Author: Molly Harper
Date: 2012-12-17 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Romance; Contemporary Romance; Contemporary; Chick Lit; Humor; Fiction; Adult; Comedy; M F Romance
Description: A brand-new novel in an original eBook series from popular romance author Molly Harper! When Sadie & Josh compete for the same Kentucky Tourism Commission job, sparks fly—turns out Kentucky really is for lovers. Sadie Hutchins loves her job at the Kentucky Tourism Commission. Not only could her co-workers double as the cast of Parks & Recreation, but she loves finding the unusual sites, hidden gems, and just-plain-odd tourist attractions of her home state. She’s a shoo-in for the director’s job when her boss retires at the end of the year…until hotshot Josh Vaughn shows up to challenge her for
Publisher: Pocket Star

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MY BLUEGRASS BABY

Molly Harper

Pocket Star Books

New York   London   Toronto   Sydney   New Delhi

Don’t forget to click through after

MY BLUEGRASS BABY
for an exclusive sneak peek at Molly Harper’s next delightful novel

A Witch’s Handbook of Kisses & Curses

Available June 2013 from Pocket Books

Contents

Acknowledgments

1. In Which I Sing Praises to the Porcelain Goddess

2. In Which I Smile Like a Serial Killer

3. In Which I Turn My Workplace into Animal Planet

4. In Which I Push a Colleague out of a Metaphorical Lifeboat

5. In Which I Am Stranded with Ho Hos

6. In Which I Learn New and Disturbing Acronyms

7. In Which Josh Is a Tease

8. In Which I Lose My Bloomers

9. In Which Murdering Kelsey Seems Like a Viable Option

10. In Which Our State Fair Is a Great State Fair

11. In Which I Touch Potential Employees Inappropriately

Afterword

A Witch’s Handbook of Kisses & Curses Excerpt

Acknowledgments

This book series came about because my agent, Stephany, frequently sends me links to news stories about Kentucky—usually about something bizarre, like a man being treed by a possum or someone eating aluminum siding on a dare—asking, “Have you seen this?” with a note of amusement/amazement. In fairness, she also sent me a story in which a possum was trapped in a New York City subway car.

It’s difficult for outsiders to understand what it’s like to grow up in the Bluegrass State. I’ve said before that living in Kentucky is a mixture of the sublime and the ridiculous. I love my home state. I love my neighbors. But I will admit that we seem to have more quirkiness per capita than any commonwealth has a right to. And somehow, we manage to get through life with humor and bite.

This story is set in a highly fictionalized version of a state tourism office. I’m sure actual state employees would behave much more responsibly than my characters. Some of the festivities described herein reflect real events, while others have been altered because of timing or to protect the innocent. I’d like to thank the Kentucky Department of Travel for the information provided by their offices and Jeffrey Scott Holland, author of Weird Kentucky, for confirming that my state is just as weird and wonderful as I have always believed.

And of course, thanks go to my parents, who moved me to Kentucky in the first place.

In Which I Sing Praises to the Porcelain Goddess

1

If one is going to spend her afternoon singing hymns to the great porcelain goddess, she might as well do it in a really plush ladies’ room.

Stupid fear of public speaking.

I slumped against the expensive inlaid-marble floor of the McBrides’ overdecorated bathroom, careful not to wrinkle my peridot-colored skirt. Margene McBride, grand dame of Louisville society and a heavy hitter in the circles that still respected that sort of thing, had informed me that the ungodly pink marble had been imported from Italy while she and her husband were building the house. Apparently no other flooring perfectly matched the pink-and-gold Barbie princess toilet.

Rich people are weird.

Fabulously decadent or no, the marble hurt my knees just as much as plain old home-improvement-store-brand tile. Groaning, I cupped my face in my hands, careful not to smudge my artfully applied eye makeup. Held nearly a month before the Kentucky Derby, the annual Derby Hat Parade and Auction raised a considerable amount of money for Louisville’s homeless charities and was the unofficial kickoff to the Kentucky Commission on Tourism’s busy season. As the KCT’s assistant director of marketing, it was my job to find new and interesting ways to lure visitors and vacationers to the state’s parks, campgrounds, museums, and strange little roadside attractions.

While I wasn’t the keynote speaker by any means, it was my job to introduce the lieutenant governor’s wife as she opened the runway show. And, more importantly, I would be announcing the commission’s marketing campaign for the Kentucky Derby, which I’d designed from start to finish on the theme of “A Rose by Any Other Name.” The Derby was known as the Run for the Roses, so I’d designed a series of ads and displays discussing odd names of Derby winners past, such as Funny Cide, Mine That Bird, and Genuine Risk. (How do you justify betting on a horse named Genuine Risk?) It was the first project I’d put together entirely on my own, without the input of my mentor, marketing director Ray Brackett. It was undoubtedly my baby. I’d labored for hours, selecting the most interesting horse names and just the right images from the Kentucky Derby Museum’s archives. I’d bugged the absolute hell out of the staff at Churchill Downs, asking for their feedback at various stages of the development. And I was sinfully proud of my work.

The campaign was playful, informative, and intended to bring in longtime horse enthusiasts and first-time infielders alike. And I couldn’t wait to share it with people. I’d beg forgiveness for saying it myself, but it proved that I was ready to step into Ray’s shoes. This was the part I enjoyed about the creative process, watching people get it, that flash of amusement across their faces as a humorous tagline hit its mark. I loved that wow moment when they gleaned some fascinating new factoid about Kentucky from something I’d written.

My Derby campaign was being used as a springboard for the commission’s summer program lineup and my promotion to director of marketing. Ray was retiring after nearly twenty years with the commission and had informed his superiors that I was the only person he trusted to run it after he left. Since the promotion was just a matter of my signing a few papers, Ray had already planned a nice celebration to take place as soon as we got back to our offices in Frankfort. I just had to survive this afternoon.

Dozens of local debutantes waited in the wings just off Margene’s impeccably manicured gardens, eager to model elaborate milliners’ confections of architecturally unlikely bows, feathers, and silk flowers that made the royal family look like headgear amateurs. The hats, contributed by design students from Western Kentucky University, were all up for auction, with the proceeds sponsoring various shelters and food pantries. The headwear models were waiting for me to get it together long enough to step out in front of the crowd.

This always happened before I spoke in front of large crowds. The anxiety, the imagined scenarios involving tripping as I took the podium or realizing my skirt was tucked into the back of my panty hose, always wound me up to the point of nausea. Once I got out there, I would be fine. I would be charming and funny, without a tremor or hitch to my voice. It was just a question of working up the nerve to approach the mic.

“Come on out of there, woman,” an exasperated voice called from the other side of the mahogany bathroom door. Heaving myself up from the floor, I stumbled into the beautifully appointed seating area and plopped onto a mauve silk settee. Cool, slim hands brushed my hair away from my face and pressed a mini-bottle of wintergreen Scope into my palm.

Ray’s assistant, Kelsey Wade, carried these things for me in her giant Mary Poppins purse. Kelsey was one of those “Jack of all trades” people. She had been hired a few years after me, fresh out of college. Though she’d only worked with the team for a little more than a year, she knew a bit about everything and seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to anticipating our needs. The third month we’d worked together, I found a new bottle of Midol in my desk drawer and we had to have a talk about boundaries.

With Ray’s retirement approaching, we’d been transferring her responsibilities to my side of the office more and more over the past few months. She and I were the perfect office team. Though she appeared to be a mess due to occasional clumsiness and atrophied verbal filters, she was actually organized to a fault, whereas I was a classic swan. As calm and poised as I might seem, I was paddling and twitching like mad under the surface. So she made sure I was prepared for meetings, and, in return, I was the first to tell her when she had a Post-it stuck to the back of her skirt.

“I love you, Kels, I really do.” I sighed before swigging the Scope.

Kelsey ignored my toadying. “We’ve discussed the fact that there are therapists or hypnotists who could help you deal with this, right?”

“I’ve tried; doesn’t work,” I grumbled after spitting the mouth rinse into the pink-and-gold sink. “I actually started smoking for a while after the hypnotist appointment, which was counterintuitive. Once I get out there, I’ll be fine. It’s just the anticipation.”

I blew out a long (freshened) breath and surveyed the damage in the beveled glass mirror. I brushed a little blush over my pale cheeks and spread a fresh coat of pink gloss over a wide, slightly pouty mouth. I knew I was pretty. That wasn’t vanity talking. It was just the one area I knew I had covered. I had slim lines, a delicate bone structure, and wide, almond-shaped hazel eyes framed by subtly highlighted chestnut hair. Said hair required a thorough combing, as it had frazzled out of its low French twist while I was “indisposed.”

I was polished and presentable, but Kelsey was built like one of those pinup girls they used to paint on World War II airplanes: abundant dark waves and cornflower-blue eyes fringed by thick lashes, not to mention high, full breasts and a rear that made delivery men volunteer for our route just to ogle. Perhaps this sounds like I’ve given an unusual amount of attention to a coworker’s body, but we’d discussed her body-image issues many times over one too many glasses of wine during our “woe is me” single-girl chats. She thought no one took her seriously because of her age and what she saw as “extra weight.” I suggested perhaps it had more to do with the fact that she sometimes had fistfights with toner cartridges and had been known to yell Game of Thrones quotes at unruly baristas. She told me I would pay the iron price for my insolence. Which only proved my point.

I ran a nervous hand over my white silk shell and Kelsey helped me slip back into my light green suit jacket. “I also brought extra shoes, just in case—” She peered down and saw that my consignment-store Manolos were splash free. “Nope, we’re good. You’re getting much better at this.”

She handed me an extra-wide light green picture hat, which I pinned carefully over my dark hair. I wondered momentarily whether I’d be able to clear the door without tilting my head. I certainly understood why women wore these things when they were fashionable. In addition to the drama and elegance they practically forced on the wearer, they were even better than lace fans when it came to obscuring pesky emotions or avoiding the gaze of an undesirable. This was not my preferred mode of dress. At home, I wore an assortment of increasingly shabby yoga pants and T-shirts stolen from old boyfriends. For work and official gatherings, however, I had a wardrobe of elegant, boring-as-hell two-piece suits and silky shells. I picked up this pastel rainbow of sophistication at Unique Repeats, a high-end consignment shop owned by Angela Moser, a college classmate. The irony of Angela’s business was that the worse the economic climate, the better her inventory and sales. The Louisville ladies who lunched weren’t about to stop shopping, but dwindling clothes budgets had them discreetly reselling last season’s clothes for quick cash. I did worry I would run into the woman who’d sold the clothes in the first place. My only defense was making the outfits less recognizable through creative scarf use, my grandmother’s old costume jewelry, and the designer shoes Angela scoured from department store remainders and boutique returns.

“One of these days you’re going to get pregnant and combine morning sickness with this pre-speaking phobia stuff. And on that day, I will quit and move to Bolivia,” Kelsey informed me solemnly. “Because there are limits to what I will put up with in the name of a paycheck.”

“You have to have sex to get pregnant,” I retorted as she moved closer to the mirror and pulled out her own makeup bag. “Stop laughing, none of this is funny.”

She stopped painting her full lips bloody-murder red long enough to retort, “That’s where you’re wrong.”

•   •   •

As gorgeous and well tended as Margene’s garden was, I’d been concerned about holding the Derby hat show there. April weather was notoriously fickle in Kentucky. It was either sunny and hot or cloudy and cold. When I suggested a rain plan, Margene looked at me as if I were slightly daft. The clouds wouldn’t dare gather over a Margene McBride event, she said. And she was right. The sun shone from a perfect robin’s-egg-blue sky, casting perfect golden light over the well-dressed crowd as they milled around the velvety green lawn.

I was starting to suspect Margene McBride had some sort of supervillain weather machine.

Like many indecently rich people in Louisville, Margene’s husband was a horse enthusiast. The courtyard directly off the back of their showplace was a perfect replica of the gardens below Churchill Downs’ twin spires, down to the purple phlox flower beds centered around a copy of the bronze statue of Aristedes, the very first winner of the Kentucky Derby. Our plan was to let the debs/models strut down the stone walkway around the statue and then take a turn in front of the assembled lawn chairs, then go back to the house to change. There were open bars flanking the garden, which should get the ladies who lunch in a bidding mood.

Well, that, and the fact that Kelsey was going to be wandering around the crowd pretending to be a guest and starting bidding wars over certain “must be sold or will be burned” specimens. And while there were several of those—a pink silk monstrosity involving cabbage roses and magenta ruching, for example—most of them were going to sell like hotcakes. The students had certainly gone all out this year. I wasn’t allowed to bid, but given the opportunity, I couldn’t decide whether I would throw in for the lemon-yellow confection with the wide white brim and the white-and-yellow-checked ribbon or the slanting sapphire Gainsborough with the birdcage veil.

I stood at the small portable bar, waiting for the black-tied bartender to fill my order and discreetly going over my notecards.

“I’m sorry, but what the heck is that?” a voice sounded to my left. I turned to find one of the best-looking men I have ever seen in this or any lifetime. Blue-on-blue eyes, cut-glass cheekbones, and a beestung, brooding mouth rarely seen this side of telenovelas. His sandy hair was artfully styled in that intentionally careless way that required more product than I used in my own. His suit was slate blue and tailored, hugging a tall, muscled frame.

My face dropped out of its practiced gracious smile and I made an incredibly undignified squeak. The beautiful man flashed a million-watt grin and if I wasn’t mistaken, his eyes were trained directly on my drink, a strange, sickly yellow soda mixture garnished with a lime slice.

That was disappointing.

“G-ginger ale and Sprite with lime,” I stammered. “Old family remedy.”

“Nervous, huh?” He clucked his tongue sympathetically. When I started to halfheartedly object, he added, “Shaky hands, slightly pale under your makeup. You have a very interesting tell, by the way. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and sort of worry it back and forth.”

I frowned up at him. “How closely have you been watching me?”

“Pretty closely,” he said, giving me that lopsided, boyish grin. It was almost enough to put me off filing the necessary restraining-order paperwork. “So, are you with the Ladies Auxiliary?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Josh Vaughn.” He stretched his hand toward mine and it seemed like he was going to honest-to-God lean over it and kiss my knuckles. I was caught between ingrained female instincts to flutter over such a gesture and the urge to yank my hand out of range. This seemed awfully intimate, pressing your mouth against someone’s fingers when you didn’t know them or their hand-washing routine very well. I resolved my confusion by bobbing my hand up and down in a shaking movement, making it a moving target.

“Sadie Hutchins,” I said politely, withdrawing my hand.

There was a flash of recognition in his eyes and the corners of his mouth sagged. “Sadie Hutchins? You’re Sadie Hutchins?”

I tilted my head, scanning his face again to jog my memory. The brim of my hat nearly caught his chin, but he didn’t even flinch. There was no way we knew each other. Surely I would have remembered someone who looked like him. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

Just then, Ray appeared at my elbow, eyeing Josh Vaughn with something close to panic. “Sadie, can I speak to you for a moment?”

“Ray.” Josh smiled warmly and extended his hand for a shake. “Good to see you again.”

Mr. Perfect Pants knew my boss? How did Mr. Perfect Pants know my boss? What was going on here? I could tell that there was something wrong. Ray was using his big, fake, “I am trying to prevent a scene” smile. The last time I’d seen that smile, we’d had to fish a comptroller’s wife out of a duck pond.

Ray gave our new “friend” a curt nod and looped his arm through mine, leading me toward the patchwork of rosebushes. Rail thin from frequent marathons and sporting a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair, Ray was more than just a boss; he was a father figure, a friend. I was sorry to see him retire. But I was really looking forward to getting his office. I liked my cozy, feminine office with its refurbished walnut desk, biscuit-colored walls, and cardinal-themed knickknacks, a salute to my beloved alma mater, the University of Louisville. But Ray’s office had a window. I had been working in artificial lighting for far too long.

“Is everything okay, Ray?” I murmured, careful to keep a pleasant, easy expression on my face. You never knew who was watching you at this sort of gathering. The last thing I wanted was for some helpful random acquaintance of Commissioner Bidwell’s to mention that they saw me pitching a hissy fit in Margene McBride’s garden.

Ray cleared his throat. He was trying too hard to appear calm and it was making his big brown puppy-dog eyes look slightly crossed. “Well, there’s just a little problem with your campaign.”

“What, like a printing error?” I said, looking over Ray’s shoulder to see that Mr. Perfect Pants was watching the two of us. I frowned at him, stepping behind Ray so he couldn’t see me. Well, he could see the outlying areas of hat, but not my actual face. What was this guy’s deal? Was he some sort of headwear fetishist with a penchant for green? “Is it anything that can’t be fixed before we do the mailing?”

“No,” Ray said, pinching his thin lips together. “It’s more of a conceptual issue.”

My smile faltered. “There’s a problem with the concept of my campaign and you chose to tell me three minutes before I announce it?”

“Well, that’s the thing. You’re not going to be announcing it today, hon.”

“Okay, Ray, stop stalling and tell me what’s really going on,” I said, as a crowd of women passed us, inspecting Margene’s collection of heirloom tea roses.

“We’re not going to use your campaign, Sadie,” Ray said quietly.

“What?!” I cried shrilly, startling several nearby ladies into bobbling their punch cups. I scrambled for an explanation for such an outburst, following with, “—a lovely hat.” I nodded toward Deanna Stanhope’s teal fascinator, decorated with a turquoise bow the size of a Buick. “What an absolutely lovely hat. Where on earth did you find it?”

Mrs. Stanhope, whose husband ran the most profitable personal injury practice in town, preened a bit and gave me some long, circuitous story about a personal milliner in New York. But I didn’t hear or care. Over Ray’s shoulder I spotted the hale, husky figure of Tourism Commissioner Ted Bidwell and his fembot assassin of an assistant, Gina, speaking to Mr. Perfect Pants. I wasn’t sure which was more confusing—the presence of the department head or the quick clench of gut-level jealousy when I saw willowy, blond Gina throwing her head back in a tinkling laugh at something Mr. Perfect Pants said.

Why on earth would Commissioner Bidwell be talking to this bizarre, attractive stranger? And how could I get him to leave and take his flirty assistant with him? We rarely saw our mighty overlord out of the office, as he spent most of his off time working his family farm just a few miles outside of Frankfort. He didn’t understand much about marketing, but he knew that in order to get butts in seats you had to make sure people knew that the seats were available in the first place. He reminded me a little bit of P. T. Barnum, always looking for the next big draw. We got along just fine because he didn’t mind my quirky ideas, as long as they worked.

“What is he doing here?” I whispered to Ray, smiling sweetly and waving at my boss’s boss. Commissioner Bidwell gave me a diffident nod and returned to his conversation with Mr. Vaughn.

“The commissioner dropped by this morning to let me know he wants us to use a new campaign by some marketing whiz out of Atlanta,” Ray said, which sounded odd coming through his tightly clamped teeth. “I’m sorry about the last-minute change, hon. I really pushed to keep your concept, but he was adamant. He wants new blood, new ideas.”

“Since when does a state-run marketing department use an outside marketing consultant?” I asked. Ray squirmed. “Damn it, Ray, just give me the bad news all in one shot instead of dragging this out!”

“He’s not an outside marketing consultant,” Ray said. “He’s the commission’s new marketing director.”

“What?!” I gasped, drawing the attention of several other guests, including Commissioner Bidwell. “—do you think of starting in ten minutes? I think everything is ready to go,” I quickly added.

Commissioner Bidwell barely made eye contact with me during my explosive bout of time management, suddenly and conveniently finding someone across the lawn that he absolutely had to see. My legs felt weak and wobbly as a new foal’s, collapsing underneath me. Ray caught my elbow and kept me from flopping dramatically to the stones like some antebellum diva. Mr. Perfect Pants moved closer, as if he would dive for me in the event of a head-cracking descent. While it was a little endearing, it was more humiliating to have a complete stranger witness this conversation.

“Please stop saying ‘what’ so loudly,” Ray hissed.

I took a deep breath, trying to school my features into something besides my current “I am going to either burst into hideous wracking sobs or take out bystanders with an ice sculpture” expression. I didn’t want to embarrass Ray in front of said bystanders. “I’m sorry, Ray, I know this is really awkward and I’m not responding very well. I know this isn’t your fault. But I’m—I am going to have to leave before I become some sort of garden-party cautionary tale.” I turned on my heel to leave, only to run smack into my blue-eyed stalker.

Oh, come on, now.

Who was this guy and what tragic lab accident had removed his social filters? I was clearly in distress, and he thought now was a good time to try to hit on me? With my boss standing right there? Where was Kelsey? Surely she had nunchuks or something hurt-worthy in that giant shoulder bag of hers. I once saw her threaten to staple an intern’s lips shut for stealing her tape dispenser.

“Ray’s had nothing but great things to say about you,” Mr. Perfect Pants said, though there was an odd twitch to his lip, as if he didn’t quite buy Ray’s praise. “I’m looking forward to working together.”

