“I should get over there.”
“You’ve got time.”
“I still have to—oh—” She exhaled shakily when his hand slid purposefully between her legs. “To go to Kirkland...Park.”
“Still going to do the stories even knowing the Tub’s not going to make it?”
She twisted her hand in the sheet, staring blindly at the rays of sunlight on the gleaming wood floor. “I refuse to believe it’s a lost cause.” Her voice rose to a squeak when his fingers delved and dipped inside so, so briefly, only to circle and press and dip again.
“Well, I understand that,” he murmured, kissing her shoulder again, then the curve of her neck, just below her ear. “I love the way you feel.” The pulse of his heart beat against her back. “Slide your leg up.”
She did, and just that perfectly, he slid inside her.
She let out a low moan.
“And I love the way you sound when I do that.” His voice dropped and he rocked into her, his fingers still circling. “Do you really dream about me?”
“Yes.” She arched back against him, wanting him deeper. Harder. She reached behind him and dug her fingers into his hard, muscular thigh.
“What do you dream?”
She was no more capable of hiding the truth than she was capable of hiding the fact that she was already on the verge of spiraling into oblivion. “About this. About you doing this,” she gasped. “Again.” She quivered. “And again and again.”
His breath roughened but his hands remained gentle, his pulsing into her a seductive lullaby. Her eyes burned and she slid her hand over his, pressing his palm harder against her. Last night her body had felt split in half by him, but now, it was her heart that felt like it was being cleaved in two.
“Not everything needs to be a gale,” he murmured, shifting them both until she was on her back and he was rocking gently once more in the cradle of her hips. “Sometimes it can just be a dream come true.”
Tears slid from her eyes.
He circled her head with his palms and softly kissed her lips. Then one cheek. And the other. Kissing away her tears. “Everything’s going to work out, Shea. Just let yourself believe. A little bit. And it will all be all right.”
She couldn’t answer. The words were stopped in her chest by a wall that seemed put there before she’d ever even existed. She stared into his eyes. “I’m afraid.”
He lowered his forehead against hers for a moment. “I know, sweetheart. So I won’t be.” He kissed her again. “I love you, Shea.”
She trembled. Fresh tears fell.
“And I’m going to keep loving you until you’re not afraid.” He kissed her again. “And I’ll still love you after that.” Then he slid his hands beneath her hips, tilting her, and rocked into the very center of her being.
And even though she cracked in half and crumbled into heartbreakingly sweet pleasure, he was there, putting the pieces back together and taking her there again before finally letting himself go.
* * *
Two hours later, showered and dressed and trying to pretend that the foundations of the world she’d believed in weren’t in danger of failing completely, Shea peeked her head around the curtain sectioning off Harvey’s bed from the others in the unit. “Knock knock.”
The back of his bed was elevated slightly and he had wires and tubes sprouting from a dozen places, but her boss still managed to give her his usual, narrow-eyed glare. “Cupcake’s here,” he rasped.
She smiled and walked closer to his bed, holding the stack of newspapers she had for him at an angle so he could see them before she set them on the rolling table next to his bed. “News of the world since I know you’d rather put a gun to your head than watch the television news. Brace yourself. I’m gonna kiss your cheek.”
He made a low, grumbling sound. But he didn’t bark at her not to. She pecked his bristly cheek, then pulled the plain chair from outside the curtain around to his bedside and sat down. He was already slowly reaching for the newspaper on the top of the stack.
“Wall Street Journal.” He set it on the blanket covering his legs. “At least you picked some good ones.”
“I threw a couple tabloids in there too,” she said dryly. “Knowing how you love gossip the way you do.”
He made a face. “Turn up your nose all you want, cupcake. Readers eat it up. And without readers, you’ve got nothing.”
She sighed a little. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like I had my chest cracked open. One of the nurses scored me some reading glasses. You see them anywhere?”
She found them in the confusing mass of items crammed on top of the rolling unit where most of his wires were attached. The glasses were fluorescent pink and studded with rhinestones; she polished them quickly on the edge of her shirt and handed them to him. “Why didn’t you tell anyone how bad things had gotten at the Washtub?”
He slid the narrow glasses onto his nose and snapped open the newspaper. “Been snooping in my business, Shea?”
“Quite honestly, I haven’t really had the time,” she said. “But I’m going to, first chance I get, unless you tell me first.”
He sighed noisily, though the effect was pretty well ruined by the wince he gave. He pressed his hand to the thick bandages covering his entire chest as the machines beside him busily spewed out a thin strip of paper with a wildly jagged graph on it and chirped a cacophony of beeps. Worried, she waited for a nurse to come running, but no one did.
“Relax,” Harvey muttered. “Been doing that all morning.”
Her panic subsided. “So what do the doctors say?”
“Paper’s dead. No chance of resuscitation.”
“I mean about you.”
“Paper’s dead. No chance of resuscitation.” His voice was dry as dust.
“Harvey.”
