in on the trial.” Holding a pad and pencil aloft, he puffed out his chest like a bantam rooster. “I’m a reporter.”
“Not apt to be one for long if you knock down a loyal reader, James,” warned a deep masculine voice, a familiar voice that sent a wave of heat to Adelaide’s cheeks.
The young man’s complexion also deepened to the color of beets. The editor smiled, softening the harshness of his words, and gave Adelaide a wink. The second time he’d winked at her. Despite everything, she couldn’t help but smile back.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of Miss Crum.”
Adelaide’s gaze darted to the editor. Heavenly days, no one took care of her. Even hearing the words unsettled and somehow thrilled her, too.
“I’ll expect a full report on the proceedings, James.”
The young man nodded, then took off at a run across the street, his long legs dodging buggies and wagons on his way to the courthouse.
Adelaide turned back to the editor. “I don’t believe his feet touched the ground.”
Brown eyes sparkling with good humor, Mr. Graves chuckled. Without a coat, attired in a pin-striped vest and white shirt, he’d rolled his sleeves to the elbow giving her a clear view of muscled forearms. His broad shoulders filled the doorway.
The kind of shoulders one could lean on, tell every trouble to, a luxury Adelaide had never had.
Laura had said Charles looked like his father. Adelaide resembled her mother. Odd, history repeating itself that way.
He gestured for her to enter ahead of him. “Come in.”
The instant Adelaide stepped inside, the odor of ink filled her nostrils. With the presses running, the noise level forced her to raise her voice several notches, disconcerting her. But not nearly as much as the man beside her, who looked more male than any man she’d ever met.
“Your reporter seems like a conscientious young man.”
“Yes, but a bit out of control.”
Exactly how Adelaide felt at the moment.
He led her to a desk the likes of which she’d never seen. Newspapers, books and a jumble of paper littered the surface and spilled over onto the floor. Her gaze surveyed three coffee cups, two tumblers, one filled with water, the other with pencils, an ink well, scissors, a glue bottle, a crumpled rag stained with ink, rubber bands, an apple and, gracious, the remainder of a half-eaten sandwich.
“Oh, my.”
Mr. Graves stiffened. “Something wrong?”
“Nothing really.” Adelaide clasped her hands together to keep them from organizing the desk and then giving it the dusting—well, more like the good scrubbing—it needed. That Mr. Graves could work amidst such a mess amazed and baffled her.
He motioned to a chair. “Please, have a seat.”
She glanced at the chair he’d indicated, only to find it piled with newspapers. With a boyish grin, Mr. Graves removed them, obviously unconcerned with disarray. She started to sit when she spotted the crumbs.
He followed her gaze. “Let me take care of that.” He took out a handkerchief and swiped it over the seat, sending crumbs tumbling to the floor.
She cringed. Heavenly days, fodder for bugs, or worse, rodents. But then he bent near and she caught the smell of leather and soap mingled with ink and filled her lungs, reveling in the scent of him. Suddenly woozy, she dropped into the now tidy seat before she did something foolish, like telling him how good he smelled.
The fumes must have made me light-headed.
The editor cleared a space, then perched on the corner of his desk. His dark gray pants and vest hugged a flat midriff with nary a sign of a potbelly. Her gaze lingered on his hands. Ink-stained, the tips of his long fingers fascinated her. Large, capable, strong—a man’s hands, not at all like her own.
With great effort, she pulled her gaze away to look into his eyes and caught him studying her, a puzzled look on his face. Heat climbed her neck. What was the matter with her? She was behaving like a schoolgirl, as if she’d never seen a man.
“Miss Crum? You’re here because…?”
Her hand fluttered upward, easing her collar from the heat of her neck. “I want to place an advertisement in your paper.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “I’d welcome your business, but I believe you already advertise with us.”
He’d paid attention, knew she ran a monthly ad, but then that was his job. “Yes, but I need a special advertisement to promote the sale of my latest creations.” She worried her lower lip. “I’m overstocked.”
“I see. Perhaps a larger, eye-catching ad would bring in those ladies who didn’t get a new bonnet for Easter?”
Adelaide smiled. “Exactly.”
“Let’s check our type selection for a suitable hat.”
Adelaide took in a deep breath. “Before we do, there’s another reason I’ve come, a more important reason.”
“More important than business?” He gave her a teasing grin.
“Much.” She swallowed over the lump in her throat. “I, ah, owe you an apology.”
He raised a brow. “For what?”
“For my outburst the day of the distribution. I don’t know what got into me.” She sighed. “I behaved badly and I’m sorry.”
“You surprise me, Miss Crum.”
Adelaide glanced at her hands, then met his gaze. “When I’ve done wrong, the Bible teaches me to apologize.”
His eyes searched her face. “Apparently you do more than carry that book on Sunday mornings.”
What a strange comment. One he wouldn’t have made if he knew how she’d struggled of late with reading the Bible. “The Bible also says you’re to forgive me.”
“Yes, if need be, seventy times seven.” A smile took over his solemn face. “Forgiving you is an easy task, Miss Crum.”
Like rainfall after a drought, his words seeped into her thirsty heart. “Thank you.” She shot him a grin. “Though, I trust my behavior won’t require quite that much clemency.”
He leaned toward her. “That’s too bad.”
Adelaide’s mouth went dry. What did he mean? She lurched from the chair. “I’d like to look at your hat selection.”
He smiled, and then with a hand on her elbow, led her to an enormous array of type fitted into shallow drawers. The presses pulsated through the wooden floor into the soles of her shoes and up into her limbs. That had to be why she felt shaky on her feet. Not because of Mr. Graves’s touch.
The presses