I stared at him as if he were speaking another language. I looked back to Ray, whose gaze was bouncing back and forth between me and Mr. Per—Vaughn, Mr. Vaughn. My sputtering brain finally made the connection between the overeager stranger and the low-down, dirty snake who had swiped my job out from under me.

“The marketing whiz?” I hissed, my voice taking on the thicker, exaggerated Southern accent that bled into my voice when I was upset. I shot a significant look at Ray and felt an icy chill zip through my gut. I straightened my shoulders and let that cold, crackling anger fortify my spine. My voice was steady and so saccharine sweet it made my teeth ache. Of course, the way I was grinding them could have been a contributing factor. “I wish I could say the same thing. I didn’t have any idea you would be here today. Or at all.”

“I’m sure it will take a little time for us to get to know each other,” Ray said, chuckling awkwardly. “Maybe we could all go out for drinks after the auction.”

I had barely gotten through Ray’s little announcement without causing a huge scene. There was no way I would get through drinks with my dignity intact. My ice-maiden impersonation was only going to last a few minutes. I needed to get out of there before the numbness wore off. I needed to go somewhere I could process all of this and breathe and react in a way that didn’t make Ray feel guilty or require the removal of my shoe from any of Josh Vaughn’s soft tissues.

“Oh, I’d love to join you.” Gina appeared behind Vaughn and stroked her long, carefully manicured fingers along Vaughn’s suit sleeve. “I want to help welcome Josh to the family.”

Ray shot her an annoyed look and shook his head. I smiled wanly, as if Vaughn didn’t deserve the effort of actually peeling back my lips, and said, “You know, I’m not feeling very well all of a sudden. I’ll just do the introduction as scheduled and be on my way. We can discuss this on Monday.”

“Actually, Sadie”—Ray’s discomfort was evident—“the commissioner thought this would be a good time to introduce Josh as the new director of marketing. So he’ll be doing the introduction.”

For some reason, experiencing this humiliation while wearing a hat the size of a satellite dish made it so much worse.

Years of work meant nothing, apparently. Extra hours, extra effort, extra miles, none of that mattered. Because Josh Vaughn was going to be the new director of marketing. I was going to be his assistant. I was going to have to work for this smug, arrogant jackass, whose only redeeming quality, so far as I could determine, was that he filled out a suit nicely.

“All right, then,” I ground out. I slapped my notecards into Vaughn’s open palm. “Good luck, Mr. Vaughn. Welcome to the team.”

I maneuvered around them all, chin held as high as I could tilt it without losing my headgear. I could feel the heat gathering behind my eyes, heat that would quickly turn into tears if I didn’t get far away from here as quickly as possible. I’d almost made it to the back door when I heard Mr. Vaughn’s voice from over my shoulder.

“Ms. Hutchins?”

I turned to find Vaughn giving me a long, deliberate once-over from head to toe. He smirked at me, the little dimples in his cheeks winking in a blasphemous mockery of good humor. “Great hat.”

Kiss my secondhand Manolos.

You look like Justin Bieber’s bastard brother.

I hope Gina gives you an incurable rash.

Those are all things I could have said. Instead I chose to give him the Brain-Melting Glare of Doom™ and turned away. I walked through the McBrides’ great room, wondering how I was going to get through the hour-long drive back to Frankfort without screaming myself hoarse.

Damn it. I stopped in my tracks, no small feat wearing high heels on a slick burnt-orange Tuscan tile floor.

Ray had insisted that all of the staff members ride together in a state van so we didn’t occupy precious parking space in Mrs. McBride’s driveway. I was going to have to ride home with my coworkers, knowing that I’d been passed over for the promotion and knowing that they knew.

I felt like throwing up all over again.

In Which I Smile Like a Serial Killer

2

Once again, Kelsey ran to the rescue. While I teetered through the McBrides’ house past the tittering crowd of exotically bonneted debs and tried to determine exactly how long it would take me to walk home in these shoes, Kelsey had already grabbed her enormous bag and secured keys to another vehicle. She was the James Bond of secretaries.

“It’s okay, Sadie,” she said, wrapping her arm around my shoulders when she caught up to me in the circular cobblestone drive. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

We reached a bottle-green Ford Taurus with a strange collection of Picasso-style sketches spray-painted on the body. She reached into her magic bag and pulled out a tiny bottle of vodka, a brand so cheap I could practically see the potato peelings floating in it. I gave it a shake, my mouth pressed in a skeptical line.

“Oh, don’t pull the delicate-flower routine on me, woman. I remember the office Christmas party.”

“Touché,” I muttered, cracking the seal and taking a swig while Kelsey wrestled with the driver’s-side lock. “Whose car is this?”

“I went to college with one of the waitresses,” she said, nodding toward the catering van. “Which just goes to prove that you should not major in poetry. But, fortunately for us, she was running late to work today and had to drive.”

“And how exactly did you convince her to give you the keys?”

“You’re now the proud owner of about two cases of self-published volumes of esoteric odes to the left nostril,” Kelsey informed me, cranking the engine. “We just have to return the car to Eunice before Monday.”

“Just the left nostril?”

Kelsey shrugged. I whacked my hat against the frame of the car, ripping my hatpinned hair out by the roots. “Sonofabitch!” I yowled, yanking the offending millinery off entirely and beating it against the dashboard while shouting a string of words so blue even Kelsey blushed. When I emerged from this R-rated fugue, I was holding a crumpled linen hat carcass, and the tiny vodka bottle was empty.

“The hat had it coming. Bad hat,” Kelsey said, nodding as she sped out of the McBrides’ circular drive.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” I said, burying my face in my hands.

“You handled yourself pretty well,” she assured me. “Up until the hatricide.”

“How could Ray do that?” I asked. “How could Ray do this to me in front of all those people? Did he time it so I couldn’t make a scene? Is that the work version of your boyfriend breaking up with you in a crowded restaurant? What the—he told me the promotion was just a matter of signing some papers.”

“Must have been some pretty important papers,” Kelsey muttered, turning the car onto I-64 east. “Trust me, Sadie, I see everything that comes across Ray’s desk. He was acting in good faith that you were going to replace him. I’m guessing he didn’t know anything about Mr. All-American until this morning, just like he said. Look, you’re going to go to the office on Monday. You and Ray will talk this out. I’m sure there’s a good explanation.”

“A good explanation that will magically soothe my hurt feelings and get my promotion back?”

“That would be shooting pretty high,” Kelsey acknowledged.

I groaned, rubbing at my aching scalp. This wouldn’t be the first time a political appointment had upset the bureaucratic apple cart. Ray was the head of the marketing department, but he answered to people on several levels of the administration. If someone higher up decided that a job should go to an outside hire with an impressive track record, there was nothing to be done about it. In some cases, outside applicants got more consideration to avoid the appearance of cronyism.

I expected better than this from Ray. More than just a boss, he’d completely changed the direction of my life. I was supposed to teach high school English with my shiny bachelor’s degree in secondary education from the University of Louisville. I went to a summer job fair on campus and there was Ray Brackett, trying to con some qualified kid into coming to work for his office, unpaid. The marketing major huffed off and, being the arrogant little coed that I was, I asked Ray if he really thought he was going to be able to sell an unpaid summer spent stuffing mailers and making copies. After acting sort of indignant about being able to sell just about anything to anybody, Ray admitted that the position was paid. He had just wanted to see who was interested enough to stick around and discuss it. Ray and I got along just fine. And because I was the only kid who asked in-depth questions, and Ray didn’t want to go to any more career fairs, I got the job.

Nothing bonds two people like the creative process. That summer, I learned everything I could about tourism marketing in-house, from copywriting to putting together pictorials to working with printers and media. Not everything we produced was gold—a memorable misfire that encouraged tourists to trace moonshiners’ hidden routes through Kentucky comes to mind. (Lost tourists primarily interested in illegal booze + isolated areas + locals irritated by increased traffic = angry calls to the people who put together the brochure.) But in general, we produced good work together. And when I graduated, he snatched me right up and hired me as his assistant.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like being assistant marketing director. It wasn’t even losing the promotion, though I’d really looked forward to it. I didn’t know this Vaughn guy. I didn’t know his work. I didn’t know how he ran an office. I didn’t know his creative process. What if he was like the assistant director who left right before I took the job, who seemed intent on making all our promotional materials look like beer ads?

Could Vaughn’s work really have been that much better than mine? My print ads and radio spots had always gotten positive feedback. I’d always scored well in my performance reviews. Were my deficiencies as a potential office leader really so dire that the commissioner of tourism had felt it necessary to look to Atlanta for a solution? Was it because of my age? At twenty-eight, I would have been one of the younger department heads, but it wasn’t unheard-of when the candidate was qualified. As far as I knew, I hadn’t done anything to prove that I was unqualified.

The self-flagellation was doing me no good, I reflected. Professional wounding was the least of my problems. I could go to Commissioner Bidwell and claim to be insulted and hurt to be passed over. I could hop up and down and threaten to find some human resources route to revenge. But deep down, what really scared me was that this job was all I had. I was aware that this sounded a bit melodramatic, but it was the truth. Little by little, I’d let it take over every aspect of my life. I barely took vacations. I had no time to date because I was always running off to some event or doing game night with Kelsey or going to Melody’s scrapbooking club. (I wasn’t much of a scrap-rat, but I had a knack for cutting out those little paper embellishments.) There was also the small matter of what Kelsey called my “impossible standards” for a guy—funny, employed, considerate, nonsmoking, noncrazy, non-living-with-his-mommy.

My grandparents, who’d raised me, had both passed away in the past few years, leaving me without much in the way of family beyond the odd collection of misfits in the office. The closest personal relationships I had were with the people I worked with, good, kind people who accepted my quirks and flaws and inability to use the fax machine without occasionally sending documents to Beijing.

I loved my job. I loved finding that weird earwig of a promotion that made it impossible to ignore the state I’d adopted as my own. I loved that it was my job to help other people find their way to those same events and discover that quirky charm for themselves. I loved writing funny ad copy, picking the right photos to complement my message. I couldn’t threaten to walk away from my job, because I didn’t want to leave. I thought about going back to my cozy little apartment and trying to rewrite my résumé, and I was struck by a wave of despair so acute it made my chest ache.

I had no one to blame for this but myself. Why hadn’t I joined a book club? Tried online dating? Joined a gym? Was it laziness or a stubborn belief that I didn’t need anything else?

Probably laziness.

“I could have the guys look into his background,” Kelsey offered.

I grinned at the mention of the lovable band of software programmers who lived two doors down in Kelsey’s apartment building—Aaron, Cyrus, Wally, and Bud. They lived much as they had when they roomed together in college, two to a bedroom, with scheduled game nights and Pizza Tuesdays. When Kelsey first approached them, they seemed to think she had some sort of ulterior motive, like stealing their lunch money. But Kelsey, whose passion for sci-fi and fantasy TV knew no bounds, fit right in as their den mother. She cooked for them on occasion and made sure they left the house for fresh air. In exchange, they secured bootleg copies of obscure British TV shows and fixed her computer when her boneheaded boyfriend downloaded multiple viruses while surfing for porn.

If Kelsey asked them to, her nerd-herd neighbors would get me Josh Vaughn’s credit report, bank balances, college transcripts, prescription history, and probably a hair sample if I asked really nicely. I smirked, rubbing my hands together in a gleeful parody of a Bond villain. “Make it so.”

•   •   •

I will admit I wallowed.

I held it together for the rest of the drive home, but as soon as Kelsey dropped me off I flopped facedown on my couch and sobbed like a reality TV star on confessional day. I retreated into my failure bunker and avoided contact with the outside world. I loved the one-story duplex I shared with a retiree, Mr. Leavitt, whose doting attention kept the front yard from looking like something from The Addams Family. The décor was sentimental rather than stylish. Kelsey and I had spent hours searching for the perfect shade of soft buttery yellow paint, one that matched the walls of my childhood bedroom at my grandparents’ house. It served as a bright, airy backdrop to my grandmother’s collection of Candlewick glass and my own locally made Bybee pottery.

I turned off the phone. I watched John Hughes movies. I even made a Derby pie, which was sort of a Hail Mary pass in terms of trying to cheer myself up. Custard, dark chocolate, and pecans in a pie shell could replace every antidepressant on the market if I could figure out how to shove it into a tiny gelatin capsule.

But come Monday morning, I rolled out of bed and made coffee so strong it was practically chewy. My GETTIN’ LUCKY IN KENTUCKY mug would never be the same. I put on my black cashmere cardigan over a white camisole and gray slacks that fit my ass like a particularly flattering second skin. A mess on the inside was no excuse for a mess on the outside, as Gran used to say. I paid extra-careful attention to my under-eye concealer, because there was considerable baggage there.

I hadn’t done any permanent damage at the McBride party. I could turn this around. I would make my displeasure known, but I would be professional. I would come up with fantastic ideas that would blow Vaughn’s butt right out of the water and prove to Commissioner Bidwell that he was wrong not to promote me. I would be an ice queen, I told myself.

That lasted all of about five minutes.

For a state capital, Frankfort was a surprisingly small town, surrounded by heavily wooded hills and valleys. The gently winding Kentucky River flows right through the center of town. It divides the town into sections: the somewhat cramped downtown area and a mix of new industrial government buildings and gingerbread historic darlings arranged in a mind-boggling maze of one-way streets that always seem to be under construction.

Across the river, the Kentucky Commission on Tourism was contained in a complex of annexed government buildings near Bellepoint. Our office was home to ten employees, including myself, plus Michael and Jordie, the Goofus and Gallant of office interns. (Michael, a senior from the University of Kentucky, cemented his Goofus status the day he fell asleep at his desk with a copy of Maxim over his face.) While our building was plain and unassuming on the outside, when you stepped inside you saw how Ray strived to create a family atmosphere from the requisite pale gray carpet and off-white walls. In addition to comfy waiting-room chairs and a colorful area rug that had been wrangled at an estate sale, Ray had added large, artfully framed photos Kelsey had taken of staff at different events around the state. There was a shot of our historian, Bonnie Turkle, wearing full Daniel Boone regalia while she detailed the explorer’s earliest expeditions to elementary school kids; another of Melody and me smiling from the dunking booth at the annual Hunter’s Moon Festival near Buford; and one of the entire office staff huddled at the finish line at the Great Outhouse 300 Race in Lebanon, Kentucky. (Our team lost because the other team opened their crescent-moon-embellished door and edged us out just before we crossed the finish line.)

Gina, who hadn’t liked me since a particularly ugly White Elephant Christmas gift exchange incident involving a Sephora gift card, worked in a separate part of the building, outside Commissioner Bidwell’s oft-unoccupied office. She saw the scathing glare I sent her as I came down the hallway, and she scurried away. I passed Melody, our sweet-faced front-desk receptionist, and dropped a small brown bag containing her favorite cranberry muffins from Sweet Eats on her desk. This ensured the delivery of my mail and faxes for at least a week. Kelsey was at her desk, ruthlessly sorting through Ray’s e-mails and typing the important notices into her usual Monday morning memo. As I went to get some office coffee, I saw The Interloper, Thief of Promotions, through the conference-room windows. Watching him pore over our materials with an amused smirk on his face made me want to smash the window with a chair. He must have caught my glowering vibe because he turned toward me and gave me one of those megawatt smiles that was supposed to turn me into lady jelly.

“Sadie,” he called. “Would you mind coming in and having a seat? I asked Ray to lead me through some of your, uh, work, so I would know where I need to start.”

The tone of his voice implied that my work was some catastrophic knot of media relations that had to be undone before he could even start thinking about his duties. That stung a bit. But rather than make excuses or jump to explain myself, I arched an imperious brow and gave careful consideration to his rather fabulous gray pinstripe suit and light blue shirt. Clearly someone had told him that wearing blue brought out the color of his eyes, because he seemed awfully partial to it. Between that and the hair, he looked like a model selling cologne for upwardly mobile, emotionally unavailable men.

Still, he was completely out of his element, overdressed and uptight. He was the new guy. He had no idea how things worked around here. I had the home-field advantage. He didn’t know how to work within the mind-melting bureaucratic maze that was state government. And he was too damn fancy for his own good.

I smiled beatifically . . . because making the rude gesture my hand seemed to be forming on its own would surely merit a reprimand in my personnel file. I slid into the seat across from him with my special mug, a Christmas gift from Kelsey that read BENHAM, THE TOWN THAT INTERNATIONAL HARVESTER, COAL MINERS, AND THEIR FAMILIES BUILT. After Kelsey gave it to me for Christmas, I made her a custom mug that read BENHAM, HOME OF THE LONGEST TOWN SLOGAN IN THE WORLD.

This was one of many mugs I kept in the office emblazoned with city slogans and pictures of odd attractions. I had BOWLING GREEN—CORVETTE CITY, USA; PATTI’S 1880S SETTLEMENT—HOME OF THE MILE-HIGH MERINGUE PIE, and a mug that displayed the many ways to pronounce Louisville (LOUIE-VILLE, LUH-VUL, LEWIS-VILLE, etc.). I tried collecting shot glasses at first, but Ray objected, saying it wasn’t professional to keep them around the office. I even tried describing them as tiny educational juice glasses, but he wouldn’t budge.

I sipped from my mug and behaved as if this were any other meeting on any other Monday, which would not involve leaping across the table and throttling the new guy. I was not going to rise to the bait, I told myself. I would not respond to the way he referred to my samples with implied air-quotes around the word “work.” I would get through the morning with grace and dignity. I would paste on the sort of guileless smile Gran said would get me through any situation, even if I felt like committing a felony. And I would not refer to Josh as “Lord Gel-demort.”

To his face.

“Did you have any questions for me?” I asked, as if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.

“Oh, I have lots of them,” Josh promised me, his eyes lingering on the neckline of my camisole even as he shuffled through some papers. I crossed my arms over my chest and returned his stare. I would not be intimidated by a well-coiffed boob ogler. Grace and dignity, I told myself, at any cost. Even if that cost was an awkward, prolonged silence.

Just as Josh managed to open his mouth again, there was a light knock on the door frame.

“Sadie, I processed those new reports you asked for,” a smooth voice sounded from the doorway. “It turns out that closed bridge in Marshall County might have actually increased the number of campers in the Kentucky Dam area last summer . . . Oh, I’m interrupting. I’m sorry.”

Dr. Charlie Bennett, our resident genius, stood in the doorway, giving Vaughn a confused stare. Charlie was some sort of Beautiful Mind math prodigy, with several doctorates from perfectly respectable schools but without the sinister imaginary roommates. And for some reason, he had eschewed legitimate academia to design, distribute, and decipher surveys for our department, determining customer satisfaction levels with various state park facilities, events, and attractions. He could break down his survey results by age group, profession, and preference for Coke or Pepsi if we asked him.

Aside from his big sexy brain, Charlie was lean and sleek with a refined bone structure and curly dark hair. Unfortunately, without a large billboard directly outside his bedroom window, Charlie would not recognize that Kelsey was not-too-secretly in love with him. And Kelsey just didn’t have room for a billboard in her budget.

Even socially inept Charlie seemed to recognize that he was walking into a time bomb of a room (one possible clue being my making big air-traffic-control motions toward the door).

“Never mind,” he said, turning on his heel and walking away from the conference room as quickly as he could. Oh, how I envied him.

“I’m assuming that was Dr. Bennett?” Vaughn said, looking over what appeared to be a staff list. “How exactly can we afford our own statistician?”

“His position is grant-funded,” I told him, a bit defensive. “Securing the federal money was one of the first things I did when I took over the assistant director position.”

Vaughn seemed almost impressed with this, but schooled his surprised expression back into one of bland disinterest. “Dr. Bennett is not our only grant-funded employee, correct? We also have a Bonnie Turkle on staff.”

I nodded. “Bonnie is our multimedia historian.”

“What exactly does a multimedia historian do?”

I chewed my lip. Bonnie looked like Snow White and spoke like a preschool teacher, which was handy given her school speaking engagements. But Vaughn didn’t need to know about Bonnie’s obsession with collages and positive reinforcement via smiley-face stickers. With state budgets constricting every year, we had to work twice as hard to produce the same results. The last thing I needed was for the new guy to come in and decide that Bonnie’s position was expendable or could be construed as wasteful spending. So I presented her in the best possible light. “Bonnie is sort of a one-woman anthropology team. She travels to remote locations and goes through archives, library records, film strips, and oral histories and builds multimedia historical exhibits. She’s the one that set up the McBride Music Hall Museum.”

Vaughn’s face couldn’t have expressed less interest if he were trying. “I didn’t catch that one.”

I rounded the table and stood as close to him as I comfortably could. With a flourish, I tapped on my iPad and brought up images of Bonnie posing in front of huge display boards filled with pictures of blues and country-and-western legends. Bonnie had created a display explaining the history of a defunct dance hall, complete with detailed historical perspectives and mounted digital players from which emanated samples of the music. Two large flat-panel screens showed looping archival films. I sorted through several photo file folders to find the right shots. “When she’s not setting these displays up, she’s traveling to schools, speaking to students about state history.”

