Treasure Me (13 page)

A new experience, for sure. She still wasn’t sure what to make of the affectionate way the women of The Second Chance treated her. Reluctantly, she’d begun to enjoy their company. Especially Delia’s—the young woman treated Birdie like a visiting dignitary, asking for advice, lobbing compliments like so much confetti—it was hard not to become attached to her.

Not that Hugh would be impressed. He regarded her with so much contempt that acid churned in her stomach.

“You had tea with Ethel Lynn? Did you lift anything from her house?” he asked. “China, silver? Did you notice the Grandma Moses paintings in her living room? Worth thousands.”

Birdie caught her temper before it flared. It was stupid to feel anger—and hurt—because he had a bead on her true occupation. Numbing her emotions was easy most of the time. Work the street, work a room—take what she needed without feeling a thing. Unfortunately Hugh had a way of burrowing under her skin. Like a tick.

The vibe coming off the man was dangerous. “What do you need to talk about?” The quicker they parted ways, the better.

She paused before a cream colored Victorian with a turreted roof and a kid’s bicycle gathering snow in the front yard. Hugh glanced nervously down the street. For what, she couldn’t imagine. He looked spooked.

“The honeymoon is over,” he said, tugging her toward the Square. When she slipped free and resumed her original path, he followed, adding, “You have to move out of the apartment.”

“Hell no, I don’t. And you’re confused about honeymoons. Mary and Anthony are on one. You and I are living a nightmare.”

“Which is why we can’t go on sharing the same digs.”

“Then send a postcard from the road.” She stopped before the next house, which boasted huge pillars twined with red ribbon and evergreen garland. The pillars resembled giant candy canes. Despite the worry churning her gut, she sighed with pleasure. “There aren’t any other rentals in town. You’ll have to join the ranks of the homeless.”

“Damn it, I’m a reporter! I need a place to work. You don’t need the apartment.”

“Oh, yeah? Because I’m
not
working? For the record, I have calluses on my feet the size of waffles. I work my ass off.”

Hugh grunted. “You’re full of shit. You didn’t come to Liberty to wait tables. You’re here for something. To steal something or bribe someone—maybe you
are
planning a heist. I should warn the bank manager over at Liberty Trust.”

Gooseflesh prickled her arms. Was this a threat?

She never should have kissed him the night she broke into the restaurant. A momentary and incredibly stupid feeling of compassion had overridden her instinct for self-preservation. She’d felt sorry for the guy. Okay, so lust had also worked a number on her brain. It happened, especially when a woman went too long between relationships.

And he
was
attracted to her. Even now, he was sending out enough pheromones to have her thinking about doing it in the road. Quickly she ran through the men she’d had relationships with during the last few years, the entire seedy lot.

Fear made her shiver. Any one of them would’ve sold her out. Hugh would, too.

“Get real, Hugh.” A trickle of sweat ran down between her breasts. She was grateful her coat hid her distress. “I’m an innocent waitress trying to make my way in the world.”

“Don’t head for the stage lights just yet. Your routine needs work. Now listen—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips to shut him up. Wrong move, since touching him sent her gooseflesh fleeing and started her skin tingling.

“For roomies, I thought we got along okay,” she said, snatching her hand back. But not before her touch dilated his eyes and a needy sensation filled her belly. “If you’re making me throw you out of the apartment, at least tell me why. Is it something I said?”

“More like something you wear. Or, more precisely, what you
don’t
wear when you’re lounging around.” He pulled back an inch, far enough to allow his gaze to roam free across her features in a way that pooled heat in her hips. “Modesty isn’t your strong suit. You walk around in satin panties under my Rugby shirt. Or you watch the tube in your purple bra and my gym shorts.”

“They’re both winning combinations.”

“So they are. If
Sports Illustrated
ever produces a lingerie-with-guy-skivvies issue, they’re sure to give you a call.”

“You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” So what if she liked mixing his clothes with her lingerie like a mad scientist out to test the limits of his self-control? The reactions she’d catch simmering on his face were the sort of ego boost every woman needed. “I thought you enjoyed the show.”

“It’s killing me.” He yanked his attention away and looked off down the street. “Satisfied? I have an addiction.”

A goofy delight sugared over her cynical heart. “You’re addicted… to me?”

