by Nancy Warren
Harriet bit her lip.
“Harriet,” he said when he saw her reluctance. “This is a great story.” Enthusiasm built as he thought about it. “You had a dream. You worked at it, made it come true. I want a first-person account of what it was like up there, how it felt, the moment you knew you had a real shot at it. Everything.”
They walked hand in hand and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“It felt…” She blew out a breath. “It felt so incredible I don’t know if I can even describe it to you.”
“Well, we’ll have to work on that otherwise your article isn’t going to be too interesting,” he joked.
She stopped dead and turned to stare at him. The day was just heading for dusk and lit up her still-bouncy curls with fire. With the unusually bold makeup, her eyes looked huge and mysterious, her lips glossy enough to lick. “Oh, my gosh. That’s right.”
He grinned. “We’ve got some time. I’m thinking about a big spread to celebrate your first game. We can tie it in with some kind of promotion. A contest to win game tickets or something.” He was thinking not only of boosting the paper’s circulation, but of upping his chances at the sports section award in the upcoming journalism awards.
“A spread about me?” She still sounded stunned.
His enthusiasm built as he dragged her along to his car.
“Sure. You’re a Braveheart now.” He gestured to her luscious curves lovingly outlined in black. “Look at you.”
A huff of impatience was his only reply. No, there was also a muttering under the breath that sounded like “Men!”
“What?”
“This isn’t about lip gloss and jiggling around in tight clothes.”
“It’s about dreams,” he insisted.
“Exactly.” She suddenly dropped her snarly attitude and smiled at him. “And I didn’t thank you enough for getting my sorry butt out there today.” She lifted up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
Her lips were butterfly-soft against his skin, and once again he caught her scent and had to restrain himself from dragging her against him and giving her a “you’re welcome” kiss that would curl her toes.
“So, a woman who just fulfilled her dream deserves a night on the town to celebrate.”
She blinked at him, and the Harriet of the plaid skirts was back. “A night on the town?”
“Sure. You, me, we’ll paint this town red.”
“But I have to work tomorrow.”
Boy, she sure didn’t get out much. “Don’t worry. This is Pasqualie and it’s Tuesday. Last call is eleven.”
“Well…” She glanced down at herself. “I should change first.”
No, he wanted to yell. Don’t change. He nodded.
“And shower.”
No, no! She’d shower the sexy do out of her hair and the makeup off her face. All the stardust would drain away with the water. “Sure,” he made himself say. “I’ll wait.”
“I’d like to pick up my car.”
“All right. I’ll drive you to the office, do a bit of work, and pick you up at your place at—” he glanced at his watch “—eight.”
Her brow puckered. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. This is your day. We have to celebrate.”
She beamed at him. “Okay.”
So he drove her to the newspaper office, where she glanced around the empty parking lot nervously. It was seven o’clock. Was she expecting pre-dinner muggers or what?
“Do you want me to walk you to your car?”
“Hmm?” She glanced at him as though he was odd. “It’s seven o’clock. I think I’m safe, thanks.”
“You seem nervous.”
“Oh, that. I just don’t want anyone to see me like…” She glanced down at herself and he could have sworn she blushed. “Like this.”
“You look great,” he assured her, but she just gave him one of those looks that went with men muttered sotto voce and, with a final quick glance around the parking lot, scuttled out of his car and into her own so fast you’d never have known she was there. The lady would be tops in the spy business.
She drove carefully out of the parking lot in a sensible tan compact that had to be as old as she was and he let himself back into the Standard building.
Already he was planning the two-page spread showcasing not only Harriet’s talent and the tryouts, but how she, a hometown girl, had made her dream come true.
He was also playing with layouts in his mind. Harriet, the high school geek. Maybe the art department could do something funky to make it appear the photo was torn out of a yearbook. Then, beside it, he’d get a picture of Harriet, the newest Braves’ cheerleader in the uniform, full makeup, the hair, the whole bit. No one would believe it was the same person.
After checking his e-mail and phone messages, he settled down to play with some headline ideas.
“Cinderella Finally Gets Her Pom-Poms.” No, that wasn’t right. It sound as if she’d had a boob job or something. He deleted that and tried again.
He liked the Cinderella aspect, though. “Cinderella Scores A Touchdown.” Better. Not quite there, though.
He left that as the header and let his thoughts flow, jotting notes. First-person account. High school heartaches. Tryouts, failure. Other athletics? Boys? Had she had a date to the prom?
Soon he realized he was working more on a hybrid feature/sports story. There was her first-person article, and then an article that he would write about her. The combination might bring more readers into his section. It might finally win him that award and show Jim from the Star a thing or two. This was the kind of story the jury loved. Soft sports.
And he couldn’t think of anything softer, or more uplifting to the reader than the story of an overlooked athlete finally achieving her dream.
But, for tonight, he was determined not to talk shop. Tonight was about Harriet and her new job for the Braves.
He gave her a few extra minutes more than the hour they’d agreed on, then picked up the neat little note she’d written with her address.