Vaughn stood, invading my personal space bubble as he took the tablet. It was absolutely unfair that an unrepentant jerk could smell so damn good, like summer grass and rosewood. But if I’d learned anything about him so far, it was that he was conscientious about grooming. Good cologne was just part of the basic “well-coiffed boob ogler ” package.

I moved to help as Vaughn fumbled at opening the files. Our hands brushed and I felt a jolt of tingling electricity travel up from my arm to my chest. His mouth popped open in surprise, but I ignored the sensation, even as it traveled down my spine and warmed my stomach. Later, I would rationalize this feeling away as the rare—but not completely unheard-of—five-second flu. I could feel Vaughn’s warm breath feathering over my neck as he bent to get a better look at the screen. I pulled my hand away abruptly to avoid another shock and his features twisted back into the characteristic frown.

The scrolling images showed the office staff at various events around the state—the Highland Festival in Glasgow, the American Quilt Society Show and Contest in Paducah, Tater Day in Benton. Josh the Job Bandit placed his finger on the screen, swiping through the pictures. He stopped on a shot of Bonnie and Melody laughing hysterically as Ray tried to land a rubber frog on a moving lily pad at the Tater Day carnival. My heart ached a bit at the images. This was why I had to stay with the commission, I reminded myself. The people here were more than mere coworkers. And I would never find another office atmosphere to match it. I would get through this. I would find something good about Josh Vaughn, focus on that, and find a way to work with him.

This new leaf lasted for a grand total of three minutes before Vaughn said, “You know, these pictures bring up an interesting point. I’ve noticed there’s an above average percentage of the travel budget devoted to the staff attending these little festivals and fairs around the state. But there’s no real reason for you to be there, right? The locals run these events themselves, or the state parks staff does. It seems like a waste of time and resources.”

“Most state marketing teams don’t go to so many events,” I admitted, moving back around the table and taking a seat. “But Commissioner Bidwell likes it when we make an appearance. Even if we’re not assisting in running the event, we can at least show our support. And nobody takes pictures like Kelsey. We use those pictures on our Web site and in our publications, which actually saves us the costs of hiring an outside photographer. Besides, it’s fun.”

Vaughn frowned and sat down across from me, but before he could grumble any further, Ray appeared at the conference room door, looking a bit harried. Vaughn’s posture went ramrod-straight and I half expected him to salute as Ray swept in with Kelsey hot on his heels. She slid quietly into the chair beside me, a pleased expression playing on her full lips. Ray dropped some files on the table and propped himself against it, as if he’d just finished running one of his marathons and couldn’t hold himself upright a moment longer.

“Okay, kids. I’ve thought about this a lot this weekend, and I’ve decided that this situation doesn’t sit well with me,” he said, making my stomach flutter with hope. Was I getting the promotion? Was Vaughn fired? Could Kelsey and I launch him out the front door with a catapult? “Josh, I have no problem with you or your work. Your portfolio is very impressive. You bring a fresh perspective and a stronger design background to the table. But as much as I appreciate the commissioner’s opinion, I don’t like being routed in my own office. I’m not retired yet and I don’t appreciate my decisions being remade for me. Sadie has done some phenomenal work in this office and is ready to take on more responsibility. The staff looks up to her and she’s more familiar with the concerns of the state.

“So, I’ve spent most of the morning in discussions with Commissioner Bidwell and our decision is . . . neither of you will be serving as marketing director. For right now, both of you are considered interim assistant directors of marketing.”

Judging from the way he ground his teeth together, Josh hadn’t seen this coming, either. For a moment, it felt like we were in the same boat—a boat adrift on a sea of “What the hell?” Kelsey began scribbling furiously in her little notebook, making new-business-cards-and-stationery to-do lists now that Vaughn had a new title—again—as well as writing down all of the various moving-in chores she needed to complete. She gripped the ballpoint pen so fiercely it snapped, staining her sleeve with black ink. Grabbing a new pen, she continued to scribble around the giant splotch on her pad.

Kelsey taking out her frustrations on office supplies was not a good sign.

Ray continued, “You will each develop a comprehensive campaign for a statewide tourism promotion to run through the next year. Storyboards, posters, and other materials explaining your concept will be put on display at the state fair in August. At the fair, we will ask visitors which approach they prefer and the campaign with the most positive responses wins. The winner gets the promotion and we will use his or her campaign. Second place means staying in the assistant director position, as long as you’re still interested in working with us.”

A second chance. They were giving me another chance to prove myself! I could put together another campaign, one just as good as the Derby plan. I restrained myself from hopping up and kissing Ray’s leathery cheeks, but it was a near thing. The normally smirking Mr. Vaughn barely reacted. I expected him to complain about the loss of status, the uncertainty of getting a job he thought he already had. He merely shrugged. “Sounds fair.”

My eyes narrowed at him. There was no way he was okay with this. He’d moved all the way from Atlanta to accept this job. During the weekend wallow, I’d googled the hell out of Josh Vaughn. He popped up in the Society pages like an image-obsessed Energizer Bunny. Junior partner with a fancy marketing firm. Address in a tony district of Atlanta. A pretty girlfriend from one of the wealthier families in town. Why would he walk away from that, and then smile when the job he was promised evaporated out from under him?

What the hell was he up to?

I did not trust him, even less so when he politely asked me to explain the concept of every campaign I’d worked on in recent memory to help him “acclimate.” For the next two hours, we slogged through each and every promotion and every resulting news story—all of which were broadcast against the wall as a PowerPoint presentation of my implied ineptitude.

My chief crime, in his opinion, was my fascination for the, quote, “weird stuff,” which made Kelsey cover her snickers with fake coughs. “You devoted two radio spots and a mailing to promoting the Hillbilly Days festival. You devoted an entire page in the Visitors’ Guide to the ghosts of Waverly Hills Sanatorium. And you put together a pamphlet called ‘Bizarre in the Bluegrass: Strange Roadside Attractions Across Kentucky.’ ”

“The Hillbilly Days festival raises thousands of dollars for charity. Waverly Hills is a haunted site so famous that it’s been featured in about a dozen movies and TV shows. And how could we not create a pamphlet encouraging people to take road trips across the state to see all of the marvelous things they could only see here? Why wouldn’t we show that off?”

He gave me a condescending smile as he opened his laptop and cued up another PowerPoint presentation, which was broadcast on a screen on the opposite wall. “I believe you’re thinking too small, Ms. Hutchins. Driving to the middle of nowhere to see a copy of a monument isn’t exactly a day trip I could sell.” Suddenly all those statistics about workplace violence made so much sense to me.

Through clenched teeth, I responded as politely as I could. “I don’t see the harm in providing information so people can find what they want.”

“The harm is that what they want isn’t necessarily good for the state’s image, which ultimately isn’t necessarily good for the bottom line,” he said, clicking into place another slide, this one showing several newspaper clippings.

“Now, these are a few of the news stories concerning Kentucky that have made national headlines over the past few years.” He nodded to the screen, where the headlines read, LAWRENCEBURG MAN FORCED TO EAT HIS OWN BEARD and MCCLURE COUNTIANS TURN HOUSE INTO A GIANT BONG.

“This is the image we are trying to get away from,” he said. “Kentucky as a punch line.”

“Yeah, if you take a couple of isolated incidents, it’s easy to pick on us. But I think you’ll find that most Kentucky residents don’t really care what the media thinks of—”

“Well, those ‘isolated incidents’ are the ones that make it into the late-night monologues. Perception is reality,” he said.

He did not just interrupt me to spout Marketing 101 claptrap.

“You’re kidding me!” I scoffed. “You don’t know the people here. You don’t know how they think or what they want. And I’m sorry to tell you this, O marketing guru, but the locals really don’t like to be told what they want!”

Vaughn ignored my outburst as if I hadn’t even spoken.

“Kentucky has other resources to offer than moonshine and country ham,” he said, with just enough emphasis to make me think I’d insulted him somehow. You know, outside of my head.

“Oh, please, tell me all about the state where I’ve lived for most of my life,” I retorted.

Vaughn clicked through another slide, showing a beautiful shot of a thoroughbred racehorse straining toward the finish line, mane streaming in the wind. And there was another, of rolling green hills bracketed by a white fence, and a pink-orange sunset on the horizon. A third shot showed a picture of UK’s sprawling campus, with several small close-ups of the medical research facilities. Another showed a large room filled with wooden barrels, where two men sipped on amber liquor. “Kentucky’s polished underbelly. With the exception of the Derby every year, no one seems to remember the state’s traditions of gentility, refinement. We’re going to reintroduce the idea. Kentucky is a place where you can come to rest, refresh, explore some of the wonders of nature without getting too far from a high-end hotel or B and B.”

“That sounds exactly like every marketing campaign used by every state. Ever,” I said, shaking my head. “What’s going to draw people here, specifically? Because other than what I assume was bourbon, you could find those things almost anywhere.”

“Being different isn’t always a good thing. If you were going to spend your hard-earned vacation dollars, would you rather go to someplace ‘safe’ like Florida, or a state where people handle snakes in church and eat their own facial hair?”

“Look, I know we’re a state with problems and the occasional newsworthy weirdo, but I don’t think that we’re worse off than any other place. It’s like having a crazy cousin. You don’t pretend they don’t exist. You place bets on whether they’ll get arrested during Christmas dinner. And, by the way, even the high-profile tourism states have issues. Earthquakes don’t keep people from going to California.”

He snorted derisively. “No, but Deliverance probably cut into the river tourism in Georgia.”

“I happen to think that the people in Kentucky are unique and interesting and we should do everything we can to preserve and promote that character,” I countered.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, you’re one of those.”

Kelsey very subtly put her hand across my forearm to keep me in my seat as I repeated, “One of those?”

“An armchair sociologist who thinks dysfunction means character.”

“Okay, I think we’re done with the review,” Kelsey said, popping up from her chair like it was spring-loaded. “Josh, let me show you to your office. We’ll get you settled in and maybe we can get you acquainted with some of the unwritten office policies, like not taking the last jelly donut . . . and maybe not baiting already hostile coworkers into beating you senseless.”

Clearly ignoring the warning, Josh leaned across the table with a predatory leer that should have had me cowering back in my chair. “You know, I understand that you’re a bit disappointed by your lack of progress up the ladder here, but I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s cute that you think that,” I shot back, rising to my feet. “I’m surprised you managed to find your way here in the first place. It’s not like the state advertised the job on Monster.com.”

His face brightened and the sincere pleasure of sharing the next little bombshell with me made his eyes sparkle an even truer blue. “I didn’t have to look. I was recruited. An old fraternity brother heard I was looking for a job—”

“Of course, you were a frat rat,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

“Pi Kappa Alpha,” he said, pointedly ignoring my derisive snort. “C.J. heard I was looking for a position and gave me Commissioner Bidwell’s card. I sent Bidwell a résumé. The next thing I knew, I had the job. I guess they weren’t completely comfortable with leaving the office in your ‘capable’ hands.”

I made an embarrassing combination of squawk and squeak. The idea that he’d been brought in because he was connected to the right people was somehow mollifying and infuriating at the same time. At least I knew for sure that Ray and Commissioner Bidwell hadn’t worked behind my back, promising me the promotion while they’d planned to hand it to Vaughn. He’d been hired because he had a good introduction through the right people. I just had to work harder over the next few months to convince the commissioner he’d been wrong.

It was, however, interesting that he mentioned a C.J. as his frat brother, because I knew a guy named C.J. around Vaughn’s age and he was—aw, sonofabitch.

I wanted to yank on my hair and possibly plop my head against the table hard enough to knock myself unconscious. Instead, I kept that inscrutable mask in place and asked, “Your frat brother, was it C.J. Rowley, by any chance?”

Vaughn’s sandy eyebrows rose. “Yeah, he was in the pledge class ahead of mine. We weren’t really close, but Pikes always help each other out. Do you know him?”

And suddenly, everything made so much more sense. I knew C.J. Rowley much better than I ever wanted to. Rowley was a political leech, a wannabe kingmaker who had attached himself to the administration and wormed his way into the good graces of most of the decision makers through campaign contributions and sponsored parties. He seemed to think he could just skip over the fledgling stages of a political career if he secured some sort of position or appointment for himself. It affirmed my belief in the good judgment of my state government that this hadn’t happened for him so far.

Rowley and I were not friends. Primarily because of his tendency to proposition Kelsey in the vilest manner at every opportunity. Therefore, I’d eliminated him from the guest list of any event we held and if I saw him on any guest list of a department where I had influence, I got him blackballed there, too. And I’d made sure he knew I was doing it. Which probably wasn’t smart.

So. Mr. Perfect Pants Vaughn was C.J. Rowley’s payback.

I finally unclenched enough to stand and give Vaughn my scariest, sweetest serial-killer smile. “I am really looking forward to this.”

Vaughn gave me an amused look, as if I were a cute little Pomeranian puppy attacking his shoes. “You look forward to watching me walk away with your job?”

“I look forward to the work, to putting together the right campaigns, which is why I am going to walk away with the job,” I said.

Kelsey, who had so far remained virtually silent as she absorbed the unfolding drama, shut her notebook with a definitive snap. “We will end you.”

“You are aware that the two assistant marketing directors will be sharing secretarial staff, so I’m technically your boss, too,” Vaughn said, frowning at her.

Kelsey’s face shifted to a more neutral expression. “I look forward to working with you.”

Vaughn snorted and walked out of the conference room, whistling a stupid, jaunty tune. I thunked my head against the conference table, muttering unintelligible threats against Vaughn’s anatomy. And his suit, no matter how well tailored it was.

“He does not like you,” Kelsey observed. “Which is weird, because most people like you.”

“I am trying to steal his job,” I muttered into the table.

“Good point.” Kelsey tried to lift my chin, but I resisted. She wrapped my hair around her fingers and pulled up my head.

I yowled as she forced me to meet her eyes. “Listen to me. You have worked harder than any person I know for the past six years. This is your job. I think we can both agree that I would not do well with a man that hot as my direct supervisor.”

“You’re right,” I agreed, nodding. “Options, hit me with them.”

“We pull a 9 to 5 and swap his Splenda for rat poison,” she suggested.

“Options that won’t land us in jail.”

“We put together a kick-ass campaign because you are one of the smartest, most creative people I know. You know the audience better than Abercrombie McDouche ever could.”

I took a deep breath and smiled up at her. “Thank you, Kels.”

She patted my shoulder. “Besides, if we went to jail, I would sell you for cigarettes.”

In Which I Turn My Workplace into Animal Planet

3

Remember that scene in Bambi when one of the little forest creatures whispers, “Man has entered the forest,” and all of the woodsy denizens flirt with furry nervous breakdowns?

That pretty much summed up the next few weeks at the office.

None of my coworkers knew what to do or what to say to me about my jettisoned promotion. I knew they were furtively discussing it in the break room in hushed, clipped voices, but the moment I walked in, their mouths snapped shut. Other than Bonnie bravely trying to encourage me to decoupage my feelings of rejection away, they kept their heads down, occasionally peeking over their cubicle walls like timid little meerkats.

For my part, I kept a pleasant, tight-lipped smile on my face, acting as if nothing had changed. I brought Melody her baked bribes in the mornings, as usual. I joked around with Charlie about maybe simplifying his reports into one-sheet summaries with lots of pictures. He didn’t laugh, because Kelsey wasn’t there to translate my humor, but that was normal.

Kelsey’s nerd herd hadn’t been able to turn up much in their research, other than learning that Vaughn had worked for Hewitt-Messing, an incredibly impressive large-scale marketing firm in Atlanta, for four years. And his credit rating had improved significantly over the last few months. Frustrated at the lack of useful dirt, Kelsey suggested creating a fake criminal history, listing him as an identity thief with a penchant for destroying policemen’s mailboxes. But I’d like to think that sort of thing was beyond even her evil genius friends. I was probably wrong, but I chose to believe it for my own peace of mind.

I was surprised to find that Vaughn was born in nearby Ohio County. Frankly, it was strange that Ray didn’t mention it. Usually, when you met someone else working for the government, they were introduced with, “This is Seth. His family’s from Farmington,” or, “This is Jennifer; she hails from Beaver Dam.” It helped establish a sort of camaraderie among us all and provided small talk at parties.

And if you were maneuvering through Wildcat Country—where the blue and white UK logo plays prominently on license plates, salt and pepper shakers, wallpaper, and tattoos—you told everybody from your dental hygienist to the guy who sold you your morning coffee that you were a UK alumnus. That’s how deep UK basketball ran to people’s hearts around here. And it was the very reason University of Kentucky alumni and University of Louisville alumni tended to have tense relationships, good-natured or otherwise. I supposed it was inevitable. The schools vied to be the major university in the state. Both competed for the state’s top high school students. Both had prestigious athletic teams that frequently faced off in NCAA championships. The rivalry went back so far, I sometimes imagined the first cavemen who settled in ancient, primordial Kentucky splitting into team groups and painting their rocks blue and red to play . . . whatever passed for sports entertainment in ancient, primordial Kentucky.

But Ray hadn’t mentioned Josh’s alma mater when he introduced us and neither had Vaughn. It was like he was hiding a card up his sleeve. Why wouldn’t he play it?

Hell, I wasn’t a native. I’d been born in Michigan. But when people asked, I told them I was from Wickliffe, Kentucky, even though I’d lived in Ann Arbor until I was ten. I moved to Wickliffe to live with my grandparents after my mom died in a car accident. My father left when I was a baby, and wasn’t exactly available to take over single-parenting.

Gran was a sweet woman who tried to coax me out of my mother’s old room with peanut butter cookies and strawberry shortcake. She was always so happy and upbeat, which made me feel like I was the only one mourning my mom. It took me a while to figure out that she processed her grief through false cheer and baking.

And if Gran confused me, Grandpa was a total mystery. He was a state trooper with a bristly iron-gray mustache and a gravelly voice that reminded me of actors in old cowboy movies. He was definitely more comfortable watching sports and fishing with my teenage cousins, Guy and Jake, than he was with me. Gran insisted I should have equal time, but Grandpa had no idea what to do with me. In desperation, he started picking stuff out of this big guidebook of Hot Spots and Happenings in Kentucky—printed by the Kentucky Commission on Tourism, thank you very much. As we got to know each other better through a lot of great road trips and bad truck-stop meals, he realized I wasn’t that different from my cousins. I didn’t mind being told wildly inappropriate work stories or him using what Gran called “salty language.” I was just happy to be included.

Where Grandpa had a rough exterior, Gran was a secret finishing school. She’d lived in the elbow of nowhere for most of her life, but she’d hoarded magazines like Vogue and W whenever she could find them. She took great pride in teaching me how to dress, how to build a quality wardrobe on a small budget. She insisted that staying well dressed and coiffed gave you confidence, so even if you felt like the world was caving in on your ears, you had one less thing to worry about. If not for her classic sense of style and nose for bargains, I wouldn’t have survived the well-heeled circles in which I was expected to travel.

Finding security in my grandparents’ Wickliffe home, I burrowed in. And maybe I’d done the same thing at the office. I was so determined to make a place for myself that I’d taken it to an unhealthy extreme. I hadn’t dated anyone seriously in years. I hadn’t dated anyone flippantly in years. I just couldn’t find someone I clicked with. The majority of the men I met seemed to be stuffed shirts or political climbers who didn’t take me seriously at all.

Not that I found their inattention upsetting—it was mutual. Of course, Kelsey had taken to leaving convent brochures in my purse, which I did not find amusing.

“This is a clear abuse of the power of brochures,” I told her as I found yet another pamphlet for St. Anne Convent in Melbourne, Kentucky, in my handbag. “Also, if enough of these things pile up in my purse and I can’t find my wallet, that interferes with paying Angie, which she objects to.”

“I really do,” slim, sandy-haired Angela Moser told Kelsey as I tossed the brochure at my irascible assistant. Kelsey and I were scouring Angela’s shop for something suitable to wear to the Derby, having put it off for a bit too long due to my “distractions” at the office.

Unique Repeats was housed in a discreet restored Victorian in the historic Main Street district in Shelbyville. The location, halfway between Louisville and Frankfort, was close enough to service shoppers in both cities while offering the privacy of distance. No one wanted people to know they were selling their clothes, or that they were buying someone else’s clothes, but they definitely wanted the bargains.

While Angela lived in the upstairs quarters, the shop level was done up like a lived-in lady’s parlor. The furnishings were beige and ivory, providing a neutral background to show off the clothes. Angela kept carefully organized racks of clothing, divided by size, in the downstairs bedrooms. She wheeled the racks into the parlor for customers to peruse while they sipped iced tea. Because we were friends, Kelsey and I got to come in after hours, drink margaritas, and put our feet up on the sacrosanct refurbished Ethan Allen coffee table while Angela made us into her personal Barbie dolls.

