went online.” Cal felt inspiration strike. “Think about it: a central news portal, for each small town or region. The same syndicated columns, but then limitless space for ads or local color. You would only need a small, main staff and some local freelancers, you’d cut the costs way down, and—”
“Whoa. Stop,” Eliza interrupted, frowning. “The whole point of the Caller is a print edition.”
“Why?” Cal asked, feeling pumped. “You said it yourself, between print costs and getting the issues out, there’s no money in it.”
“Yes, but it’s a newspaper,” Eliza repeated. “Pages, print.”
“Papercuts.” Cal grinned, teasing, but she didn’t seem to l
ighten up. “Going digital would solve all your problems.”
Eliza shook her head stubbornly. “Maybe I don’t see them as problems. Come with me,” she said abruptly, getting up. She took his hand and dragged Cal determinedly out of the office and back downstairs. He wasn’t going to object. Holding hands with her made him feel like a teenager again, and even though he could tell she was annoyed, Eliza was distractingly sexy as she strode across the town square.
“Are we going far?” he asked as they turned down a country lane. “Because we missed the road to my place . . .”
“You’ll see,” is all Eliza would say, until they reached the familiar frontage of the bakery. The bell sounded over the door as Eliza led him inside, and the finally, she paused for breath. “See?” she said, gesturing around the café.
Cal looked. There was a line at the counter, and every table was full of locals enjoying a cup of coffee, a pastry, and . . .
The Cape Cod Caller.
Browsing over coffee, absent-mindedly turning pages—the whole room was poring over the new edition.
“Great work, Eliza.” One of the older women looked up from her paper. “I was wondering if they’d ever finish the rose pruning guide.”
“Thanks, Debra,” Eliza replied, smiling proudly. “Maybe you could do a guest column next time. Theater or movie reviews, maybe.”
“I don’t know if your opinion on those blockbusters is fit to print,” the woman answered with a smirk.
Another man stopped to pat Eliza on the back, querying her on the crossword clues, and a group of young moms suggested including their playgroup in the next issue. Cal had to admit he was surprised. His numbers showed that newspaper circulation was plummeting all across the country, but here, it seemed like the Caller was must-read material.
Eliza snagged a free table in the corner and sat down with a thump. “It’s not about what’s in the issue,” she explained to him. “You think anyone here couldn’t find gardening tips or event schedules in five seconds using google if they wanted to? It’s about opening up the pages and taking ten, twenty minutes to read. The ritual of it, everyone getting involved.”
