A Perfect Trade (Harlequin Superromance) (12 page)

He tried to ignore the bliss on her face. He cleared his throat. “Then Michaels stays.”

They went down the list, analyzing each name. On some they agreed, while on others they differed wildly. Jenny’s observations were perceptive—she was a sharp judge of character—and her wry comments about some of the journalists cracked him up.

It didn’t take long to whittle down the names, leaving a half dozen guys they felt were worth seeing. He only needed to cancel one interview and make a couple of new ones.

“Your next appointment should be Tim Gordon at
The Journal.
You know him, right?”

Jenny nodded. “We’ve chatted a few times at Harry’s functions. We both love hockey and hate pretentious arty stuff.” She bit her lip. “You don’t think I’d be taking advantage of an acquaintance?”

Her lack of confidence surprised him. “That’s why
I’ll
ask him if he’s willing to meet you.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.” She ate the last mouthful of pie. “I could eat that again. Heaven.”

His pulse jumped at the satisfied look on her face. His groin tightened when her lips closed around the fork to suck it clean. Then he spotted a chocolate smudge at the corner of her mouth.

He needed to lick it away.

Tru leaned forward, his eyes fixed on... Damn. This wasn’t the time or place.

He wrenched his attention from Jenny’s mouth and focused on the list of names, shifting to ease the pressure in his pants. “Next is Rob Tremaine at
The Sporting Herald.
”

“The biggest paper in the area.” Doubt returned to her voice. “Their website gets more hits than any who cover the Cats. Most fans check the
Herald
’s blog daily, me included.”

“But Rob’s intern program won a big state award for helping people who didn’t have the right qualifications. If he likes what you have to say, he’ll give you a shot.”

“He’s always seemed like a decent man.”

“What about
The Scratching Post
fan blog. They’re not journalists, but their articles about the Cats are well researched and well written.”

“I love that site, but aren’t their contributors all volunteers?”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

For a second there he got carried away with her changing career and had forgotten her objective was to get paid. He considered offering to pay her himself, but knew how that suggestion would go down. “There’s your list. I’m sure one will pan out.”

“There’s no guarantee. Perhaps I should look into that shelf-stacking job, after all.”

“You may be a tad overqualified, so let’s try the editors first.”

“I really appreciate what you’re doing for me,” Jenny said quietly.

He shrugged. “It’s a few phone calls.”

“That’s the point. I know you’d like to hand me a job, neatly tied up with a bow, so thank you for sticking by your promise.”

Heat crept up the back of his neck. She knew him too well. “I don’t do bows. Only the occasional gift bag.”

Jenny grinned. “Bow or bag, thank you. Now, be gracious and accept my gratitude.”

“You’re welcome.” He was happy with gratitude—it was better than he’d had before—but he wanted more. He reminded himself each step forward, however small, was progress.

Jenny’s cell rang. After a quick glance, she declined the call. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay. You could’ve answered.”

“It wasn’t important. I only checked in case it was the hospital. I keep hoping Harry’s condition will change.”

“It will. The doctors can’t find any physical reason for him still to be unconscious, so he’ll wake up soon.”

Her phone jingled again. “Leave me alone.” She turned her phone off.

Who was so persistent? “Problem?”

“Connor Smith, my uncle’s lawyer. I signed the paperwork last week, but he’s still calling. What more can he possibly want to discuss?”

Tru ate his pie, though guilt made it tasteless. Smith probably wanted to talk about that freaking memorial park. Jenny couldn’t know about the project, or she’d have mentioned it.

He decided to sound her out carefully. “Didn’t I hear they were auctioning Boult’s belongings and splitting the proceeds between a few local charities?”

Her lips twisted. “Yes. The money goes to the youth center and also to the youth hockey league. There’s talk of a couple of Ice Cats presenting new equipment to the teams. Smith asked me if I wanted to attend.”

“I’m guessing you said no.”

“With a ‘hell’ in front of it. The same answer I gave when he asked if I’d collect a posthumous award for Uncle Douglas’s ‘wonderful work.’” Jenny added air quotes. “The damn lawyer won’t give up.”