Most of her clothing stock consisted of perfectly respectable Calvin Klein and Donna Karan pieces, with the occasional precious Chanel thrown in. But what drew in Angela’s customers was the shoe collection, displayed in the dining room like a sumptuous banquet of foot candy. Somehow she always managed to sniff out when small shoe boutiques or high-end department stores in surrounding states overstocked, then swooped in to buy up their untouched stock at rock-bottom prices. Jimmy Choo. Manolo Blahnik. Prada. Newer, edgier brands like Alexander McQueen. She had it all, and she was willing to sell it to us at a deep discount because she’d roomed with me junior year and she knew how I loved and cared for shoes. That, and I had never snored or asked her for money.

Kelsey had cemented Angela’s affections with comments like the following:

“Well, if you would relax that damn list of yours and take a spin on the next man that asked, maybe you’d be a little less cranky, Prudie McClosedKnees.”

“I’m not a prude; I’m selective.” I sniffed as Angela pulled out a peacock-blue cocktail dress with a low-cut draped back. I shook my head while Kelsey gave her the thumbs-up. “And frankly, not many of the candidates were worth refreshing my condom stash. I’m not going to waste it on people I don’t count on seeing again. And by the way, I’m not going to take any crap from she who dates a man named Darrell.”

“Darrell is okay,” Kelsey said defensively as Angela held up a sleek gray suit with pencil-thin slacks. I gave it two thumbs up and Kelsey vehemently shook her head. “It’s a little too power-suit for Derby Day. And you have two like it already!”

“Don’t change the subject. Darrell is a rash on the ass cheek of humanity. He refers to himself as a ‘theoretical entrepreneur.’ He sits at home all day playing Guild of Dominion while he’s supposedly gathering ideas for some earth-shattering Web site that would allow people to hold online yard sales instead of going to the trouble of setting up card tables in their front yards. Which sounds an awful lot like eBay, but when you bring it up, he stops talking to you. You’re only dating him to keep your mom off your back,” I shot back as Angela huffed out a sigh and dug deeper into the rack.

“Hey, hey, keep the gloves above the belt, Hutchins,” Kelsey muttered, a flush staining her cheeks as she sorted through Angela’s tray of recently acquired bracelets and costume rings.

I instantly felt a prick of shame. Kelsey’s mother was a former runner-up in the Miss Kentucky pageant who had done her damnedest to turn Kelsey’s childhood into one long scene from Toddlers & Tiaras. When Kelsey’s body type and pesky “personality” interfered with her mother’s plans, Elizabeth Wade basically washed her hands of her daughter and told her she was her future husband’s problem. As long as Kelsey had a man, her mom seemed satisfied, no matter how screwed up that man happened to be.

“I’m sorry,” I told her as Angela rifled through the rack. “That was going too far.”

“It is what it is,” she said, shrugging. “And I am changing the subject—are we really going to spend our girls’ night going over campaign ideas? Because with a couple of drinks in me, I’ll agree that most anything is a good idea.”

Well, that certainly explained Darrell. But I wasn’t going to say that aloud, because I’d already pushed her that night. Instead, I nodded toward the boxes of files she’d toted with us to Shelbyville. Far from the office, we were going to decide, once and for all, which theme I was going with.

The first idea—“Bizarrely Bluegrass”—was my original concept, emphasizing the quirky aspects unique to the Bluegrass. Where else could you find oversize fiberglass chickens and school-bus derbies alongside all of the sophistication of multimillion-dollar research hospitals and horse culture? I would spotlight attractions like the Jefferson Davis Monument (the aforementioned miniature Washington Monument look-alike in the middle of nowhere), the Mother Goose House in Hazard, and, of course, Cave City. It was fun, and a little funky, but I couldn’t help but hear Vaughn’s voice say “quirky” in that disdainful tone.

To which I heard my own inner voice reply, “Amen!”

My other idea, “Kentucky—Something for Everybody,” was a bit sketchier. It was more of a middle-of-the-road approach—a little bit country gentleman, a little bit redneck. Bourbon, Fort Knox, quilt museums, barbecue festivals, and strangely themed little roadside motels. But I didn’t like the idea that I was toning myself down, which I’d never done before, because of Vaughn’s concerns about my quirkiness.

Vaughn’s ads and press releases promoting the Derby as a runway, as an opportunity for ladies to come out and strut their stuff in their most ostentatious hats and suits, was considered widely successful. And that had eliminated any sense of humility or new-guy awkwardness. He was letting it all hang out, so to speak. He kept his office door wide open, proudly displaying sketches and rough storyboards for all the office to see. His concept was definitely themed around the idea of Kentucky as a bastion of gentility and manners. He was calling every well-known horse photographer in Lexington to get rights to elegant “horses running across a pasture” shots. And bourbon distilleries had taken to sending him sample bottles, hinting that they would love to provide a location for television or photo shoots.

I was going to have to be better. And I was going to have to be quick about it.

“I know it seems paranoid to work outside of the office, but I want to keep Vaughn guessing,” I told her. “If he doesn’t see any progress, he may think I’m slacking off and let his guard down.”

“Still calling him Vaughn, huh?” Kelsey asked, tossing a black-and-green enameled bracelet at me.

“Josh is too friendly a name for that guy. Vaughn is just detached enough,” I told her, catching it and clasping it around my wrist. “Vaughn is the name of that guy who hears you’re having a party from a mutual friend, shows up, drinks all your beer, and asks why you didn’t serve better chips. You know him, but you don’t want to.”

“I have mentioned before that this is a place of business and not your personal girly-girl dress-up palace,” Angela said drily as she approached with a boxy pink suit reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy.

“Am I going to be wearing a pillbox hat?” I asked.

“Why are you being so difficult?” she groaned, stomping back to the rear of the house.

I rounded on Kelsey. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but are you not the same person who went into his PowerPoint presentation for the Greater Louisville Area Chamber of Commerce today and took all of the l’s out of his ‘public’s?”

“He’s going to do a speech on ‘pubic funding.’ ” Kelsey snickered, but tamped it down quickly. “I was provoked.”

She had a point. Coming from a large firm, Vaughn was clearly used to having his own personal assistant, a personal assistant who put up with a lot of crap. Despite her usually stellar level of work, Josh rarely told Kelsey “thank you” or “good job.” Rather than politely asking for something, he tended to bark orders when he was in a hurry. Such as, “Coffee, black, three sugars.” Or “2010 campground occupancy reports, yesterday.”

It turns out that talking to somebody like they’re a coffee-dispensing robot is not a good idea when she has your password and can change your files without leaving a digital trail.

“You are a paragon of restraint,” I assured her, digging out the files we needed. Angela cleared her throat as she came out of her pantry/secondary stockroom with a hunter-orange wrap dress and a matching jacket. “Oh, come on, it’s like you don’t even know me!”

Angela rolled her eyes. “You know, there are colors beyond black and green. You’re not a Slytherin.”

“I don’t only wear black and—” I looked to Kelsey, who smirked at me and glanced down at the black-and-green bracelet on my wrist . . . which went nicely with the sage-green sundress and matching sweater I was wearing. “It brings out the green in my eyes, okay? And my grandmother’s birthstone was peridot, so I have a lot of accessories to match. I don’t have to explain myself to you!” The girls cackled wildly. “I hate y’all. I really do.”

“You wear a lot of it,” Angela said. “Besides, the orange dress was just a palate cleanser. This is what I want you to see.”

Angela pulled out a suit-dress made from buttercup-colored raw silk with a tucked waist and three-quarter sleeves. It was gorgeous. And while I normally didn’t wear yellow, it looked rather nice with my skin tone when I held it up to my body in front of the mirror. “Are there matching shoes?” I asked hopefully.

Angela scoffed and pointed me toward the shoe nook. “I’m insulted you have to ask.”

“And the files are forgotten,” Kelsey murmured, sorting through some proposal sheets because she could not physically tolerate paperwork being out of order.

“We are going to get some work done tonight,” I insisted. “Right after I look at some shoes.”

“And by that, you mean all the shoes,” Kelsey called as I scurried into the shoe room.

Angela turned to Kelsey, whose body-image issues made her selection process even less fun than mine, if it could be believed. “Okay, problem child, your turn.”

•   •   •

I would like to say we struck a great victory for honesty and fair play with what became known as the Pubic Funding Address. But honestly, we hurt Vaughn more when we hoarded all the jelly donuts for a week, weakening the enemy by cutting off his morning snack supplies.

On the rare occasion I ventured into the office’s “Vaughn zones,” I was sure to find Gina perched on any available piece of furniture, engaged in some serious flirtation with him. She’d act so surprised to see me, as if she’d forgotten that I worked there, which made me want to smack her. I’d wanted to smack Gina a lot lately. While I’d always found her vapid and annoying, somehow her attachment to the carpetbagger from Ohio County had served to increase my hostility to “don’t make me take off my earrings” levels. It wasn’t jealousy, because I definitely didn’t want Vaughn. I wanted him gone.

For the sake of professionalism, Ray had to remain impartial in our strange office-based parody of the Hatfields versus the McCoys. (Bonnie avoided us both because she thought the air of competition between our offices was “unhealthy.”)

Josh Vaughn was tap-dancing on my last damn nerve. He was always “checking in” to see if I needed any help with my campaign, which on the surface seemed nice enough, but it was done in a condescending tone that made me want to staple his lips to his tie. He was not my boss, damn it, but he certainly was behaving like he already had Ray’s job.

As if the mind games and “helpfulness” were not enough, he was always there. Despite my attempts to avoid being in the same room with him, he somehow always managed to be in the break room, in the elevator, in my office, in my space. He stood too close, head bent, his mouth nearly brushing my ear. It just skirted the border of inappropriate, but “almost touching me and making me feel all tingly” was nothing I could take to HR. The worst part was the damn Mothra-size butterflies it set loose in my belly when his breath grazed my neck, the stupid way my pulse sped up when he handed me a file and my fingers brushed his.

These bizarre reactions, combined with my strong impression that he seemed to get a little more attractive with every passing day, were demoralizing. The more confident he got, the wider his smile stretched across that generous mouth. His blue eyes twinkled mischievously as he set my blood to boil. I would not be that girl, I told myself. I hadn’t fallen into the backseat with the cute quarterback who stole my homework in high school. I would not fall for the hot guy who was trying to steal my job.

My attempts to avoid Vaughn were brought to an abrupt end one morning when Ray called us both into the conference room and tossed two hats at us. This was actually a pretty typical way for Ray to start a meeting, but Vaughn seemed startled and irritated to have a navy-blue Civil War–era slouch cap slap him in the face. I managed to cover my snicker with the large gray Confederate cavalry hat Ray had lobbed at me.

“Okay, you two, I couldn’t help but notice that you’re still not working together like happy little campers. I respect the two of you too much to ask you to shake hands and be best friends. Well, ‘respect’ may not be the word, but it’s much nicer than the one I have in mind. This cannot continue in my office, Sadie. I mean it.”

Josh was this close to preening over Ray laying the blame at my feet when our boss pointed a finger in his direction and said, “And that goes for you too, Josh. You’re dividing the staff, distracting them from their duties, and most importantly, causing extra stress for me when I should be coasting through my last few months here, and I just can’t have that. I expected better from both of you. So, to help speed along your journey to behaving like two civil adults, I have a little project for you.”

Ray tossed pamphlets at us. This time, Vaughn caught his, glaring at me as if Ray’s launching meeting materials at our heads was somehow my fault. I glanced down at the glossy paper in my hand and saw that it was for the Columbus-Belmont Civil War Days.

As in all things, Kentucky’s position in the Civil War was a unique one. The commonwealth was one of the few neutral states and was considered vital by Lincoln because of its location. But the population’s loyalty was seriously divided over issues of states’ rights and the fact that Kentucky farmers sent tobacco and whiskey to markets in both the North and the South.

In 1861, Confederate troops claimed the hills above the Mississippi River, at the site that would become Columbus-Belmont State Park, and that neutrality was broken. Union troops moved through Paducah, eventually taking over Belmont, Missouri, just across the river, prompting Southern troops to rally around the so-called Columbus Heights and keep heavy artillery trained on the river. The siege was short-lived and the Confederates were soon cut off from their support by Union victories in Tennessee. The Heights were now a state park, complete with campgrounds and a walking trail around the preserved Confederate fortifications. Each year, in October, history buffs gathered at Columbus-Belmont for a reenactment of the battle, a Civil War Ball, and a memorial service for the fallen. It was like stepping back in time for a day, wearing the period-appropriate clothes and eating food cooked over an open fire. Kids milled around the campground, visiting the blacksmith’s tent, the glassblower, and the toymaker’s tent while their parents munched on kettle corn and candied apples. The office staff attended the encampment every year as volunteers, answering questions, leading student groups, and offering advice on how to remove candied apple from one’s hair.

“The fall encampment has become so popular that the park is adding a summer event as a sort of training for people who are interested in participating but don’t know how to get in contact with a reenactors’ group,” Ray said. “The state park director wants the summer encampment to be part history boot camp, part orientation. They’re planning workshops on appropriate dress and weapons and behavior. And they’ll have vendors set up on-site to help participants start their stash of supplies.

“And because I know that the two of you are eager to help launch this wonderful new event, you will be happy to work together to organize a campaign to promote it. Here’s your budget and the contact information. Your deadline is June first. Play nice.” Ray dropped the folder on the conference room table and walked out.

“Is that the way he normally conducts meetings?” Vaughn asked.

“Throwing things at us and talking like he’s a high school principal? Pretty much par for the course, yes.”

“Where do you want to start?” he asked, stepping closer to get a better look at the paperwork Ray had left behind. He reached around me to grab a file folder, his arm sliding against the small of my back. Yet another electric shock skittered up my spine, making me jump and fumble right into him. Off-kilter in my trademark heels, I pressed my hands to his chest to catch my balance. Too close! Too close! my brain screamed as my head dipped toward his throat, my hair brushing against his chin. That summer grass scent wafting from his collar overwhelmed me. I pushed off his chest to get some distance and realized I was basically cupping his pecs in my hands like some perverted teenager.

Vaughn eyed me with calculated interest, poised to say something that would no doubt piss me off royally. I snatched my hands away as if his very respectable chest muscles burned my skin. I snagged Ray’s papers from the table and made for the door. “I’m going to take this to my office and start brainstorming. I’ll get back to you in the afternoon with some ideas.”

Josh and his confusing scent stepped toward me, which had me scrambling back toward the door. “I don’t think that’s the way Ray intended for us to do this.”

“I’ll see you this afternoon,” I called over my shoulder.

•   •   •

A few hours later, Vaughn and I discovered that we had creative chemistry, like bleach and ammonia. While I had more of an open-flow creative process, drawing inspiration from random images and word-association games, Vaughn’s thinking was very linear. He went from point A to point B with no side trips.

I tried to play up the humor of the encampment. I suggested taglines like, “Ground your kids back to the nineteenth century” and “Embrace a simpler time, which required a minimum of ten layers of underwear.” Vaughn was more focused on “heritage” and “honoring the past” as his message, which was boring as all hell. But I had to admit that he’d found some great stock photos from previous encampments—happy families sitting around their campfires in their old-fashioned clothes and long rows of precisely lined-up reenactors with clouds of blue smoke billowing from their rifles.

He refused to consider my suggestions and I scoffed at the very idea of presenting a summer activity as exclusively educational. The meeting ended on an abrupt sour note when I suggested using a puppet dressed in a Union uniform to narrate an Internet video, emphasizing the event as family friendly. I even pulled up a YouTube video of a puppet type we might use, a freckle-faced redhead with yarn hair wearing a farmer’s hat and playing “Goober Peas” on the banjo while footage showing dairy cows played in the background. It was adorable and if we put our version together quickly, we could distribute it to schools to drum up student interest before kids were released for summer break. I had absolutely no malicious intent when I started the video. But it seemed to send Vaughn into some sort of fit, scrambling back in his chair as if Farmer Ben were going to reach through my laptop and grab him.

“So what do you think?” I asked him carefully.

“That’s just . . . awful,” Josh wheezed, turning a bit green as he stood, knocking over his chair, and practically bolted from the room.

“What just happened?” Kelsey asked, staring after him.

“I don’t know,” I said, frowning. “Which is a problem, because now I can’t duplicate it.”

She shook her head. “That is a man who does not like puppets.”

I pursed my lips, considering how this information might be useful. “Very interesting.”

•   •   •

The office became oddly polarized after the YouTube incident. Josh and I were still the key aggressors, but our staff members were slowly drifting to their chosen sides and giving support in upsetting and unprecedented ways. With Vaughn refusing to hear my suggestions and treating Kelsey like a barista/lackey, she was less than inclined to do any copying or faxing he needed before 4:30 p.m. And I suspected Theresa the IT gal’s hand in Vaughn changing my e-mail password. I spent the better part of a day trying to figure out why the image of a screaming zombie popped up every time I tried to open my Internet browser. The good red pens mysteriously disappeared from my desk drawer. Work orders got lost on the way to printers or suppliers so often that we eventually started hand-delivering the paperwork. And I couldn’t be certain, but I thought my M&M jar was emptying faster than usual.

Never had the office seemed so divided and disconnected, not even during the great “Kelsey Purchased Decaf Instead of Real Coffee” Scandal of 2010. This tension came to a head at the monthly staff meeting, when Ray asked us for a progress report on our project and we had very little to show him except that we’d agreed on which shade of blue we would be using for the brochure text.

“You’ve been working on this for more than a week and all you have to show me is royal blue?” Ray said incredulously.

“It’s closer to a peacock blue, really,” I observed just before Vaughn elbowed me in the ribs.

“What exactly is the problem?” Ray asked. “Because I am almost certain I could turn this over to the interns and they could have something back to me in a few days.”

Jordie the Good Intern from Transylvania University frowned at the implication, while Michael the Idiot Intern smirked like he’d been paid a compliment.

“There’s no problem, Ray, just a difference in opinion,” I told him. “Mr. Vaughn seems to think we can attract people to a new and exciting event by making it look like every other historical event held in every other state. There’s no reason to take pains to attend said event because if they miss it, they can always go to the next one in Tennessee or Virginia.”

“Yes, I suppose that does seem disturbing to someone who wants to draw in a crowd by making the encampment look like some sort of National Lampoon’s Vacation,” Vaughn spat.

I stood, knocking my chair back. “Would I give people the impression their family might risk having fun? Yes, I would!”

Vaughn stood and slapped his hand against the table. “Of course you would! Because you believe in wacky sentimentality over proven marketability. And not just for this project. It’s evident in everything you do.”

“Because proven marketability is boring! It’s proven because it’s been done before. You’re not creating anything new, you’re just regurgitating some old idea.”

“Okay, let’s talk about new growth. Delacour Jewelers is building a fabrication plant here. Kentucky would be home to one of maybe three places in the world where they make their jewelry. Why can’t we draw some attention to that? The jeweler’s public relations rep told me she’d contacted you three times and you never picked up on any of the announcements she sent you.”

I threw up my hands. “Oh, sure, let’s campaign for a store where maybe ten percent of our state’s population can afford to buy so much as a key chain. A store that already has a substantial advertising budget and doesn’t really need our help.”

“I like their ads,” Kelsey mused. “You don’t see enough male models rolling around on piles of loose diamonds, in my opinion.”

Ray sighed and buried his face in his hands. “Kelsey.”

“I say we let Kelsey talk,” Michael said, holding up his hand. “Kelsey, are there naked girls rolling around—”

“Michael!” Ray barked. “Look, Sadie, Josh, let’s all calm down.”

Vaughn ignored him, throwing his arms up in the air. “And building a little goodwill with a multimillion-dollar corporation would just be tragic, wouldn’t it? You think I haven’t met hacks like you before? You put together your adorable little campaigns that make people laugh, but never manage to nudge them off their couches. You love the underdog, which is easy because everybody loves to root for the underdog. The problem is that the underdog is usually under for a reason. And you can’t build long-term success on adorable!”

“Well, I think the Snuggle Bear, the Cadbury Bunny, and that little girl who bared her ass for Coppertone would probably disagree with you!” I snapped, leaning toward him. I would not be intimidated by this guy just because he was using his “big boss” voice on me. I could be just as loud and authoritative and I didn’t need a retro skinny tie to do it.

“You know, if this is how you behave in a meeting, I don’t know why you’re even bothering with this ‘competition’ thing,” he sneered. “You’re not prepared to do the job. You’re not going to come up with a better idea than me. It’s cruel that Ray put you in this position in the first place. And frankly, I think it’s ridiculous that I have to participate in this competition at all. I just want to do the job, put in a few good years as director, and open my own marketing firm. I figured this would be a good place to develop contacts, not be tormented by some vapid, crazy cheerleader with an axe to grind.”

I made an indignant squawking noise. He was putting me through this and he didn’t even want the damn job? He’d turned my office into a feuding war zone for nothing? He saw my dream job as a stepping stone to something better? Suddenly a very dangerous idea formed in my head. I crossed my arms over my chest and tilted my head. And there, in the conference room, I made a vow that I would destroy Josh Vaughn. And his little suits, too.

Or at least I would make his life very difficult.

“I’m a cheerleader?” I scoffed. “So you’re not intimidated by me at all?”

He gave me a head-to-toe scan that lingered a bit too long for professional behavior. “Not a bit.”