When he pulled up to her home, she emerged from the front door as soon as she saw him. It was just about the trimmest, best-kept house Steve had ever seen, in a neighborhood of well-maintained homes built in the forties.
Symmetrical flowerbeds, velvet lawn, swept path. Even in the dim light he could somehow tell the paint was fresh and the windows gleamed. It was that sort of house.
Harriet jumped into his car. Yep, as he’d feared, she’d done away with all traces of Harriet the cheerleader. This was everyday Harriet. The gal with the straight hair, cosmetic-free face and the Mary Janes.
“Tess’s mother said she was going to give you that workout stuff,” he said, thinking how great she’d looked in it.
“I don’t know. It was kind of…skimpy.”
“Harriet, I have to tell you. Skimpy is good when you’re a cheerleader. Skimpy is great. See, mostly guys watch sports, and guys like eye candy.”
Her eyes and mouth both widened, as he’d known they would. “Eye candy. I’ll have you know, Mr. Sports Reporter, that cheerleading is a real sport. Lots of colleges are offering scholarships to top cheerleaders. It’s not just pom-poms and…and wiggling butts anymore.”
He let a beat pass. “We should take a poll of the Braves’ fans to see whether they like the cheerleaders best for their athletic ability or their butts.”
A sound that was an awful lot like a kitten’s growl came from the passenger seat. “Are you implying…” They passed under a streetlight and she must have caught sight of his face. “Oh. I should have known you’d just be joking with me. You’re never serious.”
“I’m always serious about sports.” He paused for a moment. “And butts.”
She wouldn’t be drawn in a second time, so he chuckled and let it go. So she thought he was joking. Fine by him. In truth, he was willing to bet that the good gentlemen of Pasqualie, while no doubt appreciating athletic ability, still watched the B
ravehearts for the eye candy.
“Where are we going?” she asked after they’d driven a few minutes in silence.
“Hungry?”
“Starved. I was too nervous to eat for most of the day.”
“Like Italian?”
“Love it.”
7
HARRIET SIGHED, her whole body feeling relaxed and yet tingling with excitement. Her muscles were pleasantly tired, her nerves finally back to normal after being on high alert for weeks.
She sipped at the red wine Steve had ordered and felt further relaxation seep into her bones. She closed her eyes for a second and savored the moment, the smell of garlic and cream and the fact that she, Harriet MacPherson, was sitting having dinner with studly Steve Ackerman. Of course it wasn’t a real date, it was more a work thing, but she could dream.
Today was, after all, about impossible dreams coming true.
When she opened her eyes, Steve was grinning at her. “I bet you feel like you just reached the summit of Everest,” he said.
“I knew you’d understand.”
“Better than anyone. At least you don’t have thick glasses and a thin skull.”
“Steve.” She leaned forward, feeling her forehead wrinkle in earnestness. “I know there’s nothing you can do about your head, but couldn’t you have laser eye correction? I understand it’s very successful these days.”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t work for everyone. I’m not a good candidate. My eyeball’s the wrong shape or something.”
She stared into his eyes, a beautiful clear gray with long, sweeping dark lashes. They were almond-shaped and gorgeous. “I think they’re the perfect shape,” she said. Then realizing what she’d said, blushed deeper than the Chianti. “I mean, they seem like they’re normal eyes.”
He let her embarrassing compliment pass without teasing her, for which she would be eternally grateful.
“I see fine with glasses. Sure, for a while I wanted perfect eyesight as much as…” he chuckled softly “…as much as you wanted pom-poms. But it wasn’t meant to be.” He shrugged. “I can still play sports, even with weak eyes and a weak head. I’ll never play pro, but I’ve made my peace with it. Writing about sports is a pretty great consolation prize.”
“But you miss it. I can tell.” From the way he’d worked so hard to help her become a cheerleader she knew that he was in some small way making up for never being able to attain his own goal.
He didn’t lie, as she’d known he wouldn’t. “There’s a smell in the dressing room sometimes after a game. It’s pretty disgusting really, all that sweat and the smell of the champagne they’ve dumped over each other after a big win, the steam and soap from the showers. It all comes together and hits me that I’ll always be on the outside looking in. I’ll never be one of them.”
She reached over impulsively to touch his hand and he turned it palm up, gripping hers so she couldn’t take it back without tugging.
“But it doesn’t happen often. And then I think about five, ten years down the road when they’re all washed up and wondering what to do with their lives, and I’ve still got the second greatest job in the world.”
Harriet could barely take in his words. She felt the warmth of his palm against hers, the tough leathery feel of it, the calluses that lined up with hers. It was difficult to explain, but their hands seemed to fit together.
After a long moment when they stared into each other’s eyes not speaking, she said, “I got my calluses from the uneven bars mostly. How about you?”
He turned her palm over and studied it in the light from the candle. Usually she was embarrassed at how battle-scarred her palms were, but Steve ran his index finger across her skin in a way that made her shiver.
“Impressive,” he said, and she knew he meant it.
He let her see his palm, which sported a pretty impressive pattern of calluses all its own. “Mine are from squash, tennis and baseball mostly.”
