have turned to
shredded newspaper soaked in mud. Annabelle was disappointed in
herself to be suddenly hesitant to reveal her line of work to a man
who held an advanced degree in Classical Literature. She wasn't
ashamed of her job. Exactly. It just suddenly seemed so...so
stupid.
"So, what do you do?" he asked
again.
Why bother hiding it? I'll never see
him again once Erin is better and I can go back to New
York.
"I'm a journalist."
Leaning slightly forward, with an
expectant expression, he clearly wanted more.
"I write for The Weekly
Investigator."
His reaction wasn't exactly what she'd
expected.
For the space of an instant, he stared,
his mouth hanging open. Then a flicker of sublime amusement crossed
his handsome face. Followed by a hoot of unrestrained
laughter.
"Oh, Bridget!" he snorted, rocking in
his chair and slapping his leg.
Heads turned in the fancy
establishment, causing a tide of heat to rise in Annabelle's
face.
Not only embarrassed at the attention
he was drawing to them, but furious that he'd laugh at her, she
tossed her napkin on the table and stood up with as much dignity as
she could manage.
He grabbed her hand, holding her beside
the table.
"No, please. Don't leave," he wheezed
between snorts.
"Don't leave? Why on earth would I stay
here to be laughed at?"
"Oh, no, no. I'm not laughing at you, I
promise," he sputtered. He drew a deep breath and added, "Please,
sit down. Please? I swear, Annabelle, I'm not laughing at
you."
"Then please share with me what's so
darned funny."
Shrugging his broad shoulders, he
smothered another outburst.
"Let's just say, you reminded me of
something else."
His strong fingers held her arm in a
tight grasp, so unless she wanted to make more of a spectacle of
them than he'd already done, she had to sit as he asked.
"Besides," he said, "you wouldn't want
to miss dessert, would you?"
Just at that moment, as though conjured
by his words, the waiter appeared with cheesecake and
coffee.
"The cheesecake here is the best in the
whole world."
"You've tried them all?" she asked,
skeptical.
"I've tried enough to know the best
when I get it. Tell me about your job."
"What do you want to know? I make up
stories for a supermarket tabloid."
His eyes flew wide. "You mean they're
not true?" he asked, with perfect sincerity.
In spite of her irritation with him,
she had to laugh.
"'Fraid not. After all, it's hard to
get aliens to submit to an interview."
"How did you get the job?"
"It was a mistake. I answered an ad in
The New York Times for a newspaper journalist. I was so naïve, I
figured, why wouldn't The New York Times advertise in their own
classifieds for a reporter? I almost didn't take it when I found
out, but I was fresh out of school, and I needed a job."
"But it isn't journalism?" It was a
question.
"No. But then it turned out journalism
isn't really my thing, anyway."
"What kind of stories do you
write?"
"I am a specialist in paranormal
phenomena, aliens, UFOs, psychics, potatoes that look like
Elvis."
"All fake?"
"All fake."
"Do you like it? Is it what you want to
do?"
Was he really interested? Should she
really tell him?
Annabelle shrugged and picked at her
cheesecake. "It's close enough, I suppose, fiction of a kind. I
really want to write children's books. The bane of being exposed
too early to Peter Pan."
"Peter Pan. Let me guess. You always
wanted to be Wendy?"
"No, Tinkerbell. She could
fly."
Gaelen narrowed his eyes and smiled,
then chuckled. "Tinkerbell," he whispered gently.
"Didn't you ever want to be some
fantastic creature?"
He laughed, a soft soothing sound. "No,
I've only ever wanted to be a mortal man."
"Even when you were a boy?"
"Even then."
A chuckle escaped her. "Why don't I
believe that?"
An expression crossed his face, one of
fear. He quickly masked it, but Annabelle was sure she'd seen
it.
"What don't you believe?" he asked, his
voice strained.
"That you only wanted to be mortal.