“So I guess you wouldn’t mind a little side wager?” I slid to a sitting position on the table, my skirt riding up ever so slightly on my thigh. Vaughn’s eyes were trained on that tiny expanse of tanned skin and I raised an internal cheer. A distracted man was a man prone to making stupid promises. “Oh, come on, Vaughn. There’s no chance of me winning anyway, right? What do you have to lose?” I grinned. “We get through this Civil War plan with as little fuss as possible. I’ll make my best effort to hold myself back from my usual snarkiness and do my utmost to be a team player. But all gloves are off for the state fair campaign. No holds barred, full-on marketing mayhem. If your campaign is judged better than mine, I will come to work the following Monday in a cheerleading outfit. UK blue. Pom-poms and all.”

There was a dangerous glint in his eyes when he said, “I’m not really seeing how this would benefit you at all.”

I hopped off the table and stepped closer. For once, Vaughn was the one to back up. I beamed at him, sickeningly sweet. “Because if I win, which I will, you will come to work the next Monday in a cheerleading outfit. U of L red. Pom-poms and all.

“And not the male cheerleaders’ outfit, either,” I added. “You will wear the tiny skirt and everything.”

“And this is a very professional example in front of our coworkers—” He turned toward the table, where he’d expected to find the rest of the staff. But the room was empty. Our coworkers and the interns had crept out of the room while we were arguing, and we hadn’t noticed.

“That seems like an overreaction,” I said, chewing my lip. “Oh, well. Do we have a wager?”

“You’re nuts,” he exclaimed.

I made none-too-subtle clucking sounds under my breath.

“Fine!” he said. “You’ve got a deal.”

“You’re going to look stunning,” I promised him just as Ray appeared in the doorway. I whispered, “I’ll get a pretty red-and-black bow for your hair and everything.”

“You two,” Ray growled, with no trace of the playful, fatherly voice to which I was accustomed. “My office. Now.”

In Which I Push a Colleague out of a Metaphorical Lifeboat

4

Ray was not pleased with us.

I refused to relay the details of our meeting, even to Kelsey, but I will say that phrases like “squabbling children” and “unprofessional, shrieking fishwife” were used. But he was looking at Vaughn when he said “fishwife,” so I can’t actually be sure whether he was referring to me. I think at one point he threatened to ground us.

According to Ray, we were ridiculously lucky that the commissioner was not in the building during our blowup and if we ever did anything like it again, being named director of marketing would be the least of our worries. We were told to shake hands and behave civilly, which we managed to do without squeezing each other’s fingers too hard, and then we slunk back to neutral corners.

Through the miracle of e-mail, we came up with an idea for the Columbus-Belmont summer boot camp without actually speaking to each other. While he conceded that a fun, musical video would be appropriate for students, Vaughn suggested we also use era-appropriate military imagery aimed at adults. So Dorie Ann, our graphic designer, drew what looked like a circa-1860s recruiting poster, encouraging people to enlist in “basic training.” I changed the tagline to “Step into the past, make memories for the future.” We were only waiting for approval from the state park staff.

In the meantime, Kelsey and I introduced Vaughn to the wonders of our annual Kentucky Derby party. The tourism commission helped organize several events over the course of Derby weekend, including a party at the track for high-ranking state employees, politicians, and members of the press. We tried to lure the horse owners in, but while the locals usually made a polite appearance, the rest tended to shy away from our domestic booze and room-temperature cheese. The main goal was to remind all parties involved how important tourist dollars were to the overall health of the state’s economy and how the track played into that. And to remind the politicians that we were perfectly nice people who deserved our jobs, and they might keep that in mind when they were passing the next budget.

That year, the first Saturday in May dawned bright and clear and cool. I put on my trim yellow suit with a creamy linen picture hat from Macy’s. The hat cost more than the shoes and the suit combined. But Derby regulars could spot a cheap hat from miles away, and it was better not to subject inferior headwear to their scrutiny.

There was always a buzz on the morning of Derby Day, an anticipatory excitement, which made no sense, really. Few people in the stands had actually ridden a horse, much less owned one. And unlike in NASCAR, the chances of one of the horses spinning into the infield were pretty low. There was a strange sense of urgency to the race. The horses had been training for this since they were born. They only got one shot at this particular race before they aged out of the running group.

We got caught up in the pageantry, the traditions, and the foods that we enjoyed simply because it was tradition. What St. Patrick’s Day is to the Irish, Derby Day is to any self-respecting Kentuckian.

Kelsey and I had arrived ungodly early at Churchill Downs in order to beat the traffic and to give ourselves time to negotiate the veritable maze that was the racetrack complex. Spectators were already milling into the infield entrance, leading inside the track itself, where tens of thousands of rowdy race fans would turn the small expanse of grass into an enormous, raucous, muddy party.

We placed our bets as soon as the windows opened. The favorite—and potential Triple Crown contender—was a large chestnut from New York called Rock of Ages. I put my traditional five-dollar bet on a pretty coal-black entry from Lexington named Instant Karma, who I only picked because I liked the color of her silks (turquoise and teal). Kelsey, on the other hand, placed twenty dollars on Lemon Cakes, a Virginia long-shot scientifically selected as a potential winner through some algorithm provided by her nerd posse.

We chanced a look at both, sneaking through the paddock garden, which was as close as security would let us. Like all girls, I’d gone through a horse phase as an adolescent. Of course, the few times I’d ridden a horse, I’d either knocked my head on a low-hanging branch or led the horse right through a yellow-jacket nest, which was fun for neither of us. But visiting Churchill Downs always stoked those old pony-crush feelings. The horses’ freshly washed coats gleamed iridescent and seal-sleek in the morning sun. Their steps seemed mincing on their impossibly delicate ankles as the trainers led them back and forth to the warm-up track.

“Makes you want to stamp cute little hearts on their butts and braid their manes, doesn’t it?” Kelsey sighed.

“I think the owners would probably object to your turning their million-dollar horses into life-size My Little Ponies.”

I was not at my most comfortable at the track. Before starting with the commission, I’d attended exactly one horse race, but that involved a pony getting away from a petting zoo at my grandparents’ church’s fall festival. Little Sammi Teeter and Dusty, her brave steed, “raced” all the way to the end of the road before anyone caught up with them. Now I was expected to know a little bit of everything about the history of the track, the meaning of the various colored silks, and why the race is limited to three-year-old horses. Because occasionally, the press asked random questions of people wearing official-looking name tags, and they really didn’t appreciate it when you said, “I’m not sure.”

Everything was running smoothly in the hours before the official post time, when our guests had been invited to mill through the respectable suite we’d reserved in the Jockey Club and watch the preliminary races on the wall-mounted flat-screen TVs. It was impressive, but not so opulent that people started to question where their tax dollars were going. Knowing that Ray and any number of potential hirers and firers were watching us, Mr. Vaughn and I were actually cooperating and speaking civilly to each other.

Snowy white peonies mixed with the traditional red Derby roses decorated the tables in low globe vases. The windows framed a sunny view of the Louisville skyline. Spring’s arrival was celebrated in the traditional way, with purchases of spiffy new suits and dresses in soft Easter tones. They reflected against the polished wood floors like fallen blooms, giving the room an impressionist Water Lilies look.

The juleps were ice cold, the table linens crisp, and the canapés circulating at just the right pace. I was chagrined to see that Josh was meeting all the movers and shakers, but comforted myself with the fact that I already knew most of those people, and I was pretty sure they liked me better than someone they’d met only briefly while mildly intoxicated. Everything was going well.

I should have known something was about to go terribly wrong.

Just as I ended a rather pleasant conversation with the director of the Kentucky Horse Park, I felt a finger trailing down my arm. I shivered, feeling a clammy cold sensation, like someone was standing over my grave making dick jokes. I turned and groaned at the sight of the walking phallus in question.

I hated it when people I disliked snuck up on me. Where was the Darth Vader theme music when you needed it?

Tall and gym built, C.J. Rowley was handsome enough. His thick blond hair and lantern jaw would have made him gorgeous if not for the cruel slant to his mouth. Of course, he was dressed impeccably in a black suit and a tie with little horses on it. My hands itched to reach for it, but strangling a man with a novelty tie in a room full of witnesses could not be a good career move.

Rowley had succeeded in making my life very difficult, recommending the job to Josh. He liked to think he had a lot of influence, and he had a vendetta against me for the whole blackballing thing. He would love to think he got at me through the system. And arranging for an impressive candidate to interview for the job I wanted was definitely getting at me. He’d probably shown up at the Derby party to gloat. Asshole.

But I wouldn’t give him any hint of how well his “referral” was working out, because that would make him happy. And I was willing to devote a lot of time and energy to not making Rowley happy.

I thought I’d managed to keep him at a distance so far. How had he managed to sneak into this party? Had Josh invited him as thanks for getting him the job interview? Had he snuck in from a gathering on some other level of the complex? Security was supposed to be checking the lists before letting people through the doors. Kelsey probably would have flying-tackled him if she’d seen him. Maybe some other disillusioned, well-meaning guest had vouched for him?

“Mr. Rowley,” I said, just barely separating my teeth to speak. “So nice of you to join us, have you seen the door? It’s right over there.”

And by “nice,” I meant, There could be an army of zombie jockeys breaking down the doors to devour us. By comparison, this situation is nice.

“Well, even though my invitation seems to have been lost in the mail, you’ll find that I’m still welcome in most circles,” he said, his tone biting.

“I’ll keep that in mind before leaving my drink unattended,” I said sweetly.

“Now, that’s a silly thing to say,” he said, his mouth pressed into a bitter, cold line. “I wouldn’t go around making ‘jokes’ like that. You know, I am really going to enjoy watching you make a fool out of yourself. I heard about the hoops you’re going to jump through to get your promotion. I am going to savor watching you hop through each and every one.”

“ ‘Savor’ is a pretty fancy verb, Rowley. Did you read it on your word-of-the-day calendar?”

He sneered, leaning even closer so that he towered over me. “You know, Sadie, if you’d been the least bit nice to me, I could have made your life a lot easier. I could have made your career for you. I could have made you marketing director with just one phone call. But you had to be a bitch, so I made a different kind of phone call. How do you like working with Josh?”

“He’s an absolute darling,” I lied smoothly. “We get along famously. So well, in fact, that we’re thinking about stacking our desks like bunk beds so we can share an office.”

I heard a throat clear behind me. “Well, that’s news to me.”

I turned to find Vaughn staring at the pair of us, the expression on his face inscrutable. “C.J., how are you?” he asked.

Rowley gave him that “manly men together” greeting of the secret handshake and a hearty slap on the shoulder. To be honest, I had some sort of auditory rage blackout, seeing two of my least favorite people in one place, and had no idea what was said over the next few minutes. Rowley was smirking and nodding toward me, his hand slipping down my arm to wrap around my wrist. Vaughn seemed confused and unhappy to see the two of us basically holding hands. I wasn’t thrilled with it, either. But the skin-to-skin contact brought me out of my state and my ears seemed able to tune in again.

“Oh, Sadie and I go way back,” Rowley was saying with this implied intimacy that I did not find amusing in the least. “I hope you’re enjoying her.”

I tried to shrug off the fingers clamped around my wrist, but his grip tightened almost enough to bruise. “Behave yourself, Rowley.”

He leaned entirely too close and used a shockingly pleasant tone to tell me, “You don’t tell me how to do anything. You’re a low-level nobody and you’ll never get any further than that. I’ll make sure of it. You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

Staring at the way Rowley was handling my wrist, Vaughn moved forward, seemingly intent on breaking his hold. With his frat bro distracted, I grabbed hold of Rowley’s pinkie and twisted up. He gave a short barking yelp, allowing me to break free.

“I know exactly who I’m messing with,” I told Rowley. “Someone in dire need of manners and an Altoid. You have three minutes to get out before I tip off the security guards that a man fitting your description is actually a militant animal rights operative, here to free the horses.”

Vaughn’s jaw dropped and he moved closer to me, his arm hovering just below the small of my back. Whether it was to protect me from Rowley or vice versa, I had no idea. But Rowley merely chuckled. “This is why I brought Josh in, Sadie. At least he behaves like a professional.”

I smiled frostily. “You’re down to two minutes and thirty-seven seconds.”

“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath as he walked away.

“Creep,” I shot back quietly, sipping my iced tea.

“Is that how you speak to party guests?” Vaughn asked, though I noticed he didn’t move his arm from my back.

“It’s how I speak to uninvited guests with a tendency to say inappropriate things to my staff, and who make almost every woman I know uncomfortable.”

“I barely know him,” he said solemnly.

“He got you this job. I didn’t think it was possible that he had that sort of power.”

“He got me a business card,” Vaughn countered. “I got myself the job. I had no idea he—I mean, he was kind of aggressive with girls at school, but I thought he’d grow out of it. Most guys do when they get out into the real world.”

“Well, you could have asked.”

Vaughn rolled his eyes. “I could have called the office where I was applying for a job and asked whether the person who told me about that job was a creep?”

“I know it’s illogical,” I grumbled, making Josh chuckle.

When I saw Rowley cross the threshold, I breathed a sigh of relief and wished for something stronger than iced tea. But at this rate, I needed all of my brain cells functioning. At least Rowley was up-front about his hostilities. My issues with Josh Vaughn were as murky as the Ohio River. He had moments when he wasn’t entirely awful. But I didn’t know what he was capable of, or how much of his energy would be devoted to sinking my personal ship. I had a feeling that if he ever figured out I’d been present for the creative editing of his “pubic” PowerPoint slides, that energy would go nuclear.

“I’ll be fine.” I sighed.

“Oh, I’m sure.” Vaughn snorted. “But it might help if you relaxed that line between your eyebrows. Angry furrows don’t exactly give off a ‘fun party’ vibe.”

I took a deep breath and tried to pull my facial muscles into a less menacing alignment.

“Have you ever tried to force yourself to relax while someone’s watching you?” I griped, working my face around into various hopefully more pleasant expressions.

“There you go. So, even aside from my esteemed fraternity brother crashing the party, I’ve noticed you’re not your normal perky, cheerful self today. I take it an event like this is too staid for you?” he asked. “Not enough oversize fiberglass animals and re-created pioneer dwellings?”

“First, you rarely find fiberglass animals and pioneer cabins in the same attraction,” I told him primly, making him chuckle. “And second, no. I don’t mind coming to this; it’s as much a part of our culture as basketball, country music, and well, tobacco used to be. I just always get nervous at these things. The chance of my saying something stupid seems to increase proportionately with the average income of the people in the room.”

Why I’d just revealed that to someone I was competing against, I had no idea. But it was just so pleasant, not sniping at each other for once. Vaughn had such a nice laugh, and it was great to hear it and know that I caused it—in a nice, nonmocking way. It was going a long way toward settling my Rowley-jangled nerves. And the fact that I could see Ray from the corner of my eye, watching us, made having a friendly conversation that much easier.

“Rich people aren’t that different from the rest of us,” Vaughn mused. “Really, they only pay attention to you long enough to assure themselves that you’re one of them, and then they move on to watching someone else. So, really, you just have to be convincing for five or six minutes.”

I laughed, taking the julep cup he procured from a passing tray. I wouldn’t drink it, but it made a handy prop. An unspoken truth among Kentuckians is that a very small percentage of the population actually enjoys mint juleps. They are served only on Derby Day and only because they’re traditional. I doubt anyone has ever actually bellied up to a bar and said, “You know what sounds good? A big glass of sugary, watered-down bourbon with crushed mint.”

Then again, I have mojito issues.

“And how is one convincing?” I asked him.

“Well, the clothes, for one, which you seem to have a pretty artful hand with. You’re current, but not so current that the ladies who lunch would consider you avant-garde.”

“Heaven forbid.”

He looped his arm through mine as we traversed the room. “The second thing is education. You can leave them guessing as to who your people are, because if your accent’s right and you can claim the right fraternity at the right school, they’ll just assume it’s some acceptable family they’ve got some acquaintance with.”

“I don’t know what’s scarier, the fact that you’ve devoted so much thought to this, or that you’re probably right,” I said with a sigh.

“Still, I got a little smile out of you. And look at it this way, you don’t have to speak today, so Kelsey and her emergency kit aren’t needed.”

“She told you about that?” I gasped, feeling more than a little betrayed.

“No, I found the kit under the registration table. She brought it with her today, just in case. And considering your pregaming at the hat auction, I put two and two together. It’s kind of sweet, really. You’re good with people, but you panic when you realize they’re looking at you. And really, who could blame them for looking at you? You’re creating a personal paradox.”

I stared at him for a beat, then cowered and looked skyward, holding the edges of my hat as if it would protect me from the frogs and locusts bound to pour forth from the sky.

“What are you doing?” he asked, exasperated.

“You paid me a compliment,” I whispered, my voice mock-quivering with fear. “I am waiting for the arrival of biblical plagues.”

He chuckled and was about to respond when—

“Josh!” A surprised feminine voice sounded behind him.

An exquisitely pretty blonde in a violet suit-dress stood stock-still, staring at Vaughn as if he were the very last person she expected to run into in a good and decent world. For his part, Vaughn looked like he’d been smacked across the face with a shovel. He was frozen, his fingers digging into my arm so hard I had to tap my heel against his toes to get his attention. The most fleeting impression of a frown bent his mouth before he released my arm.

“Lydia?” he asked, his face returning slowly from its pasty gray color. His cheeks were flushing now, an angry, bruised red. “What are you doing here?”

It was like watching a social train wreck. I couldn’t look away. Was this the ex-girlfriend? The pod person who had hatched Vaughn fully formed in his perfectly pressed suits?

“Dawn invited me. She said I just had to come up and see the race in person. She thought it would be a good distraction for me. As you can imagine, I haven’t been my usual cheerful self lately.” Lydia gestured over her shoulder to a pretty redhead standing near the bar with a worried expression on her face. I noticed that neither she nor Lydia was wearing the appropriate name tags, meaning they weren’t invited guests. “You remember Dawn, don’t you? She would have been one of my bridesmaids.”

My jaw dropped before I could snap it up with a definitive click of my teeth. Dawn would have been one of her bridesmaids? Meaning there was a canceled wedding? Was this Vaughn’s former fiancée? Had he ditched her at the altar? Should I leave now and let him handle this discreetly? Could I leave? Because at the moment, my feet felt like they were welded to the floor.

“What are you doing here?” The strange tension in Lydia’s voice made it sound like a loaded question, as if he didn’t have the right to be standing here in a nice room with good food when he was supposed to be broke, toothless, and naked in a ditch somewhere.

“Working for the state tourism commission,” he said, his hands flexing open and closed as if he were strangling imaginary nemeses. “Our department helped put all this together.”

It seemed sort of petty to mention that “our department” was me, and he didn’t have anything to do with the planning.

Lydia’s lip curled back at that, but she managed to twist the expression into a bland smile. “Well, you did want to move back here. Not quite the same as working at a private firm, I would imagine. And who’s this?” she asked, eyeing my shoes instead of my face. Sure, they were last spring’s Jimmy Choo kitten heels, but they were also fabulous. So there.

Vaughn cleared his throat and cast me a furtive look. In that moment, I could have left him flapping in the uncomfortable wind. I could have walked away with a spring in my step and let him deal with this deliciously awkward moment with a woman who made him so uncomfortable and angry. If the (fabulous) shoe were on the other foot, I was sure Vaughn would leave me hanging without a second thought. But I was a nicer person than Vaughn. And I had a decided interest in him feeling like he owed me one.

Vaughn cleared his throat again. “This is my . . . my . . .”

“I’m his Sadie,” I said, stretching my hand out for hers.

She shot a very obvious glance toward my ring finger and seemed to relax a bit when she saw that it was bare. “Oh, how nice. How long have you two been together?”

“Just a few weeks,” Vaughn offered. “We met through work.”

“But it feels like so much more time than that,” I told her. “Every day with Josh is like its own eternity.”

Vaughn pulled a face as I smiled blithely. “Aw, honey,” he ground out. “You’re so silly.”

“Silly for you, lamb chop,” I cooed, snuggling against his arm. He pinched my side lightly and I nudged him in the ribs.

The fantastic thing about socialite types is that when their masks slip and those pesky feelings show through, they are intense and very difficult to pass off as facial tics. For a split second, Lydia looked well and truly pissed. I didn’t get the impression that she wanted him back. She just wanted him to suffer.

I wondered if I’d pushed the whole impostor girlfriend thing too far. Vaughn seemed just as unhappy with me as he was with Lydia’s presence. And the way he was gripping my arm didn’t exactly communicate gratitude.

“Well, I’ll just let you get back to work.” Lydia said the word “work” as if it were mildly distasteful.

“Tell your lawyer I said hello,” Josh replied, but there wasn’t any heat in it.

Lydia walked away, her butt swaying with every step. Pretend girlfriend or not, that saunter seemed insulting. I turned to voice my objections to Vaughn, who had flushed an unpleasant shade of eggplant.