Their dinner came then, so she was able to get her hand back without making an issue of it. Don’t make a fool of yourself, Harriet. Steve Ackerman was merely being kind to her; she mustn’t embarrass them both by developing a raging crush. She wasn’t the sort of person who could have a crush in secret. Her cursed blushes always gave her away.
As they tucked into their pasta, he asked her how she’d come up with her routine and who was her coach.
“I don’t have a coach,” she said, surprised at the question. “I watched a video of the Bravehearts. No,” she amended, always truthful, “I memorized it. Every routine, every move, every posture. Then, when I put together my own routine, I used some of their moves and added in some gymnastics and dance moves of my own. It wasn’t that hard. I love choreography.”
“You know, Harriet, you have got to stop hiding your talents. You were absolutely amazing out there. I knew you’d be good, but you blew the doors off the place.”
“So, when you said I should forget it…”
He laughed. “It worked, didn’t it? My saying you couldn’t do it got you out there faster than any pep talk.”
She nodded. “When you came into the dressing room I was literally scared rigid. I couldn’t move. And you told me it was okay and I could just stand at the sidelines and watch. That’s the moment I knew I was going out there. I had to show you, show those other girls, but most of all show myself that I could do it.”
His eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “You showed us all.”
“I know.” She couldn’t keep the smug smile off her face. She forked more lasagna into her mouth, enjoying every bite now that she was relaxed enough to eat.
“You’ll have to get started on the first article.”
The first article, she liked the sound of that. “Yes, of course. But without any interviews…”
“I got a list of a few names and phone numbers of women who are willing to talk to you. They were hanging around watching the rest of the practice so I asked them then.”
“Why didn’t you do the interviews yourself? While the moment was still fresh in their minds?”
He leaned forward. “Because I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You were amazing.”
She blushed and couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“It’s mostly about you, now, anyway. How you felt, what it was like. You can call a couple of those women and add in some reactions from other contestants. The Braves know you’re a reporter, right?”
“Copy editor,” she corrected him. Though the fact that he’d referred to her as a reporter sent a thrill through her. “And, yes. I had to fill out an application and have a short interview before the tryouts. I told them about my job.”
He raised his glass in a toast. “To your career as a cheerleader and your budding career as a journalist. May they both be full of success.”
When they tapped glasses and sipped, she made a silent addition to the toast. And may this be the first of many intimate dinners together.
Before she realized it, her plate was empty.
“Want to try some of my linguini?” Steve asked her.
Her gaze dropped to his plate in horror. He still had about a third of his dinner left and she’d practically licked her plate clean.
“Oh, I was starving. I haven’t eaten anything all day and I didn’t realize…”
“Are you kidding? It’s great to see a woman enjoy her food. I’m not a big fan of skinny women who pick at their food as if they’re counting the calories in each grain of rice. Where’s the fun in that?”
“Really?” Harriet raised her gaze to his to find him staring at her with an expression of approval.
“Harriet,” he said, “you have a fabulous body. It’s not heavy at all. It’s muscular and…well it’s beautiful,” he finished in a rush and she had the feeling he was as embarrassed as she’d been when she’d told him she loved the shape of his eyes.
With a huge happy sigh, she said, “I’d love a bite of your pasta.”
Even the way he wound ling
uini onto a fork with his big, capable hands had her stomach going squishy. He really was an extremely attractive man. How was she going to hide her embarrassing crush?
He reached toward her, the pasta creamy and glistening, a plump shrimp perched on top. She opened her mouth and he fed her in a distinctly intimate gesture.
Nothing had ever tasted as good as that pasta.
Between them, they finished his food, all the bread in the basket and then he looked at her with devilry in his eyes. “Dessert?”
She laughed. “Love it.”
She ordered the tiramisu and he ordered a chocolate gelato, but they shared.
Afterward, when he’d waved away her offer to pay for half, she sat back thinking she’d never had a better day.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “Not just for dinner, but for encouraging me to try out.”
He leaned forward, and, for a crazy moment she thought he meant to kiss her. His face swam into her vision and he cupped her chin in his hand.
But he didn’t kiss her. He dampened his fingertip with his tongue and ran it along her cheekbone.
She gasped at the feel of his rough skin sliding against her cheek.
Then he held out his finger and she saw sparkles from the makeup Tess’s mother had applied.
“All the stardust didn’t wash away,” he said softly.
Now that dinner was over, he would probably take her straight home, which was fine. Good, really, as she had a big day tomorrow and would finally get a decent night’s sleep now that she wasn’t so nervous about the cheerleading tryouts. Still, she wasn’t a bit sleepy.
“Would you like to walk by the river?”
“I’d love it.” In fact, she couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do.
They left the restaurant and walked to his car where he opened her door first and held it for her. Just like a real date.
It didn’t take more than five minutes to drive to the public riverfront park. He parked the car and she was almost reluctant to leave the intimate space, where just the two of them sat in the dark, soft jazz playing on the car stereo.
But he opened his door and climbed out, so she followed suit. They made their way to the gravel path that meandered along the riverbank. It was peaceful and serene, with a clear indigo sky dotted with stars and a sliver of moon.