She definitely didn’t know about the memorial park and Tru didn’t want to be the one to tell her. Not right now, when she was already feeling vulnerable. He told himself it was concern, rather than cowardice, that kept him quiet.

Still, he couldn’t wait too long. A project that big, involving the town and the church, would hit the press sooner or later, and people would be talking about it. Given his mom’s role, it would be impossible to convince Jenny he hadn’t known about it.

He’d do whatever it took to make sure she wasn’t hurt anymore.

Jenny looked at her watch. “I have to go. This is the best time to see Harry if I don’t want to risk bumping into his kids.”

He waved for the check, which Shirley brought straightaway.

Jenny folded the list of editors in two and put it in her purse, then slid out of the booth. “Thanks for the pie and the help.”

“Wait.” Tru tossed some bills onto the table. “I’ll walk you out.”

Jenny hesitated, then surprised him by nodding. Before she could change her mind, he was out of the booth.

Their shoulders bumped as he reached past her to open the diner door. The electric jolt from the contact zinged through his clothes, scorching his skin.

Jenny stopped and faced him, as if she’d felt something, too. Bright blue fire snapped in her eyes—yeah, she’d felt it, all right.

Her tongue darted out to lick her lips. His mouth wanted to follow the moist trail and taste her. Then he noticed the dab of chocolate still at the corner of her mouth.

The second jolt was more powerful than the first; buzzing through his body, down to his toes. Need thrummed through him.

For a moment, his desire was reflected in her eyes. But when he reached for her, she turned and pushed past him. Tru stood staring dumbly after her, until Shirley yelled to shut the door. Then he followed Jenny across the parking lot.

When they reached her car, she unlocked the doors. “I meant what I said earlier. I really do appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

Then she surprised the hell out of him by hugging him.

Before he had a chance to hug her back, or enjoy the feel of her in his arms, she was in her car and driving away.

* * *

R
ING
,
DAMN
IT
!

Jenny glared at her cell, but it remained silent. In the three hours since she’d returned home from her interview at
The Journal,
she’d had a political pollster, three telemarketers and two charities call her.

It was four fifty-five. Tim Gordon, the sports editor, had promised to call before five.

Today’s interview had been the last one from the short list she and Tru had devised five days ago. Tim hadn’t been available until today. Though the other meetings had gone well—unlike Randy, the editors had all been professional—she still hadn’t found a job.

Budget constraints had meant there was nothing available for someone who only knew hockey, especially over the summer. There had been some part-time offers, but the pay had been too low to consider. Rob Tremaine at
The Sporting Herald
had offered her a spot on the intern program, but it had only been for ten weeks, unpaid, with no guarantee of a job at the end. It would have been great to boost her experience, but experience didn’t pay the bills.

Tim Gordon was her last hope. Four fifty-nine.

Perhaps she’d misjudged how she’d done. When she’d left
The Journal
’s offices, she’d been optimistic. The interview had been tough; she’d even had to write a piece on the play-offs. After initial nerves, Jenny had loved the challenge. Tim had said her writing and style were good, but he, too, had budgetary constraints. He hadn’t been sure he could find a place for her, but had promised to try.

Jenny wondered whether she’d have been better off without Tru’s help. If she’d contacted the editors directly, they’d have told her they didn’t have anything available and saved her a lot of time, effort and heartache. Then again, it had been good to make the contacts, regardless.

The clock chimed five.

Her phone rang.

“Hi, Tim.” She tried to sound casual.

“Sorry. We had a problem with one of tomorrow’s layouts.”

“No problem. I understand deadlines.”

“Good attitude.” She heard the smile in his voice. “Meeting deadline is sacrosanct.”

Tim’s voice became somber, making her stomach sink. “I looked at the budgets. Like I said, money’s tight and hockey is fourth priority for resource-allocation, after football, baseball and basketball. The NHL and NASCAR get equal claim.”

“I see.” Her shoulders sagged.

“I might have something, but it’s not full-time.”

Jenny closed her eyes briefly. “Go on.”

“Our beat writer has scheduled surgery this summer. He hopes to be back for training camp, but may be out longer. I’d planned to give his work to another guy, but he doesn’t know hockey. You could step right in, which would be ideal.”