Where's the fun in that?" She
shredded newspaper soaked in mud. Annabelle was disappointed in
herself to be suddenly hesitant to reveal her line of work to a man
who held an advanced degree in Classical Literature. She wasn't
ashamed of her job. Exactly. It just suddenly seemed so...so
stupid.
"So, what do you do?" he asked
again.
Why bother hiding it? I'll never see
him again once Erin is better and I can go back to New
York.
"I'm a journalist."
Leaning slightly forward, with an
expectant expression, he clearly wanted more.
"I write for The Weekly
Investigator."
His reaction wasn't exactly what she'd
expected.
For the space of an instant, he stared,
his mouth hanging open. Then a flicker of sublime amusement crossed
his handsome face. Followed by a hoot of unrestrained
laughter.
"Oh, Bridget!" he snorted, rocking in
his chair and slapping his leg.
Heads turned in the fancy
establishment, causing a tide of heat to rise in Annabelle's
face.
Not only embarrassed at the attention
he was drawing to them, but furious that he'd laugh at her, she
tossed her napkin on the table and stood up with as much dignity as
she could manage.
He grabbed her hand, holding her beside
the table.
"No, please. Don't leave," he wheezed
between snorts.
"Don't leave? Why on earth would I stay
here to be laughed at?"
"Oh, no, no. I'm not laughing at you, I
promise," he sputtered. He drew a deep breath and added, "Please,
sit down. Please? I swear, Annabelle, I'm not laughing at
you."
"Then please share with me what's so
darned funny."
Shrugging his broad shoulders, he
smothered another outburst.
"Let's just say, you reminded me of
something else."
His strong fingers held her arm in a
tight grasp, so unless she wanted to make more of a spectacle of
them than he'd already done, she had to sit as he asked.
"Besides," he said, "you wouldn't want
to miss dessert, would you?"
Just at that moment, as though conjured
by his words, the waiter appeared with cheesecake and
coffee.
"The cheesecake here is the best in the
whole world."
"You've tried them all?" she asked,
skeptical.
"I've tried enough to know the best
when I get it. Tell me about your job."
"What do you want to know? I make up
stories for a supermarket tabloid."
His eyes flew wide. "You mean they're
not true?" he asked, with perfect sincerity.
In spite of her irritation with him,
she had to laugh.
"'Fraid not. After all, it's hard to
get aliens to submit to an interview."
"How did you get the job?"
"It was a mistake. I answered an ad in
The New York Times for a newspaper journalist. I was so naïve, I
figured, why wouldn't The New York Times advertise in their own
classifieds for a reporter? I almost didn't take it when I found
out, but I was fresh out of school, and I needed a job."
"But it isn't journalism?" It was a
question.
"No. But then it turned out journalism
isn't really my thing, anyway."
"What kind of stories do you
write?"
"I am a specialist in paranormal
phenomena, aliens, UFOs, psychics, potatoes that look like
Elvis."
"All fake?"
"All fake."
"Do you like it? Is it what you want to
do?"
Was he really interested? Should she
really tell him?
Annabelle shrugged and picked at her
cheesecake. "It's close enough, I suppose, fiction of a kind. I
really want to write children's books. The bane of being exposed
too early to Peter Pan."
"Peter Pan. Let me guess. You always
wanted to be Wendy?"
"No, Tinkerbell. She could
fly."
Gaelen narrowed his eyes and smiled,
then chuckled. "Tinkerbell," he whispered gently.
"Didn't you ever want to be some
fantastic creature?"
He laughed, a soft soothing sound. "No,
I've only ever wanted to be a mortal man."
"Even when you were a boy?"
"Even then."
A chuckle escaped her. "Why don't I
believe that?"
An expression crossed his face, one of
fear. He quickly masked it, but Annabelle was sure she'd seen
it.
"What don't you believe?" he asked, his
voice strained.
"That you only wanted to be mortal.
Where's the fun in that?" She
Similar Books
