style="font-size:15px;"> “Tomorrow is Sunday, Marty. The Post will be closed.”
“Then look him up at home. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
Jack said he would if, and only if, he found the time. Ending the call, he tallied the damage to date: Dine with Sally, do the interview, tour the dairy barn, look at Sally’s photos, get some sleep, visit the dairy bar, visit with Charlie Sacks, drive home, write the article, get some sleep….
“How ’bout we have that drink later,” he said to Polly, but the bird had nodded off. Seemed like a good idea. Maybe he should grab a nap, too. His watch read four-fifteen.
“AND SO I THOUGHT, well hey, why not? I mean, we’ve always produced milk and cheese and butter and cream, but never ice cream, and all the other big dairies do, so why not us? We have the talent and the equipment. We’re perfectly capable. Soooooo, to make a long story short, we experimented with different recipes, Tilly and I, for months on end. You, know, various ratios of fruit to cream and so on, and then it just became a matter of…”
Seeing Jack’s eyes glaze over, Sally trailed off and gave him a rueful look. After his appalling behavior this afternoon, he deserved an earful. But she’d been babbling away at him practically nonstop for three hours now—right through cocktails, appetizers, dinner with wine, coffee, liqueurs and double helpings of Peach Paradise. They were seated together on her sofa now, trying not to touch.
“I suppose you don’t need all of this information,” she said with a nervous laugh. What was it about this guy that made her schizoid?
Jack shook his head. “Not true. It’s an old rule of thumb in feature-writing that more is better. I may not use everything you’ve given me, but it’s good to have it.”
Okay, that was sweet. As promised, he was taking her seriously. Frankly, it was a little hard to take him seriously in that ridiculous getup—Percy Pittle’s baggy denim coveralls and Pretty Peach Party Hardy T-shirt. She’d avoided mentioning it up until now, but couldn’t resist any longer.
“Jack Gold, I can’t believe you’ve been in town less than one day and have already sunk to the level of farm fashion. Did Martha dress you, or did you manage this yourself?”
“I’m afraid it’s my own doing. If I hadn’t overslept, I would have had time to dry my own things. And, actually, these jeans are pretty comfortable. I might just change my look.”
“Oh no, don’t do that!” Sally blushed furiously. What a dumb thing to say. It was important to keep things professional here. What with the lobster bisque, the ten-year-old chardonnay, her barely-there white minidress and the ravish-me scent she surely must be giving off, Jack would think she was trying to seduce him. Worse, he’d think she was trying to influence him. Oh, yes. Sally Darville, couch-friendly starlet of the dairy set. Willing to exchange favors for favorable copy.
What had she been thinking, sitting this close to him? Everything she didn’t want to notice about the guy was right in her face. His silky tawny hair, curling slightly at the edges. His long lashes, blond at the rim, darker at the ends, framing those stunningly intelligent eyes. Oh, and his hands. The man had beautiful hands. She could just imagine them….
Enough already!
“So,” her motormouth drove on, “I think we should talk about the story. I’m thinking a full—no, that’s excessive—a half-page feature, maybe, as the main article, plus photos, of course, and possibly a sidebar story. A history of Darville Dairy. Or, perhaps, a profile of Peachtown. What do you think?”
Jack stared at her as if she were deranged. Then—what nerve, honestly—he threw back his head and roared. “Tell me something, Sally Darville. Do you always get your own way?”
“Of course not,” she lied. “But, this is my story.” Why did she have to keep reminding people of that?
“Maybe so, but it’s my story assignment, and I’ll decide how to handle it.”
Sally couldn’t think of a single good response to that. It was his assignment, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
They lapsed into an oddly comfortable silence and gazed at one another. Sally tried hard to read Jack’s eyes, but they were inscrutable. Darn it, he had to feel the attraction, too. All those lust motes in the air couldn’t be hers alone.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “More coffee? More Peach Paradise?” Could I drag you into my bedroom and never let you leave it?
Jack’s hands flew up as if to ward off an attack. “No thanks, Sally. If I eat more of that fabulous ice cream tonight, I’ll explode. But if you can spare a pint, I’d love to take it back to the inn with me.”
“No problem.” Sally went into the kitchen and pulled a carton from the freezer. Setting it on the counter, she grabbed a moment. Whew. Never in her life had she been so physically attracted to a man. And why did it have to be this man? First of all, he was a conceited jerk. He might be making nice tonight, but his true colors had been on full display this afternoon. Secondly, he probably had a steady girlfriend in Vancouver—some slick corporate babe with a million teeth and a closetful of stilettos. Thirdly, he was a reporter and she was a source. There was a clear conflict of interest.
Of course, once the story was written, that would no longer apply….
No. It was no good. He’d be writing the article in Vancouver, not here. And once it was written, he’d be out of her orbit forever. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Forget it, Sally. Not going to happen.”
When she got back to the living room, Jack was on his feet by the front door, looking at something. “This hinge is about to give. If you remind me in the morning, I’ll tighten it up for you.”
Oh wow, Sally thought, handsome and handy. “Great. I’d appreciate that.”
He thanked her for a terrific interview and a lovely evening.
Handing him the ice cream, she said, “I’ll expect you around nine tomorrow, Jack. I trust that’s not too early for you?”
“No problem. I plan to be on the road by noon at the latest.”
She feigned ignorance. “You mean I won’t get to read the article before you go?”
“No. I’ll write it at home tomorrow night. And even if I did have time to write it here, it’s strictly against Satellite policy to clear copy with sources.”
“I wouldn’t change a word of it,” Sally lied.
“Oh yeah? How many times have I heard that? Anyway, I promise to do the story justice, Sally. You don’t have to worry about that.” He seemed to recall something then. “Speaking of promises, I told my editor I’d look up Charlie Sacks tomorrow. I expect you know him?”
Sally rolled her eyes. “Everybody knows Charlie.”
“Could I impose on you to make the introduction? I only know the man by reputation, and I generally don’t like to bother people at home on Sunday.”
“I’d love to! Um, I mean, sure, no problem.”
Sally walked Jack to the Mustang, then stood there feeling foolish and
