stopped him from twining his fingers through it earlier.
Her stomach gave an excited swoop and she swallowed hard, escaping to the restroom. Flipping the light switch in the small room yielded no results, but there was at least enough light from the high, narrow window to see by. The tiled room was clean and neat, and Shea wanted to hide out there as long as possible, but it was too cold. Her bra was just as damp as the rest of her clothes and she balled it up as best she could and shoved it in her pants pocket, unable to face adding yet another damp layer against her skin. She used the toilet, washed her hands in cold water, cringed at her bedraggled reflection in the mirror and reluctantly returned to the reception area.
Pax had shed the canvas blanket and pulled on his jeans. He’d left the top button unfastened.
Her gaze lollygagged over the hard ridges of his abdomen, and she felt her cheeks flushing when her eyes finally reached his.
Definitely, she blamed it all on his shirt.
He was grinning slightly, as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking, and then he leaned over to pick up the white button-down offender from the floor.
“I need to get home,” she announced, her voice abrupt and too loud. “My cat is sick.”
He straightened, smiling outright. “That’s an excuse I haven’t heard before.”
“Marsha-Marsha,” she prattled, hating the nervousness bubbling up inside her as much as she hated that weird feeling in her stomach whenever she looked at him. “She’s sixteen years old. I, um, I have to give her antibiotics right now.”
The amusement in his dark brown eyes turned to something else. Something softer. Something unexpected. He pulled on his shirt. “How long have you had her?”
She managed to look away from him and focused on the wooden model ship sitting on the table. She didn’t know much about boats, but the gleaming structure looked like it belonged in an art museum. “Since she was a kitten. My, um, my stepfather Ken gave her to me.” Ken had been number three in the line of her mother’s seven marriages. He was long gone now, but Marsha-Marsha was still here.
“Well then,” Pax said, as if the decision were easy. “You need to get home.”
Her car hadn’t started the day before. She doubted sitting in a storm gathering ice would have cured its ills. “You think the buses are running again?” Everything had ground to a halt the afternoon before.
His smile was immediate. “Doesn’t matter if they are or aren’t. As long as the roads are passable, I’ll get you home.”
Again with the swoop inside her.
She shook it off. “I live on the far side of Fremont,” she warned. Her apartment wasn’t exactly right around the corner.
“I know.”
She studied him for a moment. “I don’t remember telling you where I lived.” Their conversations, outside of any interviews he’d given her, were light-hearted in the extreme, usually ending with him suggesting that her life wouldn’t be complete if she didn’t go out with him. He’d invited her out for everything from coffee to a sail around the world.
She’d never once taken him seriously. It was simply part of his genetic makeup to flirt with women.
“Just because you get paid to ask questions doesn’t mean you’re the only person who ever does.” His voice was dry.
“Who’d you ask about me? Mrs. Hunt?” She couldn’t imagine the very elegant, über-wealthy Cornelia Hunt gossiping about anyone, even with the ridiculously charming Paxton Merrick. But then again, Shea could hardly imagine Cornelia’s unusual business venture either, despite having been a witness to its very birth. The woman had no need to ever work because she was married to one of the richest men in the country, yet she’d set up shop to help women succeed in business even when many of them didn’t realize they needed help. And now Shea was a minor contributor because Cornelia had hired her part-time to conduct background checks on her prospective clients. At least she took Shea’s investigative abilities seriously, whereas her boss at the Washtub didn’t.
“You’ve got an editor at the Tub,” Pax said, as if he’d been reading her mind.
“Harvey Hightower is an ornery old coot who doesn’t do anything for anyone unless he’s getting something out of it.” He called Shea “cupcake” and wouldn’t assign her to anything but puff pieces and gossip, no matter how hard or loudly she begged. Didn’t even matter that the twice-weekly independent operated on a shoestring budget. He’d rather pay a “serious” journalist for the “harder” stuff than let Shea stretch her wings. He’d decided she was good at human interest stories and that’s where she’d been stuck ever since she’d started working there after college. But Harvey did love anything to do with Pax and his boat-building partner because the readers loved anything to do with Pax and his boat-building partner. Who was to say that he wouldn’t have answered any question Pax asked?
She huffed. “You’re an irritating man.”
He laughed softly. “Glad to know I’m finally having some effect.”
She grimaced. “Last night wasn’t the response you’ve been going for these past few years?”
Amusement lit his dark eyes. “I figured it was an early Christmas present.”
“I don’t give Christmas presents like that.” Truth was, she didn’t give Christmas presents at all, except to her mother. And that was only a gift certificate to her favorite store because Shea knew there was no point in picking out something personal. Her mother thought Shea had abysmal taste.
“Well, then. Lucky me.” His dimple flashed again as he grabbed up the canvas and loosely folded it.
It was better to busy her hands than to keep watching him, so she picked up one of the cushions to return it to its rightful position on one of the square, wooden chairs. As soon as she moved it, she spotted her panties beneath, and she snatched them up and shoved them in her other pants pocket.
She was pretty sure she’d never carried around all of her undergarments in the front pockets of her pants. She was glad her sweater was long enough to cover it all up, and she pretended that Pax hadn’t observed the whole embarrassing thing while she put the cushion back in place. The mugs clanked together when he carried them to the break room. With nothing else to do, she sat down and pulled on her leather boots, zipping them over the legs of her damp pants, not because she wanted to, but because the legs were too narrow to fit over the boots. Then she headed to the windows again, peering out.
“Phone lines are still down.”
She glanced back to see Pax tucking his cell phone into his back pocket.
“I checked the landline too,” he added. “It’s as dead as my cell.”
“I’m not surprised.” She turned to the window again and pointed to the building across the street. A power pole, laden with ice, was leaning against the three-story warehouse. “There’s ice hanging on everything.” She chewed the inside of her lip. Neither the fact that Marsha-Marsha was waiting nor Shea’s desperation to escape would excuse another act of utter foolishness. “The roads are probably still iced over, too.”
He closed his
