style="font-size:15px;"> She stopped in front of Leonard’s office and was about to rap on the open door when he lifted his head. In his late fifties, he was paunchy with heavy bags under his eyes and fingers stained yellow from nicotine.
“Ah, Poppy. You found us okay. Great to see you,” he said with a smile.
“It’s good to be here.”
“Why don’t I introduce you to the team first up and show you your desk and all that crap,” Leonard said. “We’ve got a department meeting in an hour, so you’ll have time to get settled.”
“Sounds good,” she said, even though her palms were suddenly sweaty. She was hopeless with names. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to concentrate on linking names to faces, they seemed to slip through her mental fingers like soap in the shower.
She wiped her right hand furtively down her trouser leg as Leonard led her to the row of desks immediately outside his office.
“Righteo. This is Johnno, Davo and Hilary,” he said. “Racing, golf and basketball.”
Which she took to mean were their respective areas of expertise. Johnno was old and pock-faced, Davo was midthirties and very tanned, and Hilary was red-haired and in her early thirties, Poppy’s age. They all murmured greetings and shook her hand, but she could tell they were keen to get back to their work.
“This mob around here,” Leonard said, leading her around the partition, “keep an eye on motor sport. Meet our resident gear heads, Macca and Jonesy.”
“All right. Our very own golden girl,” Jonesy said. He was in his late twenties and already developing a paunch.
“Bet you get that all the time, huh?” Macca asked. He smiled a little shyly and ran a hand over his thinning blond hair. “Price of winning gold.”
“There are worse things to be called,” she said with a smile.
Leonard’s hand landed in the middle of her back to steer her toward the far corner.
“And last, but not least, our very own Jack Kerouac,” he said.
Poppy’s palms got sweaty all over again as she saw who he was leading her toward.
Jake Stevens.
Oh, boy.
Her breath got stuck somewhere between her lungs and her mouth as she stared at the back of his dark head.
She didn’t need Leonard to tell her that Jake Stevens wrote about football, as well as covering every major sporting event in the world. She’d read his column for years. She’d watched him interview her colleagues but had somehow never crossed paths with him herself. She knew he’d won almost every Australian journalism award at least once. And she’d read his debut novel so many times the spine had cracked on her first copy and she was now onto her second.
He was wonderful—the kind of writer who made it look effortless. The kind of journalist other journalists aspired to be.
Including her, now that she’d joined their ranks.
“Heads up, Jake,” Leonard said as they stopped beside the other man’s desk.
Not Jakey or some other diminutive, Poppy noted. His desk was bigger, too, taking up twice as much space as those of the other journalists.
Jake Stevens kept them waiting while he finished typing the sentence he was working on. Not long enough to be rude, but enough to make her feel even more self-conscious as she hovered beside Leonard. Finally he swiveled his chair to face them.
“Right. Our new celebrity columnist,” he said, stressing the last two words. He looked at her with lazy, deep blue eyes and offered her his hand. “Welcome on board.”
She slid her hand into his. She’d only ever seen photographs of him before; he was much better looking in real life. The realization only increased her nervousness.
“It’s great to meet you, Mr. Stevens,” she said. “I’m a big admirer of your work—I’ve read your book so many times I can practically recite it.”
Jake’s dark eyebrows rose. “Mr. Stevens? Wow, you must really admire me.”
The back of her neck prickled with embarrassment. She hadn’t meant to sound so stiff and formal. Her embarrassment only increased when his gaze dropped to take in her businesslike brown suit and sensibly heeled shoes, finally stopping on her leather satchel. She felt like a schoolgirl having her uniform inspected. She had a sudden sense that he knew exactly how uncomfortable she was in her new clothes and her new shoes and how out of place she felt in her new environment.
“I suppose you must have interviewed Poppy at some time, eh, Jake?” Leonard asked.
“No. Never had the pleasure,” Jake said.
He didn’t sound very disappointed.
Leonard settled his shoulder against the wall. “Big weekend. Great game between Port and the Swans.”
“Yeah. Almost makes you look forward to the finals, doesn’t it?” Jake said.
The two men forgot about her for a moment as they talked football. Poppy took the opportunity to study the man who’d written one of her favorite novels.
Every time she read The Coolabah Tree she looked at the photograph inside the back cover and wondered about the man behind the cool, slightly cocky smile. He’d been younger when the photo had been taken—twenty-eight or so—but his strong, straight nose, intensely blue eyes and dark hair were essentially unchanged. The seven years that had passed were evident only in the fine lines around his mouth and eyes.
The photo had been a head shot yet for some reason she’d always imagined he was a big, husky man. He wasn’t. Tall, yes, with broad shoulders, but his body was lean and rangy—more a long-distance runner’s physique than a footballer’s. He was wearing jeans and a wrinkled white shirt, and she found herself staring at his thighs, the long, lean muscles outlined by faded denim.
There was a pause in the conversation and she lifted her gaze to find Jake watching her, a sardonic light in his eyes. For the second time that morning she felt embarrassed heat rush into her face.
“Well, Poppy, that’s pretty much everyone,” Leonard said, pushing off from the wall. “A few odds and bods on assignment, but you’ll meet them later. Your desk is over here.”
He headed off. She glanced at Jake one last time before following, ready to say something polite and friendly in parting, but he’d already returned to his work.
Well, okay.
She was frowning as Leonard showed her the desk she’d occupy, wedged into a corner between a potted plant and a pillar. It was obviously a make-do location, slightly separate from the rest of the sports team. Pretty basic—white laminate desk, multiline phone, a computer and a bulletin board fixed to the partition in front of her.
“Have a bit of a look-around in the computer, familiarize yourself with everything,” Leonard said, checking his watch. “I’ll get Mary, our admin assistant,