“Okay, Vaughn, I realize I may have overstepped back there, but let’s not overreact,” I said, holding my hands up in a defensive position.

“Naw.” He pulled at his tie as if it were trying to strangle him. “It’s okay. I appreciate it. I froze. I never freeze. She just pisses me off something awful. Damn it.”

I was caught off guard by Vaughn’s use of “naw.” His real accent seemed to slip through when he was upset. Normally, he spoke with a clipped midwestern staccato you only heard on news broadcasts. But that “naw” was pure tobacco fields and back roads. I went to high school with guys sporting homemade Dale Earnhardt tattoos whose accents weren’t that pronounced.

I scanned the crowd surrounding us to make sure Josh wasn’t drawing attention. I seriously considered urging him toward the men’s room to hide until the race was over. But he just looked so pale and lost. As indifferent as I was to his overall well-being, I just couldn’t leave him like this.

“Come on,” I said, sighing. I pulled him into an alcove where a giant potted palm shielded us from the rest of the room. Josh braced his hands against his knees and took deep breaths. Sensing turbulence, Kelsey stuck her head into our little oasis, emergency kit in hand. I shook my head and shooed her away before Josh noticed.

He straightened, tugging at his tie and popping the top button of his collar. “That was my ex-girlfriend.”

“So I gathered.” Did he really respond like this every time he ran into an ex-girlfriend? I didn’t get this upset when I ran into “Felony Phil,” who stole my identity on our third date and applied for a mortgage on a chinchilla farm outside Trenton, New Jersey.

Josh seemed to pick up on my disbelief and sighed. “We met through some friends at work. She seemed like such a nice normal girl, even though she came from money. Her family owns a shipping company based in Atlanta, has since the days of horse-drawn buggies. I loved her. And I’d never loved anyone before.

“I had the job, the girl, the nice apartment. It all looked like it was going to work out like some sort of upper-middle-class fairy tale. Lydia was getting ready to graduate from law school and I wanted to plan something special for her. We’d already talked about marriage and she had our wedding planned down to the last corsage, wedding party and all. I just wanted my part of it to be a surprise, you know? I was going to take her out to dinner. We’d show up at the restaurant and all of her friends would be there to surprise her and I would propose right there in front of everybody. I started e-mailing her best friend, Shanna, to ask for advice. You know, where to take her for dinner, who to invite, where to shop for a ring. I was being secretive and I was so excited about what I was doing, I didn’t think about how it might look to someone who didn’t know what was going on.

“Lydia found all of these e-mails and texts I sent to Shanna with references to ‘keeping it quiet’ and ‘making sure Lydia doesn’t find out.’ And she assumed I was sleeping with her best friend. She didn’t scream or cry. She didn’t even talk to me about it. Instead, she wrote this awful letter about what I had supposedly done behind her back. She hired an Internet company, And One Last Thing . . . , to put it in a fancy e-mail format with a skull and crossbones. And then she sent it to all of my contacts from work, my family, my friends, and her family and friends.”

Josh seemed to have forgotten I was there. Or maybe he’d forgotten the identity of the female-shaped person standing next to him. Why else would he be spilling so much information? I could get a lot of mileage from this stuff. And throughout this unburdening his accent became more pronounced, as if the leash he kept it on were loosening with every word.

“It was so humiliating. Lydia’s daddy threatened to hunt me down like a dog. My mother called me, crying hysterically because she just didn’t raise me to be a cheater. Poor Shanna’s fiancé actually broke it off with her before we managed to convince him that Lydia was wrong. I lost some clients, who didn’t appreciate receiving e-mails with ‘My fiancé, Josh Vaughn, is screwing my best friend’ as a subject line. I was lucky I didn’t lose my job. My boss seemed to be caught between being embarrassed for me and being pissed that I let my personal life splash all over the office server. Oh, and Lydia took my credit cards and did a little shopping, to the tune of sixty thousand dollars. I bought her a whole new post-breakup wardrobe, including some crazy expensive lingerie, which I find both offensive and upsetting. That outfit she’s wearing, I probably paid for it. I even paid for the company that formatted and sent the e-mail for her.”

“Good Lord, did you file criminal charges against her?”

He shrugged. “She was an authorized user on the card and technically, it was legal. I took her to civil court, but she could afford a much better lawyer than I could. My credit was completely ruined. I couldn’t make the minimum payments and everything just snowballed. I came back to Kentucky to try to get some control over my life again.”

“Did she apologize when she realized she was wrong?”

Vaughn made an indignant snorting noise. “Oh, hell no. As you can see, she still seems to think she has the right to be angry with me over this. She told me I shouldn’t have gone behind her back in the first place, that if I’d just come up with a proposal on my own instead of asking Shanna for help, there wouldn’t have been a problem. I thought at first that I was okay, you know? I’d dodged a bullet, not marrying into all that crazy. But then I started thinking about our relationship and the life I thought we were going to have and how wrong I’d been about her.” He groaned, tipping his head back against the wall. “It’s not that bad. I’m okay.”

“I hate to be the one to point this out, Vaughn, but she’s reduced you to hiding behind potted greenery.”

“Good point,” he grumbled. “And, considering you’re watching me hyperventilate, do you think you could call me by my first name?”

I nodded. Vaughn—Josh—took a few more deep breaths and I led him out from behind the plant. I stole a glance at Lydia, who was watching us as she sipped a glass of champagne and chatted with the state attorney general. I gave Josh a clearly adoring smile and leaned close to him to say, “Look, you’ve got a few minutes before the main race starts. Why don’t you go outside and get some air? I’ll keep an eye on things in here.”

He nodded, breathing deeply and giving me a shaky smile. And, looking over my shoulder at Lydia one last time, he pressed the barest of kisses against my skin. I felt the strange prickle of flushed cheeks as his lips brushed over my skin.

“Thanks,” he said softly, and he stepped out into the hall.

I stared after him for a long time. While it was a little dramatic, I was impressed with Josh for spilling his guts like that. I wasn’t silly enough to think it meant we were now girlfriends. But at least I got to scrape past the polished exterior and see that he was human after all. I wouldn’t shove him out of a lifeboat, which, considering our brief history, was saying something.

“Are you playing Fashion Police in your head? Because I know I am,” Kelsey murmured behind me. I turned to find that she was taking a break from the welcome table. Kelsey was too busty to get away with the traditional suit. She always ended up looking like a teenager who’d borrowed her mother’s church clothes. Today, she had opted for a dramatic cobalt blue dress instead, the sort of thing a nice girl might have worn to church in the 1940s. Short puffed sleeves, a knee-length paneled skirt, and a cute little bow tied under the gathered bustline. Of course, being Kelsey, she didn’t fasten the top two tiny pearl buttons meant to keep it modest.

“Some of the women in here should learn not to trust salesclerks,” she marveled.

I brushed her thick dark hair over her shoulder. “Meanwhile, I love you dearly, but if you keep bending over to find the participants’ name badges, a certain state senator is going to fall face-first into your cleavage.”

“Well, we work with what we have. Everything okay with Josh?” she asked.

“Yeah, I actually think I’m making some progress with him. He ran into an ex just now and I managed to talk him off the proverbial ledge,” I said, casting a look toward the doors where Josh had just exited. “I don’t think we’re ever going to be super close, but we may be on our way to understanding each other a little better— What the hell?”

Through the double-wide doors, I saw Josh talking to Gina, who wore a robin’s-egg-blue dress that brought out the sun-kissed glow of her skin and her freakishly huge blue eyes. He was laughing, with his head thrown back like he was in a damn pirate movie. His fingers were wrapped around her hand while she stared up at him through her lashes. He looked considerably more relaxed than when he’d stood before me, all pale and panicked and sad. And he seemed to have recovered remarkably quickly.

My jaw dropped and Kelsey quickly turned me so my back was to the rest of the room. Nobody needed to see that expression.

“You took him off your internal ‘people you’d shove out of the lifeboat’ list, didn’t you?” she asked sadly, gently patting my arm.

It took some effort to keep the irritated frown from marring my “party face.” Had he faked that whole thing? His shock and hurt had seemed a bit over the top, but it felt so genuine. For just a moment, I felt like we’d connected like two ordinary people rather than gladiatorial opponents. But he’d miraculously recovered from his mini-breakdown just in time to flirt with Gina? Was this some sort of trick to make me feel sorry for him so I’d lay off the pressure at work and give him a better shot at the promotion? Had he arranged for Rowley to show up too, so I’d be knocked off-balance at one of the biggest events of our year?

Well, this certainly proved that Josh Vaughn was everything I suspected and more. Besides being a great big jackass, he was a very convincing actor. For a minute I’d been fooled into thinking he was a flawed, approachable human being. I vaguely registered bells ringing and an excited hum fluttering through the crowd around me. The guests surged forward, toward the observation deck overlooking the track. The race was starting. And I couldn’t bring myself to even turn toward the track.

I’d felt sorry for him. The . . . jackass.

Behind us, the finish bell rang and screams and hollers echoed triumphantly from the track. Two of the most important minutes of the Kentucky calendar had just gone by and I’d missed them. I didn’t see my horse run. I felt like such an idiot. I was in a neck-and-neck race with my rival for the same job and I thought he would let me see him hyperventilating like a heartbroken sixth-grade girl at her first dance? Really? And honestly, what were the odds that his girlfriend would show up at his very first Derby Day? She was probably a cousin or something.

Josh Vaughn was not to be trusted. I would not fall for his baby blues, the puppy-dog eyes, or any other ophthalmological ploys on his part to make me feel anything but professional contempt. Or at least, I would stop lying to former girlfriends for him.

Kelsey jostled my arm gently. “Sadie, you got that look in your eye.”

“He is back on the list,” I muttered.

Instant Karma, indeed.

In Which I Am Stranded with Ho Hos

5

While my horse barely made it around the track in one piece, Kelsey’s more scientifically chosen entry squeaked out the win by a nose, netting her four hundred dollars. She rewarded her loyal subjects with a twenty-four-pack of Red Bull and a bulk barrel of Skittles.

Ray was pleased with our good behavior at the Derby and even more so when the Columbus-Belmont staff gave us the thumbs-up for our recruitment campaign. Meanwhile, the printer’s deadline for my state fair project was looming. I’d decided on the “Bizarrely Bluegrass” theme: uniquely, charmingly Bluegrass events. But Josh’s constant hammering about my cheerleader tendencies had me doubting the overall look as well as the idea behind my promotional campaign. Which was just freaking irritating. And I was procrastinating, which was completely unlike me.

Josh—Vaughn—whoever he was—was confused when I returned to my cold-shoulder methods after the Derby. He seemed hurt that I would respond to his intimate revelation with more distance. So he reverted to his previous delightful tactics of implying that I was incompetent and ridiculing my ideas in front of the rest of the staff at meetings. But it seemed halfhearted, as if he were doing it out of habit rather than actual disdain.

For my part, I was still in get-even mode over Josh’s mind games at the Derby. But I’d already eliminated several of my best ideas because they could be traced back to me too easily. These included an elaborate scenario in which I had Kelsey intercepting his dry cleaning so I could pull all of the tiny threads out of his perfect pants with a stitch picker.

While the thought of Josh’s pants disintegrating in the middle of an important meeting was beyond entertaining, I decided on more of a psychological torture route. Josh would expect me to attack him with petty girl tricks. He would not expect what was coming.

•   •   •

“How exactly did you convince him to do this?” Kelsey whispered. We sat waiting in a state-issued car while Josh took a restroom break at a McDonald’s a few blocks from our destination in Fort Mitchell.

“I told him there would be several celebrities present,” I told her, slicking a coat of cranberry gloss across my lips and flipping the visor mirror up. “And there will be. Charlie McCarthy is prominently displayed right up front.”

Kelsey clapped her hand over her face. It had taken quite a bit of acting to convince Josh that he should attend the special presentation at the Vent Haven Museum in Fort Mitchell instead of me. I had to pull a reverse Br’er Rabbit on him. As in, “Oh, please, let me go to this super important museum event because it would go a long way in ensuring I meet the right people.” But I had really wanted him to swoop in and take over and arrange to take Kelsey with us as support staff to record the presentation for the commission’s site.

Vent Haven is the world’s only museum dedicated to the history and preservation of the art of ventriloquism. Housed in a private home in Kenton County, the facility boasts a collection of hundreds of dummies, from Edward Bergen’s iconic Charlie McCarthy to more historical specimens, such as the cigarette-smoking “Granny” dummy constructed in the 1850s. Aside from the collection being unique and pretty darn cool, traveling to see it was one of the first long-distance road trips I’d experienced with my grandfather, so it held a special place in my heart.

The museum director had contacted me the month before to say that Jimmy Burkhardt, a comedian who had made quite a name for himself using a mix of stand-up and puppetry, was making a sizable monetary donation to the museum for its upkeep. He was also adding several of his earlier dummies to the museum’s collection, including Jojo the Caveman and Bob the Judgmental Banana. It was a boon for the museum, and presented a wonderful media opportunity to remind visitors about the museum and promote the ConVENTion, the museum’s annual summer gathering of voice-throwing ventriloquists and their pint-size friends. Two birds, one stone, lots of quirk. And since Josh seemed to have trouble with puppets, it was just the right opportunity to introduce him to the other side of Kentucky tourism.

“And how did you describe this to Josh?” Kelsey asked, casually checking her camera settings as Josh made his way across the parking lot, straightening his tie.

“I said it was a museum featuring oral history and hands-on art exhibits,” I said, my lips twitching. “Also, I may have changed the name in his press packet to ‘The Fort Mitchell Vocal Craft Museum’ so he wouldn’t realize where we’re going. I made it sound super complicated and dithered that I just wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to get everything set up. I changed the time on the video team request sheet a few times. I didn’t know if I could handle working with a celebrity, et cetera, et cetera. He finally got so frustrated with me that he said he’d take over. I think, in his head, this is something a director of marketing would do.”

“You’re pure evil,” Kelsey told me. “And I would like to formally file my objections to this plan. It seems a little mean. Usually I like a little mean, but if someone found out about my spider issues and exploited them at work, I wouldn’t rest until I’d pawned everything they ever loved and used the money to pay for my therapy.”

I shrugged, just before Josh opened his car door. “I’m more like ninety percent evil. And I’m noting your objections, while ignoring them.”

Josh stretched his seat belt across his waist as I started the car. All morning he’d been pissy about my driving, making noises about city driving in Atlanta training him for almost any traffic situation. And then I reminded him that the area just across the river from Cincinnati had changed quite a bit since he’d lived in Kentucky and I’d spent more time there. Reluctant to actually say that he didn’t trust my skills behind the wheel (or my willingness to sacrifice his side of the vehicle in an unavoidable collision), he’d grumbled his way into the passenger side.

We pulled out of the parking lot and made our way into the residential area surrounding Maple Avenue. Josh frowned as we passed the respectable one-family homes. “Are you sure about these directions, Kelsey?”

“Yep.” Kelsey’s lips popped on the p sound just as she cracked her gum.

Josh looked vaguely annoyed, though I don’t know whether it was due to Kelsey’s oral pyrotechnics or because he seemed to think we were in the wrong place. I turned in to the museum’s parking lot and the color drained out of Josh’s face.

“Hey, why does that sign say ‘Vent Haven Museum’?” Josh asked, an edge of panic creeping into his voice. He tugged at his tie, which I was starting to recognize as his tell that he was uncomfortable and upset. A tiny bit of guilt tugged at my conscience, but then I remembered how he’d manipulated me at the Derby party. He’d managed to make me feel sorry for him. He’d given me hope that we might be able to put the hostilities behind us and build some sort of friendship. He had this coming. If he wanted to fight dirty, I would fight downright filthy. It wasn’t my fault that I didn’t have any exploitable phobias.

“I’m not sure,” I said blithely. “But we’re in the right spot. We should probably get inside, the presentation is starting in about thirty minutes.”

Josh was distinctly uneasy as we hustled up to the entrance of the main building.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he stammered. “What—what is this place? Mother of—” He yelped as a display came into view, showing examples of early jointed dummies, or “vents,” that looked like a collection of dismembered limbs. Even I found that to be a little off-putting, and I had no problem with dummies. A leering clay-brown head with manically wide eyes and a super-wide grin stretching its top lip demonstrated the exaggerated features found on most vents, allowing the dummies to emote to the back row of the audience if necessary.

“I read somewhere that the overdone faces communicate the appropriate emotions to the audience, but up close, they make people uneasy,” I said casually, picking through the brochures by the front desk and tucking one into my bag for future reference. I smiled at Josh, even though the cross-sectioned plaster dummy head that showed the inner works and how a ventriloquist moved the dummy’s eyes was a bit unnerving. “Then again, it’s almost impossible to create an effective dummy without them.”

Kelsey was so fascinated by the exhibits that she broke out the camera and started filming B-roll shots of the interior.

“Did you know the last stop on the tour is a big room with dozens of vents all lined up in rows of chairs, arranged in order of who made them? They call it ‘the schoolroom,’ ” she said.

Josh shuddered and turned an even pastier shade of eggshell.

“It’s kind of crazy how much entertainment history is represented in this building. Vaudeville, early TV, cartoons.” She paused, grinning excitedly. “They have this one dummy, Woody DeForest—which is pretty damn funny if you ask me—that belonged to Don Messick. Messick was a voice actor who did the voices for Scooby Doo and Papa Smurf and a bunch of other Hanna-Barbera staples. So if we go by six degrees of separation, we are that much closer to knowing my all-time hero!”

“Okay, I don’t think you can call a cartoon character your hero,” I told her. “Also, I don’t understand why you would pick Daphne as your hero when Velma is clearly the superior choice.”

“Oh, it’s easy to like Velma.” Kelsey sniffed. “Daphne’s genius was covert and misunderstood.”

Josh wheezed, pulling at his collar. “Could you two stop talking for just a minute?”

“Oh, wow, look at this!” I held up a disembodied baby-doll-style head on a stick that demonstrated how pulling the lever hidden inside a dummy’s body made the jaw move up and down and moved the eyelids. Josh recoiled, stumbling back into the wall as he glared at the pair of us with a combination of wrath and pleading. That tiny tug of conscience came niggling back at the corner of my brain, but I ignored it.

“I thought this was a vocal arts museum,” Josh hissed, tugging at his blue paisley tie to the point that it was slipping free of his collar.

“Ventriloquism is a vocal art,” I insisted brightly. It was disturbing how innocent and guileless I could make my voice sound when I wanted to. It really was.

“Turn that damn camera off, Kelsey, I mean it,” he said, yanking at his tie full-force now.

“Okay, okay,” she said, hitting the power button with a decisive snap. She shot me a significant look, which I blithely ignored.

“Are you all right, Josh?” I asked sweetly.

“Fine, fine,” he muttered as sweat popped up on his brow. “Let’s just get on with this.”

We wandered deeper into the museum in search of the director. Having toured the museum before, I intentionally wandered a little until I found the main collection room: rows upon rows of dummies, each more sinister-looking than the last to the dummy-phobic eye, sitting on their pristine white display cubes as if waiting patiently for their cue to enter stage left. There were vents of every size and age—fluffy animals; cheerful boys; cranky grandpas; and sweet-cheeked, nonsmoking grannies.

Josh froze in his tracks. “I’m going to need to leave now.”

Okay, maybe Kelsey was right. Josh was so pale now that his face was the color of skim milk and his pupils were so wide there was hardly any color in his eyes at all. I chuckled uncomfortably and patted his arm. “Oh, come on, what’s scary about a sweet little puppet? Even kids love puppets.”

“Not all kids,” he wheezed. Just behind him, I saw someone from the museum staff carrying the Jojo the Caveman dummy, a bulgy, hunched male character with bushy red eyebrows and a scraggly beard. I started to call out a warning, but Josh had already turned toward Jojo. He let out a hoarse shriek, like the bark of a sea lion, and collapsed. The back of his head hit the floor with a dull, sickening thud.

The museum staffer let out a shriek of her own and called for the director. Kelsey shot me a scathing look, different now because she actually meant it. I frowned, biting my lip as I considered how much trouble I could be in if Josh had actually injured himself when he fell—beyond the obvious damage to his well-crafted hair. “Okay, maybe I was a little overzealous this time,” I admitted.

•   •   •

Though his head had bounced off the floor pretty good when he landed, Josh refused an ambulance. He did accept the director’s offer to rest in her office while we conducted the check ceremony. Kelsey got great footage for the Web site. Joe Burkhardt was charming and funny, using several voices and throwing them around the room to make his remarks about the museum’s importance in preserving ventriloquism’s legacy. The museum staff expressed their gratitude by making a special cave diorama for displaying Jojo the Caveman. It was marketing gold. But I couldn’t concentrate on any of it because I was worried about Josh and his bruised noggin.

The good news was that he refused to admit he had passed out due to fear of dummies. He said he had a “blood sugar drop,” which was fine with me. I couldn’t be blamed for a blood sugar drop. We loaded him into the car and drove home in silent deference to his headache. We took him to his apartment in Capital Towers, one of the newer McApartment buildings in the center of town, low on both personality and square footage.