He looked at her over the rims of the glasses. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You can walk into any publication around and hold your own. You’re a good writer, cupcake. Damn good.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re afraid I gave you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation or something.”
His lips quirked. “Yeah, well. Give you something to compare against that pretty Paxton Merrick of yours.”
“Maybe it was Josh who gave you the breath of life,” Shea countered. “He was there, too.”
“Josh wouldn’t cross the street to help somebody dying on the other side.”
“Harvey! That’s a terrible thing to say.”
He flipped open the paper. “He’s a good writer, too. But not like you. Doesn’t know how to put out the facts and still grab a person’s heart when they least expect it.”
“All these compliments are going to go to my head.”
“Probably,” he agreed. “You women tend to go overboard about most anything.”
“You’re impossible, you know that? Do you talk to the nurses here this way?”
He ignored her and flipped to the next page. And the next.
She exhaled. “All right. Is there anything you need? That you want me to bring the next time I’m here? Maybe some reading glasses that aren’t sparkly and pink?”
“You don’t need to keep visiting me. You’ve got a life, as you like to remind me.”
“And you’re part of it, old man, so cut the nonsense and just tell me if there’s something you’d like me to bring.” She gestured vaguely. “A pair of pajamas or something? I’m sure the nurses would be glad not to have to look at your hairy shoulders every minute of the day.”
He smiled slightly and gingerly reached over again, nudging the stack of papers to see the nameplates. “More of these’ll do.”
There was no point in reminding him that he could read all of the content in digital format. He already knew and still preferred th
e feel of newsprint between his fingers. Frankly, she did too. She also liked to read hardbound novels and loved the smell of a library book.
“Where’s your boyfriend?”
She chewed the inside of her cheek. “At the boat works.” He wanted to get in some time on their latest build. She was meeting him there after she finished in Kirkland, and from there they were meeting the real estate agent. A fact that still made her quake inside. “Harvey. What about the Tub going strictly online? Couldn’t we find a way to make it work? People still like the local stories. They like reading about their own neighborhoods. Their own schools.”
He gave her a look. “Think I haven’t tried, cupcake? I’m an old-school editor, Shea. Not a publisher. Not a marketing expert, and that’s what half these kids are these days.”
“Then find one!”
“There’s no money. Nobody’s going to take a pay cut when their salaries and benefits are already about as low as they can get.” He sighed. “It’s time. The Seattle Washtub had a good long run, but it’s time. Got enough to put together a final issue—you can let Stu know he’s responsible for it, he’s the most experienced and capable enough—and that’ll be that.” He rubbed his hand carefully over his chest. “They tell me I’ve got to slow down now anyway. Less stress.” He grimaced. “More fiber.”
“Knowing your diet, I’m sure they said a lot more than that.” The man lived on fast food, cigarettes and beer.
He grunted. Flipped to the next page and scanned it with his practiced eye. “Maybe I’ll take up fishing.”
She snorted, smiling despite everything. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
He gave that some consideration and then shook his head. “Still not enough to put the Tub close to the black.”
She sat forward and rested her folded hands on the side of the bed. “Is there anyone I can call for you?”
It was his turn to snort. “Guess I would’ve said the undertaker, but you made sure that wasn’t necessary.” He folded the paper, set it aside and pushed the ridiculous-looking glasses up to his forehead. “Don’t worry about me, cupcake. I’ve always been better alone.”
“Why?”
He eyed her. “I let the one woman I ever cared about walk away from me more than thirty years ago because it was easier than fighting to make it work. Never forgot her. Never replaced her. And never wanted to feel like that again. Instead, I stuck with what I was good at.” He picked up the next paper and snapped it open. “And now it’s time to move on from there, too.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Harvey,” she murmured. And there wasn’t an ounce of sarcasm in her words.
“Good you got one, kid. Don’t let it dry up like a prune.”
“You’re too young to retire. Fish will stand up in the water and laugh at you.”
“Maybe I’ll take up sailing.” He gave his head a jerk, and the glasses plopped down on his hawkish nose as if they’d been programmed to do so. “Rent myself a little sloop from Merrick & Sullivan Yachting.”
“Pax says we should have you come to dinner.”
“What the hell for?”
She rose from the chair and smiled. “So we can feed you a meal full of lots of fiber.” Then she kissed his cheek again and picked up the chair to move it back where it belonged.
“Ehh.” He grunted and snapped the newspaper again.
But he was smiling a little.
And that was enough.
* * *
Instead of driving the Audi out to Kirkland as she’d originally planned, she impetuously made her way to Cornelia’s waterfront office in Ballard, wincing every time she ground the poor vehicle’s gears. But at least she didn’t have to contend with wet streets just yet because, so far, the day was dry.
She parked in front of the brick building, locked the car and carried the envelope full of letters inside.
“Shea!” Cornelia was standing in the foyer with Phil and gave her a surprised look. “You didn’t need to come by today. How is poor Harvey?”
“Surprisingly well,” she said. “I just came from visiting him at the hospital.” She gestured with the manila envelope. “Do you have a few minutes to discuss these?”
