One Track Mind by Bethany Campbell Page B

realized that he wasn’t asking her, he was telling her.
    “Sure,” she said with a toss of her head. “By the way, what about this office? Will you want it? It’s always been the owner’s. It’s the biggest. I’ll move down the hall.”
    He glanced indifferently around the room, its chipped paint, its old awards, old clippings, old photos. “If you don’t mind,” he shrugged. “But none of that stuff. That can go. Well, except the desk. It’d be a nice desk if it was refinished.”
    Her heart clenched painfully. This desk had been in her family for years. But she wouldn’t ask Kane for any favors, not a single one.
    “Certainly. I’ll clear everything else out. When do you want to move in?”
    “I don’t intend to actually move in,” he said. “It’ll just be handy to have a place when I drop by from time to time.”
    “Of course,” she said with false cheer.
    A silence weighed between them, and she felt its heaviness, bearing down, swinging the balance of power forever, from her past to his future.
    She tried to disguise any such feeling. “Oh. Aileen phoned this morning. She said she hoped to see you.”
    He smiled, his eyes on her tightly controlled lips. “I’ll do that. Maybe she and I can have breakfast tomorrow. I have to get back to Charlotte by noon.”
    “Oh, right,” Lori said. “You do have a business to take care of.”
    “No,” he corrected, one corner of his mouth turning up. “Now I have two businesses.” He held up two fingers so they resembled a victory sign. “The agency—and Halesboro.”
    “Yes,” she said, resenting what that victory sign implied. “You’re a busy man. Don’t let me keep you. I’ll give Clyde a call and tell him to be on the lookout for you and your…consultants.”
    He stood, but didn’t move away; he just looked down at her. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
    “Am I?” she asked.
    “The offer. You signed it?”
    He embarrassed her because he’d clearly rattled her. But she only gave a little laugh. “The offer. Of course. Here it is. Everything in order, I hope.”
    She handed him the leather folder, and he took it from her, his fingers almost, but not quite, touching hers. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s official now. And I’ll see you tonight. Do you want this door closed again?”
    “Yes. Please.” She used all her control to keep her voice steady. “That would be lovely.”
    “Fine,” he said. With the folder under his arm, the key ring in his hand, he stepped out, easing the door shut behind him.
    She sat very straight in her chair, listening as the sound of his confident footsteps faded away. The speedway was his now. She put her elbows on the old desk, her face in her hands, and she cried like a child.
     

    K ANE ARRIVED at The Groove Café at exactly seven-thirty. She wasn’t there yet. A few patrons lingered, most of them nursing their drinks, and he recognized some of them, and he knew some of them recognized him.
    Their eyes followed him as he crossed the room, and they didn’t smile, although two gave him a curt nod. He nodded back, just as curtly. Only Otis Jr. spoke, saying, “Hello. Take a seat, any seat.” They hadn’t much liked him when he was poor. And they seemed to distrust him and perhaps resent him now that he was rich.
    He took the booth farthest in the back corner next to the jukebox. Clara came out of the kitchen and heavily set downa glass of water. She alone seemed friendly. Being tipped well obviously brought out her congenial side. She welcomed him back and asked if he was expecting anyone else. He saw a slight but sly glint come into her eyes when he answered yes.
    He asked for ginger ale and nursed it. Lori came, five minutes late. She still wore her green shorts and green and white speedway T. The customers watched her, too, but most of them also greeted her, asked her how she was. She smiled, she nodded, she greeted them in return. She belonged here as surely as he did not.
    She sat