give me two minutes, okay?”
She wavered under the power of that smile. “Well...”
“Dr. Payton Pruitt, as I live and breathe.” Brimming with old-school Southern charm, the man from Wiley’s office came forward, hand extended. “Isn’t this a lucky coincidence? I was hoping to track you down eventually. I don’t know if you remember me, I’m Chandler Thorne. I’m now the editor of the Bitterthorn Herald .”
“Oh. Oh, of course! Chandler.” She shook his hand with new warmth. “I thought I recognized you. We were in church choir together before you went to college in Dallas.”
Both his hands enveloped hers. “I’m flattered you remember me. You were still a little kid when I graduated.”
“Old enough to remember your rendition of ‘That Old Time Rock and Roll’ during the Christmas Nativity dress rehearsal.”
“The acoustics in First Baptist Church were always impressive.”
“Unlike your singing,” she chuckled, her hand still in his. “Though as I recall, you gave it your best shot.”
“For a singer, I make a great journalist,” he agreed, having the grace to look sheepish. “Which is why I was hoping I would bump into you while you were in town.”
“Oh?”
“Rumor has it you might be returning to your hometown to set up a medical practice.”
Somehow she managed to stop her jaw from hitting the floor. “I hope your newspaper doesn’t print rumors.”
“Bite your tongue, Doctor.” His smile was a wicked work of art as he held her hand close to his chest. “We only print the truth, which was why I was hoping to pin you down later today.”
“Dr. Pruitt has contractual obligations in Houston.” Wiley moved between them with the subtlety of a rusty machete, effectively severing the link of their hands. Once freed, he took possession of her hand himself and guided her toward the outer door. “At this time she has no comment for you.”
“Well, well. So you’re representing Dr. Pruitt in this matter?”
“That’s between Dr. Pruitt and me.”
“I’m happy to make this between me and Bitterthorn at large,” Payton cut in, wondering if she could get away with kicking Wiley in the shins without anyone noticing. Probably not. “Wiley does not represent me.”
“We’re still working out our terms,” Wiley said in that same smooth tone while casually opening the door for her. “When we have something to say, you’ll be the first to know, Chandler.”
“Wiley, don’t confuse the issue,” she muttered, unsure if he was playing with her or punishing her for earlier. Either way, this wasn’t her definition of fun . “Make no mistake—I’m just saying no to Bitterthorn.”
“You don’t want to keep you mother waiting.” Gently but firmly he kept going until she was out in the hallway. “We’ll talk later, I promise. But for now, why don’t you just run along.”
“ Run along? ” she echoed in disbelief, but she was talking to the smooth surface of the paneled door as he shut it in her face.
Dear God, the sooner she put Bitterthorn and Wiley in her rearview mirror, the better off she’d be.
* * *
“Well.” Deborah’s fair brows inched up as her daughter stalked toward the booth she’d managed to snag. She moved her water glass out of harm’s way as Payton flung herself onto the padded bench opposite her. “I’m almost afraid to ask how your morning went.”
“That idiot,” Payton uncorked, wrapping her fingers around the laminated menu and wished with a not completely healthy fervor it was Wiley’s neck. “I haven’t been treated so much like a child since I was three. Run along ,” she repeated, and stared at her mother in outrage. “Run along? What I’d like to do is run him over . Several times.”
“You took an oath to save lives, not take them.”
“That was before I crossed paths with that...that attorney . Which, by the way, is the perfect profession for the likes of Wiley Sharpe,” she added, slapping the menu down
She wavered under the power of that smile. “Well...”
“Dr. Payton Pruitt, as I live and breathe.” Brimming with old-school Southern charm, the man from Wiley’s office came forward, hand extended. “Isn’t this a lucky coincidence? I was hoping to track you down eventually. I don’t know if you remember me, I’m Chandler Thorne. I’m now the editor of the Bitterthorn Herald .”
“Oh. Oh, of course! Chandler.” She shook his hand with new warmth. “I thought I recognized you. We were in church choir together before you went to college in Dallas.”
Both his hands enveloped hers. “I’m flattered you remember me. You were still a little kid when I graduated.”
“Old enough to remember your rendition of ‘That Old Time Rock and Roll’ during the Christmas Nativity dress rehearsal.”
“The acoustics in First Baptist Church were always impressive.”
“Unlike your singing,” she chuckled, her hand still in his. “Though as I recall, you gave it your best shot.”
“For a singer, I make a great journalist,” he agreed, having the grace to look sheepish. “Which is why I was hoping I would bump into you while you were in town.”
“Oh?”
“Rumor has it you might be returning to your hometown to set up a medical practice.”
Somehow she managed to stop her jaw from hitting the floor. “I hope your newspaper doesn’t print rumors.”
“Bite your tongue, Doctor.” His smile was a wicked work of art as he held her hand close to his chest. “We only print the truth, which was why I was hoping to pin you down later today.”
“Dr. Pruitt has contractual obligations in Houston.” Wiley moved between them with the subtlety of a rusty machete, effectively severing the link of their hands. Once freed, he took possession of her hand himself and guided her toward the outer door. “At this time she has no comment for you.”
“Well, well. So you’re representing Dr. Pruitt in this matter?”
“That’s between Dr. Pruitt and me.”
“I’m happy to make this between me and Bitterthorn at large,” Payton cut in, wondering if she could get away with kicking Wiley in the shins without anyone noticing. Probably not. “Wiley does not represent me.”
“We’re still working out our terms,” Wiley said in that same smooth tone while casually opening the door for her. “When we have something to say, you’ll be the first to know, Chandler.”
“Wiley, don’t confuse the issue,” she muttered, unsure if he was playing with her or punishing her for earlier. Either way, this wasn’t her definition of fun . “Make no mistake—I’m just saying no to Bitterthorn.”
“You don’t want to keep you mother waiting.” Gently but firmly he kept going until she was out in the hallway. “We’ll talk later, I promise. But for now, why don’t you just run along.”
“ Run along? ” she echoed in disbelief, but she was talking to the smooth surface of the paneled door as he shut it in her face.
Dear God, the sooner she put Bitterthorn and Wiley in her rearview mirror, the better off she’d be.
* * *
“Well.” Deborah’s fair brows inched up as her daughter stalked toward the booth she’d managed to snag. She moved her water glass out of harm’s way as Payton flung herself onto the padded bench opposite her. “I’m almost afraid to ask how your morning went.”
“That idiot,” Payton uncorked, wrapping her fingers around the laminated menu and wished with a not completely healthy fervor it was Wiley’s neck. “I haven’t been treated so much like a child since I was three. Run along ,” she repeated, and stared at her mother in outrage. “Run along? What I’d like to do is run him over . Several times.”
“You took an oath to save lives, not take them.”
“That was before I crossed paths with that...that attorney . Which, by the way, is the perfect profession for the likes of Wiley Sharpe,” she added, slapping the menu down
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