Page 6 of Romance and Peppermint Lattes
Crossing his arms over his chest, Nolan leaned lazily against the doorjamb while she retrieved her wool coat.
Maryanne crammed her arms into the sleeves and nearly tore off the buttons in her rush to leave. The way he stood there studying her did little to cool her temper.
“And another thing...” she muttered.
“You mean there’s more?”
“You’re darn right there is. That crack about virgins was intolerably rude! I... I expected better of you.”
“Hell, it’s true.”
“How would you know?”
He grinned that insufferable grin of his, infuriating her even more.
“Don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around?” she demanded, stalking out of the room.
“Not particularly. Fact is, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Once she’d recovered from the shock of learning that he’d be her opponent in this radio debate, Maryanne had eagerly anticipated this evening, too. Long before she’d arrived at the radio station, she’d planned to tell Nolan how much she admired his work. This silly rivalry between them was exactly that: silly. She hadn’t meant to step on his toes and would’ve called and cleared the air if he hadn’t attacked her in print at the earliest opportunity.
“Sure you wanted to meet me. Hurling insults to my face must be far more fun.”
He laughed at that and Maryanne was astonished at how rich and friendly his amusement sounded.
“Come on, Simpson, don’t take everything so personally. Admit it. We’ve been having a good time poking fun at each other.”
Maryanne didn’t say anything for a moment. Actually he was partially right. Shehadenjoyed their exchanges, although she wouldn’t have admitted that earlier. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to now.
“Admit it,” he coaxed, again with a grin.
That uneven smile of his was her undoing. “It hasn’t exactly beenfun,” she answered reluctantly, “but it’s been... interesting.”
“That’s what I thought.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, looking pleased with himself.
She glanced at him appraisingly. The man’s appeal was definitely of the rugged variety: his outrageous charm—Maryanne wasn’t sure charm was really the right word—his craggy face and solid compact build. She’d been surprised to discover he wasn’t as tall as she’d imagined. In fact, he was probably under six feet.
“Word has it Daddy was the one responsible for landing you this cushy job,” he commented, interrupting her assessment.
“Cushy?” she repeated angrily. “You’ve got to be kidding!” She often put in twelve-hour days, trying to come up with a column that was both relevant and entertaining. In the four weeks since she’d joined theSeattle Review, she’d worked damn hard. She had something to prove, not only to herself but to her peers.
“So being a journalist isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be?”
“I didn’t say that,” she returned. To be perfectly honest, Maryanne had never tried harder at anything. Her pride and a whole lot more was riding on the outcome of the next few months. Samuel Simpson’s daughter or not, she was on probation, after which her performance would be reviewed by the managing editor.
“I wonder if you’ve ever done anything without Daddy’s approval.”
“I wonder if you’ve always been this rude.”
He chuckled at that. “Almost always. As I said, don’t take it personally.”
With her leather purse tucked securely under her arm, she marched to the exit, which Nolan was effectively blocking. “Excuse me, please.”
“Always so polite,” he murmured before he straightened, allowing her to pass.
Nolan followed her to the elevator, annoying her even more. Maryanne felt his scrutiny, and it flustered her. She knew shewas reasonably attractive, but she also knew that no one was going to rush forward with a banner and a tiara. Her mouth was just a little too full, her eyes a little too round. Her hair had been fire-engine red the entire time she was growing up, but it had darkened to a deep auburn in her early twenties, a fact for which she remained truly grateful. Maryanne had always hated her red hair and the wealth of freckles that accompanied it. No one else in her family had been cursed with red hair, let alone freckles. Her mother’s hair was a beautiful blonde and her father’s a rich chestnut. Even her younger brothers had escaped her fate. If it weren’t for the distinctive high Simpson forehead and deep blue eyes, Maryanne might have suspected she’d been adopted. But that wasn’t the case. Instead she’d been forced to discover early in life how unfair heredity could be.
The elevator arrived, and both Maryanne and Nolan stepped inside. Nolan leaned against the side—he always seemed to be leaning, Maryanne noticed. Leaning and staring. He was studying her again; she could feel his eyes as profoundly as a caress.