I was a bit shocked that a status-conscious guy like Josh would live in a haven for newly divorced men and recent evictees from their mothers’ basements. I wondered if his story about Lydia and her supposed credit card rampage could be true after all, and if this was all he could afford. What if I’d been wrong at the Derby and he really was a flawed, approachable human being?

That just made me feel worse about the whole dented-skull thing.

Josh refused our help getting into the elevator, saying he would see us at work. Kelsey snatched the car keys out of my hands and held them out of my reach. “We’re going to talk and you are really going to listen to me. Because this isn’t coming from Kelsey, your awesome assistant who knows and sees all, but Kelsey, your friend, who cares about you as a person and the overall condition of your soul. You are heading down a very dangerous path, Sadie. If this promotion was the One Ring, you would be Gollum. If it was a white whale, you would be Ahab. If it was the Iron Throne, I’m pretty sure you would be a Lannister, and nothing good ever happens to a Lannister.”

“Get to the point, Kels.”

“Look, at first, messing with Captain Cheekbones was fun, but the distraction is starting to affect our performance at work. And I know you don’t want that. I know Josh can be annoying and snotty sometimes, but he’s also our potential boss. Or at least, my potential boss. He could have really hurt himself today, Sadie, whacking his head like that. And it would have been entirely our fault.”

“I know,” I admitted. “I didn’t mean for him to concuss himself. I just wanted to scare him a little.”

“Well, cut it out. It used to be fun to come to work, but now it’s just sort of stressful. I know, deep down, that’s not what you want. You’re both working toward the same goal. Can’t you just suck it up and act like grown-ups for a little while?”

“I’ll think about it,” I grumbled. “And I do feel bad, Kelsey, really. The way he dropped like a sack of wet concrete drove home the whole ‘Josh is, in fact, human’ point. That and seeing his apartment building, which was plain sad.”

“An apology, which Josh richly deserves, would be a good place to start.”

I snatched the keys out of her hands. “I said I would think about it.”

•   •   •

Apparently I did not think quickly enough. The next time I saw Josh, he was perfectly friendly. We swapped objectionable salad ingredients at a working lunch because Josh couldn’t stand avocado and I hated black olives almost as much as I hated C.J. Rowley. He even joked with me about the brochure I was printing about the “Unique Museums of Kentucky.” There was no hint that I’d sent him into the mouth of a dummy-phobe’s version of hell. And because he was pretending the whole thing had never happened, I decided to do the same and skip apologizing. I rationalized the potential apology away as being a painful reminder of Josh’s dummy trauma.

I was aware it was a stretch.

That wasn’t soul-cleansing enough for Kelsey, who enforced her own brand of office justice the following week. We had stayed late, going over the copy I’d planned to use on the travel guide sample pages for the state fair campaign. It was good, if I did say so myself, but a little generic. I needed to hone it to fit with my concept, which I hadn’t nailed down 100 percent yet. Meanwhile, Kelsey was threatening to nail my fingers down 100 percent if I didn’t make a damn decision on my opening paragraph.

“Just another hour, Kels, I promise.”

“So you told me,” Kelsey muttered. “About an hour ago.”

“I have peanut butter M&Ms in my office,” I singsonged.

“You’ve had peanut butter M&Ms in your office all this time and didn’t mention it? You are really pushing it, woman.”

“I’ll go get them.” I sighed, rising from my chair.

“And we’re out of the good red pens,” Kelsey called as I reached the hallway. “While you’re out there, can you grab another box from the supply closet?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Since the supply closet was all the way at the other end of the office, I stopped there first. After an incident involving an intern selling our printer cartridges on eBay, we kept the supply closets locked. Ray, Kelsey, Josh, and I were the only ones with keys for our department’s supplies. I pulled my key from my jacket pocket, put it in the lock, and heard, “Hey! Hey! I’m in here!”

“What the— Josh?” I called. “What are you doing in the supply closet?”

I opened the door and wham! I was shoved unceremoniously into the darkened closet, stumbling into a bulky figure.

“No!” Josh yelled, bumping me to a wall in his haste to get to the door. “Don’t let the door close!”

I turned just in time to see Kelsey’s face grinning from the light of the hallway. “You two have fun!” And then she slammed the door.

Josh battered his fists against the door as I yelled, “Kelsey, what are you doing?”

“You’re taking too long fixing your working relationship with Josh. So I thought I would help the process along.”

“I told you I would think about it!” I exclaimed.

“Not good enough,” Kelsey yelled. “Work it out.”

“Kelsey, open this damn door, right now!” Josh yelled. “This is illegal and insane!”

“You’ll be fine. There’s water, a bottle of vodka, PB&Js, and some Ho Hos in the top drawer of the spare filing cabinet.”

I reached behind said five-drawer filing cabinet and flipped the light switch. (Ray didn’t quite think it through when he moved the cabinet in there.) Blinking rapidly against the intrusive light, I saw that Josh had tossed off his tie and opened the top two buttons of his shirt collar. His light blue shirt was damp with sweat. He tore open the top drawer of the cabinet and rummaged around until he found a large bottle of water. He glugged down a good portion of it before he came up for air. Which reminded me: “But what if we have to go to the bathroom?”

“There’s a bucket in the corner,” came her muffled reply.

“I’m going to kill you, Kelsey!”

“No, you aren’t!” she cackled. “You’ll thank me later, I promise. Now, I am wedging a chair underneath the doorknob. It’s six o’clock. I am going out for a steak and a very large vodka-based drink. I’ll come back around midnight to check on your progress. If you two can’t find some common ground and agree to work together like a big boy and girl, I’ll leave you here overnight.”

“Kelsey!” we cried together, banging our fists against the door.

“What is wrong with you people?” Josh yelled, kicking the metal door. “I just want to come to work every day. I did not sign on for this! Dummies and getting trapped in dark rooms with crazy women! I just want to work like a normal person!”

Josh slumped against the door and slid down, coming to rest on the carpet. He looked up at me, making huge anime eyes that reminded me of a blue-eyed basset hound. “Why didn’t I just take that nice safe job at that nuclear testing facility in an undisclosed location? I could have learned to live with the end-of-the-workday strip searches.”

“I take it that you don’t have a cell phone with you?” I asked. He shook his head. “Me neither. How long have you been in here?”

“Over an hour.” He sighed, drinking more of the water. “Right before quitting time, Kelsey asked me to help her move a ream of copy paper and next thing I knew, wham! I’m in the closet. I guess everybody left for the day without checking the supply closet to see if their colleagues were being held captive inside.”

“Damn unreasonable of them,” I agreed. “Hey, take it easy on the water. I do not relish the idea of hearing you pee into a plastic mop bucket.”

I plopped down on a few boxes of copy paper and tried to sit as primly as I could in a skirt and heels. Josh relinquished the bottle and wiped his sleeve across his brow. “Sorry, it’s just that I couldn’t find the switch. And I didn’t know any of Kelsey’s ‘supplies’ were in here. I’ve been sitting in the dark, without any idea whether I’d be let out.”

“I’m sorry. I knew I shouldn’t have threatened to lock Kelsey in the closet with Charlie. It gave her ideas. I am a bad influence.”

“Frankly, when I first got shoved in here, I assumed you’d put Kelsey up to it,” he said, eyeing the vodka bottle with heavy consideration.

“What!” I cried. “That’s mean. My shenanigans are charming and slightly exasperating. This is like something out of a serial-killer movie. We’re lucky Kelsey isn’t throwing a lotion bottle at us and screaming about getting the hose again.”

“Your ability to find the silver lining is incredibly disturbing. And need I remind you that your last ‘shenanigan’ nearly gave me a concussion?” he asked, sternly.

“I didn’t know you were going to faint!” I cried.

“But you knew something was going to happen, otherwise you wouldn’t have ambushed me like that. Do you have any idea what it was like, being trapped in that place, trying to put on a brave face for the sake of not humiliating myself in a work situation?”

I pursed my lips, trying to find the right words without incriminating myself, just in case Kelsey had a camera hidden somewhere. “No. I am sorry. It was wrong to do that to you and I appreciate that you didn’t go running to Ray to tell on me. Did you hear that, Kelsey? I said I was sorry!” I yelled, in the hope that she was still lingering in the hallway. No such luck.

Grumbling, I stood and pulled the vodka out of the cabinet and cracked it open as Josh said, “I thought at the Derby that we had some sort of moment when you scraped my frantic ass off the floor and kept me from humiliating myself in front of my psycho ex. I thought we’d reached a sort of ceasefire.”

I took a long, gulping drink from the vodka bottle. Josh pulled a face. “Good God, straight from the bottle? Really?”

I gestured to the small space. “Closet.”

He rolled his eyes, but snagged the bottle from me and took his own, much smaller, dose of vitamin V. Wincing, he practically whispered, “Anyway, we had what I thought was an important moment, and then you went right back to cold-shouldering me, before sending me into that hell-den of dummies. I don’t get it.”

And I was suddenly uncomfortable with the emotional and physical proximity in what felt like a tiny prison cell filled with Hammermill products. Josh sounded genuinely hurt. I sighed, taking another drink. Fine; if we were going to do this now, trapped in a supply closet, hovering around a bottle of Stolichnaya, all cards were going on the table. “I saw you, Josh.”

Josh handed me one of the less squished PB&Js and sat down, cross-legged. “Saw me what?”

“I saw you right after your little scene, talking to Gina in the hallway, laughing your ass off. Somehow, you managed to snap right out of your little panic episode and go back into charming mode with Boobs McGee.” He gave me a look so blank, I wondered if he’d hit his head again. “Look, we’re competing for a job, and I understand that we’re in a bit of a theatrical profession, but there’s no reason to play insane mind games with me. Was that even your ex? Or was it some actress you hired to make me feel sorry for you?”

“No, I wouldn’t do something like that! That’s almost as creepy and ridiculous as sending an automatonophobe to a museum packed with ventriloquist dummies!”

Now it was my turn for a blank look.

“It means ‘fear of human figures.’ It’s a real thing!” he exclaimed when I started to laugh.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.” I giggled. “But I’m gonna.”

“Jerk.” He tossed a Ho Ho at me. “As far as me recovering too quickly in the hall, what was I supposed to do when Gina talked to me? Burst into tears right there in front of her? I sucked it up and put on a brave face. Maybe if your feelings were hurt or you had a question about the way I was speaking to a coworker—someone who has treated me considerably better than you have, by the way—you could have brought it up to me, instead of ignoring me and taking petty dummy-based revenge.”

“Damn it, I wish that didn’t sound so reasonable,” I grumbled, picking at my sandwich.

“And for the record, that was my ex, okay? Seeing her really did send me into a tailspin. And apparently sent her into one too, judging by the e-mails she’s been sending me. She didn’t like that you called yourself ‘my’ Sadie and keeps writing to make sure we aren’t ‘serious.’ So thanks for that. Derby Day was the first time I’d seen her since a rather unpleasant ‘No, I didn’t cheat on you, but I am breaking up with you anyway because you’re freaking crazy’ conversation in which she threw a really heavy brass paperweight at my head. And seeing her again made me realize a couple of things.”

I slid into a sitting position across from him, taking another drink from the Stoli bottle. “Wait, wait, is this going to be another woeful story that makes me feel sorry for you, and then I end up getting pissed at you, bringing out my stabby instincts?”

“First of all, ‘stabby’ isn’t a word,” he told me, pointing a finger in my face. I batted it out of the way. Why was he touching me so much? Why was I giggling so damn much? Maybe drinking the vodka wasn’t such a great idea after all.

I handed him the bottle.

“There are other things,” he said, hesitantly. “Things about you that are clearly very different from Lydia.”

I snorted. “I would hope so.”

“I misjudged you, a couple of times. When I first saw you at the McBrides’, it was like this instant recognition. I had been so closed off for such a long time, but you, you looked so open. Even if it meant showing that you were anxious to the point of throwing up. And I liked that about you, that you were willing to just let those emotions hang free and you weren’t worried who saw. Smiling and really flirting with you, instead of ‘being charming because I have to’ flirting? That was more than I’d been capable of in months, as far as talking to a woman. And then you found out who I was, and you brought those shields up so quickly. And then you were downright hostile. I guess I was tired of being jerked around by women who ran hot and cold. And I saw you as standing between me and the life I was trying to rebuild, which sort of lumped you together with my ex in my mind. And I may have taken some of that frustration out on you.”

“Your logic is very twisty.”

“I didn’t say it was healthy,” he acknowledged. “The good news is I think I’ve worked through being so angry at her. Between lashing out at you—sorry—and seeing Lydia at the Derby, I think I’ve got closure. She’s not the mythical she-beast I’d built up in my head. I mean, she’s an awful person and I don’t want to be anywhere near her. But she’s lonely and sad, and the bomb she dropped in the middle of my life didn’t exactly work the way she’d hoped. At least I can walk away from this with my head held high. Yeah, it’s embarrassing, but at least she was wrong. And she did me a favor, saving me from proposing.

“I was wrong,” he admitted. “I was wrong to judge you so quickly and to take my anger out on you.”

“I’m glad I could help, I think?” I unwrapped the Ho Ho and sank my teeth into chocolaty, spongy goodness, which had a considerably nicer aftertaste than the vodka.

“You know, it occurs to me that I don’t know anything about you,” he said, chewing on his sandwich. “I mean, you clearly looked into my background, but all I know about you is that you have a deep, almost unnatural love for your home state.”

“Actually, I wasn’t born here. My mom died when I was ten and I moved here from Michigan to live with my grandparents.”

He winced. “See, that’s something I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t talk about it much,” I assured him. “My grandparents were really wonderful people. But they weren’t sure what to do with me when I came to live with them. I mean, they were almost sixty and raising a kid again. And I was pretty quiet and withdrawn. Gran insisted that Grandpa spend bonding time with me, like he did with my cousins. When Grandpa asked how he should arrange the tea party for my teddy bears, and she realized he wasn’t just being his usual sarcastic self, she told him to take me to the tribal burial mounds at Wickliffe.”

“Isn’t that how Stephen King stories start?” he asked, grinning cheekily.

I smacked his shoulder, making him wince. “It’s a state park near the Illinois state line. History had always been one of my best subjects in school, so I was running around this place like it was Chuck E. Cheese’s. They have all of these little buildings housing half-exposed burial mounds that ancient tribes used to bury their dead on the riverbank. It brought me right out of my shell. I came alive. I asked questions. I came up with elaborate justifications for why burial mounds should still be used today. Grandpa was a little disturbed by my being so fascinated by ancient Native American death traditions. But he was just glad I was talking. Every weekend we could get away, we would visit some museum or state park. We traded weird random facts we’d learned from Reader’s Digest or the newspaper’s ‘Did You Know?’ section. When we ran out of historical locations, we started on the odd roadside attractions—Mammoth Cave, Big Mike’s Mystery House, Tombstone Junction. Every once in a while, we let my grandma come with us.”

“And do your grandparents still live in Wickliffe?”

I chuckled, thinking of my grandparents’ snug little house on the outskirts of town. Coming from a large northern city where I didn’t know my next-door neighbors, much less the name of my mailman or the local funeral-home director, I loved the sense of community and continuity I’d found in Ballard County. It was reassuring that my high school math teacher had taught my mother in the very same classroom twenty years before. And I liked knowing that if I went to the church potluck with my grandparents, Mrs. Hopkins would provide her famous Coca-Cola fudge cake, and she would save me a corner piece because she thought I was a much nicer teenager than her “god-awful” grandkids.

Mrs. Hopkins eventually forgave me for selling my grandparents’ house to one of those god-awful grandkids, which meant she had to see him regularly.

That’s when I realized that I hadn’t answered Josh’s question and I was just staring off into space with a weird smile on my face. “Um, Gran died of breast cancer right after I graduated from college.” I tipped my head against the wall, willing myself not to sound maudlin or pathetic, but it was difficult with liquor in my system. “Grandpa retired and opened up a bait shop with a couple of his cop buddies at Lake Barkley. But he had a heart attack about two years ago and passed away.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. And, given the soft tone of his voice, I actually believed him.

“They had a good life together, and one wouldn’t have wanted to live very long without the other.

“My cousins, Guy and Jake, are the only family I have left. They’re married and have kids of their own, so they’re pretty busy. I see them sometimes on holidays, and that’s pretty much it. It helps, having Ray and Kelsey, and the rest of my ‘office family.’ Ray’s wife makes sure I get a homemade birthday cake every year. Melody invites me to holidays with her bizarre family, which actually makes me feel a little better about not having many relatives. Our coworkers really helped me pull through when Grandpa died.”

I sagged against the wall, feeling lighter and hollowed out from my confession. Josh wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side and protecting my back from the unforgiving Sheetrock. It showed a level of consideration I was sure I didn’t deserve. Josh wasn’t so bad, I supposed, when it came down to it. So much of my dislike of him had boiled down to insecurities and resentment. And as far as the Lord Gel-demort thing went, well, okay, so he was well groomed. But he’d started his career in a big city where designer labels and putting the man in manicure were important. We’d started off on the wrong foot, and while his attitude hadn’t been great, the majority of the tension was the result of my antagonizing him. I pushed and he pushed back.

Now if we could just push the damn closet door open and get out of here, I could tell Kelsey I’d learned my lesson. And then beat her, severely.

“So this whole rabid devotion for all things Kentucky isn’t an act, is it?” he asked.

“I think ‘rabid’ is a bit unfair,” I retorted. “But yeah. When you don’t know what it’s like to have a home and you find one, you get a little enthusiastic.”

“But there have to be things about living here that even you don’t like, like bluegrass music. You can’t possibly like bluegrass music, right? Or when you drive home from work, are you cranking up the Jean Ritchie and rocking it out?”

“No,” I scoffed. “I really, really dislike it. Okay? But I don’t have to like everything about my state. For instance, I’m not a big fan of KFC, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to smile and sing the extra-crispy recipe’s praises should it ever come up in conversation while we’re promoting what’s great about Kentucky.”

He grinned broadly, cursed blue eyes all a-twinkle. “Oh my God, are you recording me right now?” I demanded, scooching away into a kneeling position and jabbing him in the chest with my finger. “Are you going to use this rant as blackmail material when selling me out to the fast-food cartels?”

He grabbed my hand to prevent further poking. “No, you paranoid freak, I just love watching you get all passionate in your defense of fried chicken. Isn’t it exhausting, being this wound up over everything?”

“A little,” I admitted. “Isn’t it boring not getting wound up about anything? That’s what scares me about you. You don’t even care! You don’t care about this job. You’re going to take the contacts you make here with companies like Delacour and use them to open some soulless marketing temple to your alpha-male awesomeness.”

God. Damn. Vodka. And its ability to melt my already compromised verbal filters.

“Oh, come on.” He pulled on my wrist, dragging me toward him in an off-balance crouch. “You’re always saying crap like that about my work. Why don’t you take me seriously? I had to have some skills for the commissioner to bring me in to take over your job.”

I glared down at him, more than a little irritated that the conversation had taken this turn after we seemed to be making some progress. “I don’t take you seriously because you say things like that. Oh, and because you shoot me ‘Blue Steel’ every time you think I’m looking at you.”

“I do not do ‘Blue Steel’!” he exclaimed, the slightest tint of red creeping into his cheeks, as I had basically accused him of unironic Derek Zoolander impersonations. I gave him my best skeptical “nonmodel” expression. “Okay, it’s a little bit of a pose. But you don’t make it easy on me, you know. Do you know what it’s like coming into an office where you’re supposed to be replacing someone that nearly everybody loves?”

“Nearly everybody?”

“Theresa,” he noted. “And Gina.”

“Dang it,” I groused.

“The secretarial pool hates me and I think Melody may be misdirecting my faxes to Bangladesh. I’m still not entirely sure that Kelsey isn’t the one removing the screws from my office furniture. Every time I sit down, my chair falls apart in a different way.”

I stretched my legs out and bit down on my lip to prevent a laugh from escaping. I’d seen Kelsey carrying an Allen wrench into Josh’s office a few times before her declaration of ceasefire, but I’d had no clue what she was up to.

“You do good work,” he told me. “It’s visually interesting and funny and memorable. We have different styles, that’s all. And mine happens to appeal to a broader audience.”

“Thanks.” I sighed. “And your work is . . . classically beautiful. And if I were interested in taking a tour of every distillery and winery in Kentucky, I’m sure your campaign would be what convinced me to do it.”

Josh snickered. “That was physically painful for you, wasn’t it?”

I nodded, pressing my lips together. “Yes, it was.”

“So you think I’m an alpha male?” He nudged me in the ribs, smirking at me.

“You have your Greek letters tattooed somewhere on your body, don’t you?”

He grinned and rolled down his sock to show me his frat’s insignia on his ankle. “I knew it!” I cried.

“I was young and stupid . . . and drunk. So drunk.”

“Was the butterfly tramp stamp unavailable?”

“Hey! I thought we were playing nice,” he said, nudging me again.

“Sorry,” I said, hastily adding, “dude.”

