Like Never Before by Melissa Tagg Page A

feet to go!”
    Kate’s eyes widened. “That’s Charlie’s, isn’t it?”
    Up ahead, Charlie was waving her arms from atop Dad’s shoulders. Minutes later, they stood on the Peach Street Bridge, Charlie holding a wet duck and Logan holding Charlie. Dad grinning and Kate clapping. And somehow he heard the whisper in his heart even over the crowd.
    Stay.
    â€œCan I get a picture for next week’s paper?”
    Amelia. With her camera and her notebook and that hopeful expectation in her eyes. She lifted her camera, and Charlie held up her duck with a smile that could’ve melted the last of the ice in the river.

    Sometimes it really stunk, being the only one in the office with both the gall and an arm small enough to battle the press machine. Amelia flexed her hand as she felt around inside the machine for jammed newsprint, inky fumes clouding around her from her perch on the stepstool. Great way to start off the week.
    And Mae wasn’t helping.
    â€œThis is exactly why you should be talking with my niece, Amelia. I can guarantee you USA Today doesn’t have her fixing jammed machines.”
    It was at least the fiftieth time Mae had brought up her niece—a “real journalist.” Apparently, she worked at USA Today’s Chicago outlet. “You really want to get rid of me that badly, Mae?”
    â€œI’m just saying, if you love the newspaper business so much, then why would you not take advantage of a connection at a major paper? Plus, Belle’s part of this young startup thing on the side, which you, of all people, would love, and she’s in town this weekend—”
    Amelia huffed a strand of hair from her face. “Thank you, Mae, but I’m staying.” If she wasn’t willing to move an hour away to work for the Communicator , she certainly had no desire to traipse off to Chicago.
    â€œSorry about this,” Ledge rasped behind her as the door signaled Mae’s sulky retreat. Amelia had only recently learned the reason for the press operator’s soft, throaty voice—the result of damage to his vocal chords in a house fire when he was a kid. It didn’t match his frame—bulky enough for a spot on a football team’s defensive line.
    â€œNot your fault this equipment is older than dirt.” Freddie had wanted to replace the pressroom’s machines last year after the flood, but a flimsy insurance policy had left him cash-poor and forced into making lousy repairs instead. There, her fingers latched on to the source of the jam, and she yanked.
    â€œTry it now, Ledge.”
    â€œGet your hand out of there first.”
    She hopped off the stepstool and backed away. Ledge hit the button to start up the machine.
    It gurgled to life, rumbling enough to rattle the window in between the pressroom and newsroom. But a couple chugs later, the clunking started again, and then the flashing light alerted them to another jam.
    As if the mangled paper shooting from its mouth wasn’t sign enough.
    Ledge released a sigh and switched off the press. “I don’t know, Amelia. We might have to buckle down and call a repairman this time.”
    â€œOh no. I have fixed this baby so many times. No way are we paying someone else to come in and do what I’m perfectly capable of myself.” Never mind that she’d probably ruin her shirt in the process. She’d already accidentally smeared ink down her arm.
    She climbed onto the stool again, buried her hand inside the machine again, and felt around for more bits of paper and the rod that always insisted on coming loose. The pressroom door whomped behind her. Owen, probably, coming to check on their progress. With production day tomorrow and the paper due to hit doorsteps on Wednesday, Monday afternoons were always busy.
    But it wasn’t Owen’s voice that caused her to jerk, bumping her shoulder against the top of the machine. “Having