“Okay.” He was saying the right things. What was the catch?

“I can’t afford to put you on the books, but if you’re prepared to freelance, I’ll pay a good piece rate.” He quoted a figure that sounded reasonable. “There’s no limit on the number of articles I’ll take.”

If she got enough pieces accepted, she could get through the next few months. Funds would be limited, but she could pay her bills. She’d worry about Harry’s IOU later.

Tim continued, “If things work out, I might be able to take you on full-time in the fall.”

She’d hoped to be back working for Harry by then, but who knew what the future held. What she did know was that she wouldn’t get a better offer. “That sounds great, Tim. Thank you for the opportunity.”

“You earned it. You did a great job with your article, you take criticism well and revise efficiently. Plus you understand deadlines.”

They both laughed. Then he gave her a time to meet with the beat writer, Sam, to discuss the spread of articles she’d write.

When Jenny hung up, she allowed herself a few moments of relief. This job didn’t solve all her problems, but it gave her a solid base. It was more than she’d dared hope for.

The doorbell rang, interrupting her thoughts. Who could that be? She rose and went to the door.

She was surprised to see Tru, holding up a bottle of champagne.

She opened the door. “That was risky, spending money on bubbly when you don’t know the outcome.”

“I figured we’d celebrate if you got the job, and if you didn’t we’d drink to commiserate.” He grinned. “We need glasses.”

“Follow me.” As she led the way to the kitchen, she suddenly felt nervous and awkward.

This was the first time Tru had been in her house. In fact, none of the hockey players she’d been with had been to her home. This was her sanctuary. Where she’d always be safe. Where she didn’t have to answer to anyone. Where she could turn the key and lock out the world.

“This is a great kitchen.” Tru put the bottle on the pine table. “It’s homey and warm. A place where you can enjoy cooking and eating. I wish my place had a nicer kitchen. It’s got all the conveniences, but no character.” Her heart kicked as he smoothed his hand admiringly over her granite counter.

“Uh...thanks,” she stammered. “You cook?”

“Sure. You can only eat so much hotel food and takeout, so I got Mom and Aunt Tina to teach me the basics.”

Stop staring at him like a teenager mooning after a high school jock!
she reprimanded herself.
Get glasses.
Impulsively, she reached up to the top shelf and took down a pair of champagne flutes she kept for special occasions.

Tru gave her an odd look. “They’re unusual.”

“You’re probably used to fine crystal rather than flea-market finds,” she said defensively.

He arched an eyebrow. “I’ve drunk champagne out of everything from cheap plastic cups to Baccarat and the Stanley Cup. I just expected you to have something less...whimsical.”

Jenny shrugged. “Some items call out to you.”

She didn’t tell Tru that the history of the delicately carved glasses, with the small, etched daisies, had touched her. They’d been a wedding present to the seller’s parents, who’d been married for over sixty years. Jenny had been shocked that anyone would sell such sentimental pieces. She’d felt she was rescuing the glasses when she’d bought them.

“They’re pretty,” he said. “They suit you.”

Jenny fought a blush, from the unexpected compliment, as Tru twisted the cork off the bottle and poured the champagne.

“Which is it, then? Celebration or commiseration?”

Their fingers brushed as he handed her a glass, making her pulse jump.
Pull yourself together.
Tru’s presence was messing with her body’s common sense.

“Technically, it’s a bit of both.” She told him about Tim’s offer.

“That’s a score.” He touched his glass to hers. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” She sipped her champagne.

“You accepted the job?”

“Of course.”

He looked closely at her. “You don’t sound happy about it.”

“It’s a great opportunity and it eases my immediate cash-flow hiccup. But no matter how many articles I submit, it’s not enough money to solve the bigger problems. Lizzie’s college will accept a payment plan, but Irving won’t.”

Tru tapped his glass against his lips. “My offer’s still open. I’ll lend you the money, with the same repayment terms you agreed with Harry for more IVF attempts.”

Jenny hesitated, wishing she had the luxury to refuse, but she was fighting the inevitable. It didn’t take a math genius to know there was no other way to make the numbers add up.