“Get your facts straight, Potato Head. I have an addiction to women
in general
. It’s nothing to be proud of.”

A swift kick of disappointment, then she drew herself tall. “You’re saying you can’t room with
any
woman because the temptation is too great?”

“That’s what I’m saying. Until my job’s safe I can’t risk it.”

“Then take off. You live in Akron, right? Go back to your place.”

“Not until I finish my work here.” He ground his teeth. “I’m on probation with my boss. If I don’t write a sensational article while I’m in Liberty he’ll fire me for good.”

“Meaning he
has
fired you?”

Hugh grunted. “Something like that.”

“Your boss is a taskmaster. Even if you do a lousy job on the feature you’re writing about Blossom, it shouldn’t nix your job.”

He shrugged, his gaze hooded.

She almost pitied him. “Then we’re at an impasse,” she said, dragging her attention from his eyes. They’d widened enough to let her glimpse pride battling fear.

Hugh was such a hassle. Why did he get to her whenever she caught sight of his vulnerable side? She was still trying to figure it out when his head snapped up. The color bled from his face. Confused, Birdie swung around and zeroed in on the voice—a kid’s singsong voice with laughter at the edges.

From across the street someone was calling to Hugh.

* * *

Hugh’s emotions went into a skid. If only he’d avoided North Street he wouldn’t be in this dilemma. Despite his best efforts to dodge the Liberty teen who had captured America’s heart, Blossom Perini had found him.

Which was both upsetting and inevitable. News traveled fast in a town this small. No doubt the thirteen year old believed the bald-faced lie he’d been low enough to spread around town—he was back to interview her about her successful battle against leukemia.

Now the kid had found him. And not even the brisk November air could erase the beads of perspiration sprouting on his brow.

Last summer he’d featured Blossom in the most out-of-character article he’d ever produced. He wrote about how the entire town—and shortly thereafter, the entire country—raised the money needed for the bone marrow transplant that cured her leukemia and saved her life.

The damn article was actually heartwarming.

Usually he got hate mail after exposing a corrupt local politician or debunking a new fad. The screeds flowed into the
Akron Register
like a glorious stench.

Not this time. After Blossom’s story hit the newsstands Hugh started receiving… fan mail. Lavender-scented cards and smarmy letters. He even received flowers—white tea roses in a china cup as big as a salad bowl—from a Mrs. Richard Snickles of Pepper Pike. She said the article renewed her faith in the world.

The other reporters at the
Register
, accustomed to his jaundiced view of humanity, nearly laughed him out of the newsroom.

And he took a hammer to the china cup.

Now he’d returned to Liberty, pretending he’d arrived to write a follow-up. As the girl waved joyously from across the street, the fabrication sickened him. Who stooped so low they lied to a kid?

He chewed on his eroding self-respect.
A cold bastard like me
.

Blossom approached with her corkscrew curls bouncing and her brown eyes sparkling. Soon, he’d expose her father and earn her loathing.

So why worry about the kid’s feelings? A journalist’s ethics demanded service to the higher good. Everyone from folks on fixed incomes to soft-hearted teens had been sending cash to the websites for Blossom’s nonexistent medical bills. Once the story hit the newsstands, the flow of greenbacks would stop.

Regret took a swing at Hugh’s sense of honor. He’d turn off the spigot of cash. In the process, he’d bury Blossom’s dad under a mountain of dirt.

“Mr. Shaeffer!” She skidded to a halt before him. “I was wondering when you’d come over to interview me. Will I be on the front page of your newspaper like the last time?” She glanced shyly at Birdie. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

Birdie was still brewing with emotions he refused to analyze. She looked hurt. The crack about her being a burglar wasn’t his best moment, and it was surely a low blow to evict her from the apartment. Not that he was sure he’d won that argument.

He didn’t like wounding her. Problem was, he spent too much time thinking about her thighs and the pouty thing she did with her lips. He spent most of his time imagining what she’d feel like pinned beneath him, and here he was with his ass on the line at the
Register
.

They still hadn’t resolved who’d stay in the apartment and who’d go. Now he’d run into Blossom. Frustrated and sick-hearted, Hugh swabbed at his brow.

