My Front Page Scandal by Carrie Alexander Page B

she reached upward to set the top rail in place.
    Muffled by the thick glass, a voice said, “Someone’s watching.”
    He hadn’t realized there was a woman with Brooke, half hidden by the ladder and the armful of streamers she carried like a handmaiden. She was Asian, with the black-framed glasses and pale countenance of an arts major. He recognized the type.
    “A peeping Tom,” she added.
    Busted. David tapped a knuckle on the glass.
    Brooke flinched, lost her balance for a second, then caught hold of the teetering ladder. She scrambled down, brushing away the tangle of leaves and beads like cobwebs.
    Her eyes narrowed. He saw her mouth open and form a silent word. David?
    She’d recognized his eyeball. He tapped again. “Can I come in?”
    The curtain swept open. She stood near the glass, looking down at him. “You have to go around to the service entrance.” She blinked. Her hands went to her messy hair, then her wrinkled blouse. “What are you doing here?”
    He backed away, showing her the wicker hamper room service had packed for him.
    Her lips opened into another silent O. A light like the glow of a lantern took hold in her eyes.
    She pressed her palms against the glass. “I’ll call the security guard. He’ll let you in.”
    David found the alley entrance, where he was met by a burly older man in a blue uniform who said a gruff hello and led the way to the darkened store. It was an alien landscape, peopled with frozen mannequins and shining surfaces. A garment whispered as he brushed by, its hanger sending a silvery chime into the vast, dark silence.
    Brooke appeared among the shadows, trotting across the gleaming marble in sneakers that made soft squeaking sounds. “Thanks, Gus. I’ll take over from here.”
    The guard knit his eyebrows, scowling at David. “I don’t know about this, Miss Winfield. We’re not supposed to have guests after hours.”
    “This is my friend, David. David, Gus Hanratty.” She’d omitted his last name, but he couldn’t read her expression in the dark to tell if that had been on purpose. “Don’t worry, Gus. I’ll vouch for him.”
    “Hmmph. Fifteen minutes.”
    She smiled sweetly, charming the stuffing out of the old guy. “That’ll be fine.
    Meg and I are almost finished anyway. We’ll clear out before too much longer.”
    Brooke looked at David with big eyes. He swung the hamper behind his back until the security guard had retreated through the service door. “It’s okay,” she said. “He’ll turn on the Celtics game and forget to come back. Is that a picnic?”
    He lifted the lid, showed her the bottle inside. “A champagne picnic, courtesy of room service. I thought that since you wouldn’t go out with me, I’d come to you.”
    Her lashes flickered. “I’m flattered you went to so much trouble. But I’m—” She stabbed her fingers in her hair, making a futile attempt to tuck stray strands back in the tortoiseshell clip at the top of her head before her hands dropped to her thighs. “Well, never mind. You might as well meet the real—the other me.
    Goodbye wild woman, hello frowsy window dresser.”
    He took in her jeans, the button-down shirt, now tucked in, and the woolen knit cardigan that had become tied around her waist since he’d seen her in the window.
    She scrunched her face. “Pretty different from the other night, huh?”
    He had to agree. “Cute, though.”
    “Cute. That’s almost as bad as a guy being called nice.”
    He winked. “I wouldn’t know.”
    “I would. I almost married one. ‘A nice young man.’” She made air quotes.
    “That’s what they all called him.”
    “But you didn’t?”
    “Call him that—or marry him?” She took David’s hand and led him toward the front of the store. “We were about to set the wedding date when I came to a realization that two nices don’t necessarily make a match.”
    “Two nices?”
    She bumped his shoulder in a teasing way and said in a hushed voice, “Uh-oh, you’ve