“Of course.” She tucked her hand through Shea’s arm and they headed up one side of the grand staircase.
When they reached the top, Shea looked around in surprise. “Where’s the scaffolding?”
“Painters finished on Wednesday,” Cornelia said. “Thank heavens.” Her smile was surprisingly impish. “Now if I can keep Harry busy with something else so he’ll stop meddling here, things can finally settle down.” She let go of Shea and turned into her office, waving smoothly at the loveseats. “Let’s sit where it’s more comfortable. Coffee?”
Shea’s mouth watered but she shook her head. “No, thank you.” She set the manila packet on the antique square coffee table between the loveseats and slipped out of her jacket before sitting down. “I’m pregnant, actually.”
“Oh, I already know that.” Cornelia sat down opposite her and smiled.
She absorbed that. “Pax did tell you then.”
Cornelia’s brows rose. “What makes you think that?”
“Then how did you know?”
She smiled gently. “I have three daughters, Shea. Only a little older than you. And you had the look. When you gave up the coffee here that you usually drank by the half-gallon, I knew for certain. But it’s your business. I knew you’d share the news when you were ready. Pax is going to be a wonderful father.”
Shea’s fingers nervously pleated the edge of her fake suede jacket. “Yes.” She didn’t have doubts on that score. He’d excel at the role just as he excelled at everything. But even though he consumed nearly every thought she had, she wasn’t there to talk about him.
She leaned forward and placed her hand on the thick, bulging envelope. “I read all of the letters, Cornelia. But I think maybe you should have Phil or one of the others go through them. I didn’t find anything compelling, but there might be something I didn’t see.”
“I doubt that. Your instincts for these things are excellent, Shea. I wish you trusted them as much as I do. But does this mean you are declining my offer?”
She shifted. “I think I should. I’m not...trained for any of this.” She waved her hand, trying to describe something that defied definition.
Cornelia laughed, genuinely amused. “Do you think any of us have had any training?” Her eyes smiled. “I want to do something good with Harry’s wedding gift to me. I want to help others who are struggling the way I once struggled. But training?” She shook her head, still laughing softly.
“You’ve only helped women,” Shea said. “I assume that’s because you have that as your basic mission.”
“Well.” Cornelia thought about it for a moment. “Not in so many words.”
“The other aspect is matching those you help with a person possessing expertise and success or a particular skill set who can mentor them toward achieving their goal.”
“Yes.”
She sat forward, folding her hands together so Cornelia wouldn’t see just how nervous she was. “What if—” she hesitated, wanting to frame her words exactly right “—there was a situation outside of that particular box?”
Cornelia tilted her head slightly, studying Shea’s face. “Have you found yourself a Cindy you want us to help?”
Shea couldn’t help but smile wryly. Harvey wouldn’t appreciate being called that, but he had willingly worn a pair of rhinestone-studded pink reading glasses. “The Washtub lost its publisher,” she said bluntly. “Harvey evidently tried on his own to find backers and keep it going, but as he admitted to me just this morning, he doesn’t possess the expertise to guide the publication into a new business model.”
“Another newspaper falls to
the digital age.” Cornelia’s slender fingers softly drummed the arm of the loveseat. “The Washtub has a website, though. I’ve looked at it myself.”
“We do. But it’s not what it should be. And the paper needs to focus on competing in that medium and not so much on physical delivery twice a week to people’s doorsteps.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’m not suggesting you finance the deal or anything. I know this is way beyond the kind of agreements you’ve structured with your Cindys. Not just in cost but in scope. But is there anyone you can recommend who could help show Harvey how to save what’s left of the Washtub?”
Cornelia looked thoughtful. She rose, walked over to her table by the window and poured herself a mug of coffee. “I hope you don’t mind.” She lifted her cup.
“Of course not. And I understand completely if I am out of line—”
Cornelia wordlessly waved her slender hand and Shea stopped talking. She sat back and watched the other woman sip from her lovely china cup as she gazed out the windows. “I can think of a few ideas.” She seemed to be talking to herself more than Shea. “What were your goals when you started out?”
She turned and looked at Shea, clearly waiting for an answer. “In journalism?” Shea smiled wryly. “A Pulitzer, of course.”
“Ever envision yourself as a publisher?”
Alarm sank through Shea’s chest and she shot off the loveseat. “I was never suggesting—”
“I know that.” Cornelia returned to the loveseat and gestured impatiently for Shea to sit. “As you said, keeping a publication running is a larger project than normal. But that’s not to say there aren’t means.” Her expression turned wry. “And my husband Harrison has much too much time on his hands. And too much money.”
Shea swallowed, more nervous than ever. “You’re husband. Mr., uh, Hunt.”
“That is the man to whom I’m finally married,” Cornelia allowed humorously. “Don’t look so terrified, dear, though his reputation is admittedly well-deserved. He’s no publisher either. But he’s brilliant in putting the right teams together to accomplish great things, as HuntCom proves.”
ONCE UPON A VALENTINE Page 18