Somehow Birdie stuffed the hurt and winked at Blossom. “We got in a new shipment of ice cream this morning—Cherry Chunk, Chocolate-Marshmallow Madness, Coconut Crush. You like coconut, don’t you?”

“I love it!”

Birdie gave him a knowledgeable look, as if they hadn’t squabbled and he hadn’t cut her deep. “The kid here is crazy for ice cream, any flavor,” she said, unaware he knew all about Blossom’s dairy obsession. He’d spent a week interviewing the kid last August. “I asked Finney to put Coconut Crush on the order list, just out of curiosity. I wasn’t sure if you’d go for it, Blossom. Some kids won’t eat coconut.”

“
Other
kids.” The teen bounced on the toes of her sneakers. “Hey, did you order anything else tropical? Pineapple Passion or Mookie’s Macadamian Cookie?”

“Mookie’s Macadamian Cookie? I don’t remember seeing it on the list…”

They launched into a discussion of ice cream flavors. Hugh tried to put his game face on. So Birdie was not only acquainted with Blossom, she’d befriended the girl. No surprise, given Blossom’s penchant for banana splits with all the trimmings. The kid probably hit the restaurant every day after school.

What
was
surprising was the easy-going camaraderie flowing between them, and Birdie’s obvious affection for the girl. The defensive commando angel with the sharp tongue and sassy comebacks gave way to a breathtaking vision whose laughter brightened the crisp, late autumn day.

He gave himself a mental kick in the keister. Maybe he should be the one to move out of the apartment.

“So you’re friends with Mr. Shaeffer?” Blossom was saying.

Birdie’s eyes refused to meet his. “Mr. Reporter? Yeah… we’re great friends.” A lie, and his heart squeezed. Was this a reprieve? “Which house is yours, Blossom?”

“It’s way down, past those big pine trees. Do you want to see it?”

“Sure.”

Blossom hooked her arm through Birdie’s. Greasy shame filled Hugh’s gut. How to get out of here? After Blossom invited them inside she’d give Birdie a tour of the mansion Anthony was forever remodeling. They’d end up in the kitchen. Blossom would make hot chocolate. She’d hurry around the room heating water, fetching the chocolate, grabbing marshmallows; she’d sprinkle cinnamon on top to impress them.

Trapped, Hugh would finish the ruse. He’d interview her for an article he’d never write.

Soon, she’d open the
Akron Register
with her young heart soaring. She’d call through the house.
Dad, come look!
But she wouldn’t find an article about her recovery from leukemia. She’d drop into a chair and read about how her father had stolen thousands from the websites set up for her medical care. The bald facts would sweep her innocence away.

It would be Hugh’s fault. All because he’d needed to destroy her world for the sole and regrettable fact that he’d screwed off long enough to lose his job.

“Hugh? Are you coming or not?”

Blinking, he looked up to find Birdie retracing her steps. Damned if he wasn’t standing in the center of the road with the sky opening up above him. Snow hurtled down from the blue-grey heavens. A layer of white was burying him alive.

“Are you trying to become road kill?” Birdie looked genuinely concerned, and he felt sick. After the way he’d treated her, he didn’t deserve kindness. Besides, she’d do better to save her concern for Blossom once the article hit. “What’s wrong? You don’t look so great.”

“I’m fine.”

“Come on, then. I skipped lunch. Maybe Blossom will feed us.”

“Count on it. She’s Italian. In her world, food and hospitality go hand in hand.”

“Good to know.” They rejoined the teenager, and Birdie said, “So, Blossom. Ethel Lynn says your Dad is on his honeymoon… ” Trailing off, she squinted over Blossom’s shoulder. “Hey! A pink house!”

On a
whoop,
she leapt into the air. Startled, Hugh flinched. Blossom giggled.

At full throttle, she sprinted down the street toward the Victorian mansion that, in Hugh’s estimation, was painted a stately brownish-rose, not pink.

She halted before the long, rectangular lawn. Snow gathered on her sunlit hair and oversized army coat, and the way she looked—her hair flying, her expression brimming with childish wonderment—sucked the air right out of Hugh’s lungs. Longing curled in his chest beside his cold self-loathing. The longing won out, and he started toward her.

Flecks of white caught on the filigreed, wraparound porch and the gingerbread latticework trimming the roof. Angels in cream lace flew around a wreath tacked on the door.