I’d still feel better if you read the letters and gave me your input.”
Chris read between the lines. This wasn’t Felicity Simmons’s idea. It was Tim’s. And Tim’s will prevailed, as usual.
“I’ll be there.”
For the first time in the history of her career, Felicity Simmons was late for work.
She blamed her secret un-admirer. That’s what she’d silently dubbed the person who’d been busy writing her letters recently.
When added to a restless night, a stoplight that had gone bonkers on her way to the Dispatch, confusing everyone who hadn’t had their daily dose of java, and getting stuck behind a recycling truck that lumbered along in front of her like a mechanical brontosaurus, she would officially be three minutes late by the time she sat down at her desk.
“Hi, Felicity.” Dawn Leroux gave her a friendly wave when she entered the building. She was standing near the reception counter, talking to Herman and Louise Gordon, Hamilton Media’s elderly “gatekeepers.” Even though they’d officially retired years ago, the couple were a permanent fixture at Hamilton Media. No one got past the lobby without an appointment—or their permission.
If she hadn’t been running late, Felicity would have paused for a minute to say hello. Dawn wasn’t only Tim Hamilton’s personal assistant; the two women had met when Felicity began attending Northside Community Church shortly after moving to Davis Landing.
“Morning,” Felicity called back, slightly out of breath from her dash across the parking lot. She made her way through the labyrinth of half walls to her “office” in the far corner of the room, the equivalent of journalistic Siberia. Farthest from the AP wire service and fax machine. And the break room. She’d accepted the cramped space with a smile, perfectly willing to pay her dues at the Dispatch. Not only was she the youngest full-time reporter that the daily had ever hired, she was also the first female.
If she didn’t have a window or a desk barely bigger than her computer, so be it. She didn’t expect any special treatment nor did she want it.
The telephone was already winking one red eye at her, letting her know she had some messages.
“Felicity, this is Tim. Push your nine o’clock appointment back to ten. My brother is coming to talk to you about the letter you got yesterday.”
Felicity exhaled sharply. With Jeremy gone, the only brother Tim could possibly be referring to was Chris Hamilton. The police officer. She’d tried to play down her concern over the latest letter she’d received but obviously “Typhoon Tim” had taken matters into his own hands.
He’d gotten the nickname from the Dispatch employees and Felicity thought that it certainly fit. With some of the new changes Tim had implemented, she was surprised that half the staff hadn’t jumped ship when he’d taken control.
Jeremy’s leadership style had been as laid-back as his personality. The stress of a newspaper with its never-ending deadlines had the potential to tie everyone in knots but Jeremy had always been as calm as Sugar Tree Lake on a hot summer day. Tim was much more intense, which seemed to put everyone on edge. Still, she hadn’t had a problem with him since Jeremy had left…
Until now.
She picked up the phone and tried to call Tim, hoping to change his mind. There was no response at his desk and she decided to track him down. Maybe he was on the second floor, terrorizing the employees who worked for Nashville Living.
Ducking down the hall, she headed toward the stairwell. Since the day she’d been hired, she’d been in a silent standoff with the ancient contraption most people referred to as the elevator. Fearless in most areas of her life, Felicity reluctantly called a draw when it came to enclosed spaces. She couldn’t stand them. Besides that, the elevator was original to the building, which meant it had existed when people rode in buggies instead of cars. Another reason to opt for the stairs. And as well as that, exercise was good for a person….
Now, with every precious second counting, she paused at the elevator, tucking her lower lip between her teeth.
You’re being silly, Felicity, she scolded herself. You’re a tough journalist, not a wimp. This is a three-storey building, not exactly a skyscraper.
She decided that whomever promoted self-talk as a good way to motivate a person hadn’t been afraid of small spaces. It was a good thing she knew what did work.
Lord, You promised to give courage to the faint-hearted. I’m taking You up on it! Please give me courage.
The elevator’s low, musical beep sounded and before Felicity could move, the door swished open.
She was trapped.
Not by the elevator, but by the man stepping out of it. For a second, the only thing in her field of vision was the color blue. Then the badge came into focus. Felicity wasn’t petite but the man who took a step forward seemed to tower above her. When she lifted her eyes to his face, she saw a familiar combination of features—the chiseled face, firm Hamilton jawline and a pair of warm, intelligent eyes that happened to be the same shade of brown as the caramels she had stashed in her desk drawer.
He stepped politely to the side and she could breathe again. Wait a second. Why was she holding her breath?
“Two or three?” he asked, holding the door for her.
“Neither.” Felicity buried a sigh and extended her hand. “I’m Felicity Simmons and if you’re Officer Hamilton, I believe we have an appointment.”
Chapter Two
“My office is just down the hall in the newsroom. I have several appointments this morning but I adjusted my schedule.”
Chris barely felt the warm press of Felicity Simmons’s hand before she pivoted sharply and moved away, her low-heeled shoes clicking against the marble floor. He fell easily into step beside her.
“I have to be honest. I wish Tim wouldn’t have bothered you. I can’t help but feel like we’re wasting your time,” Felicity went on.
Chris didn’t answer right away. He was still suffering from the mild case of shock he’d been hit with when Felicity had introduced herself. He’d taken a few minutes to go up to the second floor to say hello to Amy and Heather, who were hard at work on the next issue of Nashville Living. It had been Heather who’d told him where to find Felicity, but when the elevator door had opened and he saw the woman standing on the other side, his first assumption was that she worked in the accounting department.
She was younger than he expected. Probably close to his age. Even though she looked every inch the professional in conservative brown pants and a matching jacket, with her auburn hair swept away from her face and anchored in place by an industrial-strength copper clip, he never would have guessed she was F. Simmons, the reporter who had covered the last city council meeting. She’d written it with bold honesty, not attempting to soften the heated debate several councilmen had engaged in over some proposed budget cuts.
“History meets modern technology,” Chris murmured as Felicity pushed open the swinging door between the front lobby and the part of the building that housed the Dispatch.
The historic beauty of Hamilton Media had bowed to progress when it came to the Dispatch.