A lovely, silent moment passed, allowing me to close my eyes and appreciate the warmth radiating from Josh’s body and the swimmy vodka-soaked feeling in my head.

“Can I ask you a serious question?” I asked.

He snorted. “Are we asking any other kind tonight?”

“Why did you move back here when your life imploded?”

“It’s a fair question.” He shrugged. “I wanted to come back to what was familiar. I wanted to be near my family, and away from all of my business contacts that had received that damn e-mail. It’s a lot cheaper to live here than in a major city. Even in a place like Louisville, the cost of living is a lot more reasonable. I could buy a house here for what would maybe get me a room in a nice duplex in Atlanta . . . with four roommates.”

“Got it.”

“And a shared bathroom,” he added.

“I got it,” I said again.

“Do you have any idea what a bunch of guys can do to a shared bathroom?”

“I got it,” I repeated, smacking his arm.

“Ow,” he grumbled. “I don’t know what hurts more, your fists or your firm grasp of sarcasm.”

I frowned, feeling more than a little guilty for how I’d been treating Josh. Yes, I’d been angry about his being hired, but it wasn’t his fault that he’d derailed me. It hadn’t been intentional, at first. There was plenty to like about him. He was an interesting guy. He was a good listener. He made me laugh, sometimes with him, sometimes at him. Now that I could see something beyond the slick, irritating exterior, I was much more comfortable talking to him. And despite said slick, irritating exterior, there was something very decent about him. When he wasn’t trying to annoy the living hell out of me. Which wasn’t often.

I had to stop thinking in sentence fragments.

“I’m sorry. I’m so tired of this,” I said, sighing and laying my head on his shoulder. “I can’t keep up. I mean, we’re both working toward the same thing, right? At this point, I’m more concerned about losing the job I have than about not getting the promotion. I mean, this is not the way grown-up professional people behave.”

“You mean you give up? We’re calling a truce?”

“Not on the competition,” I insisted. “Just the sabotage. I think we can both admit that it’s not exactly inspiring us to do our best work when we’re so worried about what the other is doing that we’re not concentrating. Just imagine what we could come up with if we were actually doing our jobs.”

“It’s a crazy theory, but it just might work,” he said, stretching his hand out to me. “Normal, professional interactions from here on out, I promise.”

His hand felt so warm and pleasantly heavy against my own. I could practically feel the ridges of his fingerprints against my skin. “Same here. And don’t worry, I’m pretty sure Kelsey stopped unscrewing your furniture a while ago.”

“I knew it!”

In Which I Learn New and Disturbing Acronyms

6

After outlining some basic tenets of our treaty—no more insults at meetings; try to heal the rift in the office; use words, not psychological violence—we abandoned the angsty background conversations in favor of small talk. Favorite restaurants, college stories, worst jobs. (Josh worked maintenance at an indoor flea market. I waitressed the late shift at an off-brand Waffle House.) And of course, we debated the merits of the Cardinals’ versus the Wildcats’ offensive lineups, but we managed to keep it surprisingly civil.

We ate the Ho Hos and the sandwiches, drained both bottles of water. We rejected more vodka for fear that our coworkers would find us passed out drunk in the supply closet the next morning. I rummaged through the other drawers in the filing cabinet to see if Kelsey had left us additional goodies. But the remaining drawers were filled to the brim with heavy reams of paper.

“What the . . . ?” There was no reason for the paper to be stored in the filing cabinet. We stored paper on the shelves against the wall. I opened the bottom drawer and found a note in Kelsey’s bold block print. Everything you need to get out is in this room.

“I’m going to fricking kill Kelsey,” I said with a sigh, thunking my head against the side of the cabinet. “Ow.”

Her wording sounded familiar, even through the slightly muddled, vodka-damp workings of my brain. I swiped my hand over my face and tried to remember where I’d heard it before.

“Are you concentrating or are you having an aneurism?” Josh asked.

“Shh.” I held up one finger.

“Seriously, are you okay? That looks painful.”

I reached out and pinched his lips shut. “Thass weally wude,” he slurred.

“Damn it, Kelsey, I hate you!” I groaned. I bent down and pulled out the bottom drawer as far as it would go. “Two years ago, Ray arranged for us to do one of those low-altitude ropes courses as a staff bonding exercise. Swing bridges, zip lines, climbing walls, that sort of thing.” I pulled out the next drawer almost as much. “One of the last exercises was this smooth wooden wall that we had to climb over as a team, set up in the middle of a big sandy pit.” I pulled out the next drawer a little less; and so on and so on until all five drawers formed a sort of stepladder to the tiled ceiling. “The instructor told us, ‘Everything you need to get every person over this wall is in this circle of sand.’ ”

I kicked off my heels and tentatively stepped into the bottom drawer. “We tried everything to get over that damn wall. We tried pushing one person up to the top and having them pull everybody else up. But it was too tall. We tried forming some sort of human pyramid, but we were out of practice with our cheerleading skills.” I shot him a significant look. He snorted and gave me a steadying hand while I walked up the “stairs.”

“Kelsey got frustrated with the jackassery of it all and plopped down on one of the stumps that the instructor used for seating while he led us through the rules of the exercise. Kelsey was the only one to notice that the stumps were arranged in tiered heights inside the circle. She figured out that if we stacked the stumps into stairs, we could prop each other up and get over the wall.” I stood on top of the filing cabinet with a very worried Josh circling under me like a mama hen. The ceiling tile over my head slid out of place easily and I prayed I wouldn’t see anything gross when I put my head through the hole in the dropped ceiling. “She declared herself the stair-step genius and never lets us forget that we’d still be stuck at that wall if not for her. I can see her shoving those reams of paper into the cabinet to make it a stable enough base to climb.”

“Maybe I should climb up. I’ve had less to drink,” he said.

“I’m fine, really, but thanks for . . .” I glanced down to see that Josh didn’t look quite so worried anymore. He did, however, look very appreciative of my legs and whatever else he could see from that angle. “Hey!”

“What?” He threw up his hands. “How am I possibly not supposed to look in this scenario?”

“So you’re a perv when it’s convenient.” I pushed up through the hole and very gently settled my weight on the metal grid that supported the tiles.

“Okay, so you’re up there, now what?” he called as I carefully crawled through the ceiling space. “Are you going to pull me up?”

“I don’t think the ceiling will support us both,” I yelled back, crawling over the wall struts and sliding a tile out of the way. The drop down to the floor seemed far more intimidating than the climb up. And I couldn’t help but notice Kelsey had helpfully left my purse and keys just outside the door.

“So much trouble,” I grumbled, gripping the metal support outside of the hole I’d made. I took a few deep breaths, held on tight, and let myself drop through the hole. “Yipe!”

I fell unceremoniously to the carpet, balancing on the balls of my feet for just a moment before crashing down on my butt. I lay there for a second and let the world tilt back into place. “Ow.”

“Sadie?” Josh yelled. “Are you okay?”

“I did not stick the landing,” I called back, eyeing the security camera mounted on the wall ten feet away. “But I am going to have to pay off Leonard the security guy to make sure that footage doesn’t make it to YouTube.”

“You are going to let me out, right?”

I waited for a long moment, jangling the keys loud enough that he could hear them.

“Oh, come on!” he shouted.

“I’m just kidding, jeez!” I unlocked the door and Josh came tumbling out. He plowed into me, nearly bowling me over, but his quick hands shot around my waist and caught me, dangling me in a precarious dip.

“Sorry,” he said, not moving from our Fred-and-Ginger position. “Thank you for climbing through the ceiling for me.”

My fingers curled around the collar of his shirt to help me stay balanced. He was so very close. I could feel his breath against my lips. His nose was practically nudging my own. “You’re welcome.”

Those soft-looking lips curled upward as he bent his head toward me. I felt the barest brush of his mouth over mine and pressed forward, capturing his lips. He moaned softly, the sound traveling from my mouth to my throat and thrumming through my chest. I clutched his shoulders tighter, pulling him to me as he kissed along the line of my jaw.

When I turned my head, I opened my eyes and realized the security camera had a very nice shot of the two of us making out like it was Times Square on V-J Day. “Josh?”

“Mmm?” he murmured as he took possession of my bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth.

“Josh?” I whispered again. “Security camera.”

He gasped, looking up at the camera with a quick, guilty expression. His hands slipped from my waist and before I could catch myself, I dropped like a rock.

“Oof!” I cried as I hit the carpet. “Ow. Again.”

“There seems to be a theme here,” he said as we collected the evidence of our campout from the closet. “I think I should drive you home.”

“I can crawl through the ceiling, but you don’t trust me to drive?”

“Would you rather see a headline reading, ‘State Employee Caught Driving Home from Work Drunk’?”

“Good point,” I admitted. “But first, we have to do something.” I retrieved a Swiss Army knife from the bottom of my purse and pulled out an assortment of Allen wrenches. “Kelsey’s desk will never be right again.”

Josh pulled my purse open and peered inside. “What all do you have in there?”

•   •   •

I guess team-building exercises do work, I mused as Josh drove me home in his impeccably clean pickup. I hadn’t expected him to drive anything as simple as a Toyota, but there was a production plant just outside Georgetown and driving one was considered a gesture of support for the state. The man was an evil genius.

I lived in a quiet corner of suburbia outside of Frankfort, mostly duplexes and modest single-family homes. It had taken me years to save up enough to purchase my part of a duplex, and it was my pride and joy. I was never so glad to see it as when Josh parked his truck in the driveway. Aside from feeling sort of hollowed out by all of the emotional disclosure, I was tired and coated in a thin layer of dried sweat and ceiling dust. I wanted a shower, and some ice cream, and then maybe another shower.

There was this awkward moment in my driveway when neither of us knew what to say. Bad, ill-fated ideas about inviting Josh in for “coffee” started bubbling in a corner of my brain. I’d enjoyed talking to him, enjoyed the hell out of kissing him, and I was afraid that whatever progress we’d made would evaporate by morning. Also, there was the small chance he would need to use my shower and that would be—bad, bad, bad, naked, using my loofah, bad. Or at least that’s what I told myself when the invitation was on the tip of my tongue.

My only excuse is that I was very tired and stuffed to the gills with peanut butter and vodka, so I wasn’t firing on all cylinders. I knew a good-night kiss was probably not in order. I had been confused enough by the casual touching earlier. So I gave him a firm handshake and bade him good night.

“Hold on, I’ll at least walk you to your door,” he said, jogging around the bumper as I walked toward my porch.

“To prevent me from being mugged during the fifteen-foot walk to my stoop?” I snickered. “You’re right, that lawn gnome looks shifty.”

“All gnomes look shifty to me,” Josh muttered, stopping in his tracks as he took in the full view of my front yard. “Wow.”

I was fortunate that the man who lived in the other side of the duplex was a retired landscaper. While I had a black thumb and ruthlessly murdered any botanicals I came into contact with, Mr. Leavitt was some sort of plant whisperer. And because watching me slowly suffocate the sad, bedraggled hosta on my front porch had caused him physical pain when he first moved in, he landscaped my side of the yard, too. He managed to coax roses up trellises surrounding our building on all sides. Hanging baskets full of petunias created midair waterfalls of yellow, red, and orange. He’d put a sweet little fountain on the property line between our two yards, featuring a satyr pouring water into a bowl. He’d circled the satyr with shamrock moss and herbs. It was a magical fairy grotto in the middle of suburban monotony.

“Nice place,” Josh said, whistling under his breath.

“I have a really great neighbor.” Just as I said that, Mr. Leavitt’s porch light popped on. Mr. Leavitt had granddaughters my age, so he felt the need to watch out for me any time he heard me coming home late. I knew that at that very moment, he was standing at his door, watching Josh’s every move to make sure he wasn’t “getting fresh.” I’m not sure what my elderly neighbor would have done to Josh if he had gotten fresh. But he had all those yard tools in the garage, so I chose not to think about it.

“You’re kidding. The only thing my neighbor has given me is a note on my door asking me not to leave my paper on my doorstep past two p.m.”

“Tough neighborhood.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m living in one of those big storage containers.”

I tamped all potential invitations down and said, “If it makes you feel any better, whenever someone gives me a potted plant for my birthday—which seems to happen a lot, for some reason—it has to go directly into foster care with Mr. Leavitt.”

I nodded to the row of small potted ivy plants arranged in a tiered stand by Mr. Leavitt’s front door. “No, that doesn’t help,” Josh said, shaking his head. “Well, despite it all, tonight was sort of fun.”

“Yes, I will be treating the ‘fun’ for most of the morning with Tylenol.”

His arms tensed, as if he were debating whether to offer me a hug or a handshake. He kept them clamped to his sides, gave me a little nod, and turned back toward his car. I waved and pushed my key into my door.

“Hey, Sadie?”

I whirled around, all smiles, because I was sure he was about to lay down some serious John-Cusack-in-Say-Anything romance on me.

“About C.J. Rowley.”

I was wrong.

“About Rowley and him telling me about the job.” He ran his hand through his hair, rubbing it against the back of his neck in a tired, uncomfortable gesture. “I didn’t know, Sadie. You’ve got to believe me. I swear he didn’t say anything about you when we were talking about the job. If I’d known he was trying to screw with you, I would have done something differently.”

“Like what?” I asked.

He pursed his lips. “I’m not sure. I just want to let you know. I’m not some Rowley stooge. I’m not his puppet.”

“Poor choice of words,” I told him, and he barked out a laugh. “I believe you. I do. You’ve taken way too much crap from me to be a mole.”

He nodded sagely. “True. You dish out a lot of it. You are a terrible person.”

“Hey! I am a wonderful person.” I poked his side, making him yelp and grab my wrist. I continued to jab at his ribs, just to mess with him. He grabbed my other wrist, leading to an odd wrestling pretzel-person configuration. “Everybody loves me!”

Mr. Leavitt’s door swung open. “Sadie, are you all right?”

Josh and I froze in place as my elderly, disapproving neighbor stepped onto the porch in his robe and slippers. Bald except for a thinning white fringe around his ears, with a long nose that reminded me of an eagle’s beak, Mr. Leavitt was not a senior to be trifled with. And what a trifling tableau we made—disheveled, grown adults seemingly tickling each other on my front porch in the middle of the night. Josh burst out laughing and dropped his forehead to my shoulder. I called out, “We’re fine, Mr. Leavitt. Josh was just leaving.”

“I was,” Josh promised solemnly.

“Well, then, I suggest you say good night and get movin’.” Mr. Leavitt gestured toward his rheumy blue eyes as he walked into his apartment. “I’m watching you, pretty boy.”

“He really is,” I promised Josh solemnly.

Josh released a long-suffering sigh. “I know when I’m not wanted.” He released me and nudged me toward the door.

I batted his hands away gently. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Mr. Leavitt’s muffled voice came wafting through his closed door. “I would!”

•   •   •

Once again, Josh and I managed to stand the office environment on its ear. The coworkers who had frozen like wildlife in the headlights when we were at odds were now equally confused by our chatting cheerfully over coffee in the break room. Our wild dance of victory when Kelsey’s desk disintegrated as she set her coffee cup on it nearly sent Melody into a panic. Charlie seemed quite miffed that instead of helping Kelsey as her office collapsed on itself, we were laughing our butts off. So he switched his loyalty from either of us to Team Kelsey.

We didn’t kiss again, or, more importantly, talk about the kiss. And we didn’t exactly braid each other’s hair, but we were friendly and cooperative. When Josh realized that we didn’t buy into the “Blue Steel” persona, he stopped trying quite so hard with the wardrobe and the hair products. He actually came to the office without a tie one morning, but he got so antsy he ran out to his truck for his emergency tie before lunchtime. And when Melody ordered lunch for the creative team, we sat next to each other while we ate and exchanged undesirable salad elements.

We bounced ideas unrelated to the state fair campaign back and forth across the hall, to the point that Kelsey insisted on us using the office’s instant-messaging system because we were driving her nuts. We reminded her that she’d locked us in a confined space for four hours, and therefore preserving her sanity was not a priority for us.

Ray was thrilled with this progress and, having no idea what Kelsey had done, credited his own insistence that we work together on the Civil War promotion. And since we were “buddies” now, he had a new project to make good use of our newfound working relationship.

“I give you Sammy the Squirrel,” Ray said, spreading a large “Sammy” poster on the conference room table with a flourish. Sammy, the mascot for the Kentucky Forest Conservation Council, was a happy little squirrel with a green backpack slung over one shoulder and a bright blue baseball cap tilted jauntily over one ear. He was always facing right with his left foot raised, as if he were sauntering down a trail, humming his signature jingle, “Be Good to the Woods!”

“Aw, I love Sammy the Squirrel,” Kelsey cooed, setting aside her notebook to get a better look at the poster. “He was the first costumed mascot I ever met.”

“How many costumed mascots have you met?” Josh asked while I stood behind Kelsey, shaking my head vehemently. He was not prepared to hear Kelsey’s tales of dating Western Kentucky University’s Big Red in college. There were elements of that story I wished I could unhear.

Exasperated with us, Ray cleared his throat and said, “Children.”

We straightened up and Ray handed each of us printed copies of a petition to remove Sammy as the council’s mascot. The petition, which was being circulated by the United Parents Against Obscene Mascots, stated that the Sammy logo was a sexually inappropriate image and should not be viewed by small children.

“What?” I cried. “Why? What?”

“United Parents Against Obscene Mascots? UPAOM?” Josh snickered. “Sounds like something you’d order with Thai food.”

Ray cleared his throat again, giving Josh a stern look. Josh bit his lip. “Right, sorry, there is absolutely nothing funny about this. Squirrel sexuality is a very serious matter.”

I slapped my hand over my mouth to prevent my giggles from escaping while Kelsey buried her face in her ever-present notebook and guffawed loudly. Ray scowled and chose to ignore all of us, saying, “Apparently there is a parents’ group that believes that the cartoonist who drew Sammy thirty years ago was some sort of pervert who intentionally included a penis in the image.”

“Oh, come on, now,” Josh scoffed. “Thousands of people have looked at that image over the years and none of them saw a penis, but suddenly a bunch of soccer moms— Oh my God, there it is!”

I followed Josh’s line of sight to Sammy’s furry legs. Unfortunately, Sammy’s paw was raised at such an angle that one of his larger toes seemed to be protruding from his crotch. And because of the bend of his toe, Sammy seemed pretty excited.

“Oh,” we chorused. Kelsey clapped her hand over her mouth and we all exclaimed, “OH!” in varying degrees of distress.

“The placement of one of the toes looks a little too . . . suggestive,” Ray said.

I gaped down at the poster, torn between laughing and wanting to bleach the interior of my brain. I’d been looking at this image since I was ten, and I’d never seen Sammy as anything but a plucky little forest creature. And now, I couldn’t avoid seeing his “toe.” Ugh. Another childhood memory ruined.

“So far, the petition is just an online phenomenon, being circulated among the various blogs and forums. As it typically takes traditional media a few months to catch up, we have a small window of time to fix this,” Ray said. “UPAOM has demanded that the logo be stripped from all conservation council promotional materials, particularly those placed where children can see them. Considering that Sammy visits more than two hundred elementary schools every year to distribute pamphlets, that’s going to mean a lot of recycled paper. The only reason UPAOM hasn’t taken their ‘cause’ to the media is that the council has agreed to the redesign and has remained cooperative. Debbie Jo Vargas, the head of the council, asked for our help personally after seeing the mascot Sadie came up with for the Waterways Safety Month campaign.”

“I did love Lulu the Life Jacket,” Kelsey told me. “For a talking inanimate object, she managed to come across as caring without being condescending.”

“Dorie Ann did all the work. She came up with a dozen different sketches of talking life jackets before we settled on one,” I said. “I just came up with clever ways to say, ‘Try not to drown.’ ”

Ray put file folders in front of us. “Charlie is going to design a survey to determine what people want in a new Sammy. But the key feature will be a contest—written and distributed by the two of you—in which you ask respondents to redesign Sammy. We’ll use the survey results to best judge the winner. And then, of course, the conservation board’s lawyers go over that image with a fine-tooth comb for any subliminal penises.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kelsey make a note: Possible band name: Subliminal Penises.

“I have complete faith in you two,” Ray told us. “Now, get out there and give me a completely genderless, sexually nonaggressive cartoon character.”

We offered him a little salute and he waved us off like the impudent overgrown children that we were. The three of us sat in the conference room, staring at Sammy and his recently revealed endowment. Kelsey started the job sheet for the survey and had already made some notes about using Info Monkey, an online survey distributor.

Josh scrubbed at his eyes, as if that would allow him to go back to a time when he wasn’t contemplating Sammy’s junk. “You know, I’ve been doing this for a while. And this is the weirdest thing that has ever crossed my desk.”

“All of my memories of Sammy visiting our school and telling us to ‘Share that special part of us with the world’ are forever tainted,” I said, shuddering.

I looked at Josh. He looked at me, and we both started laughing. We hee-hawed until tears rolled down our cheeks and our faces flushed beet red. Kelsey was wiping at her eyes and griping about the “effects of hilarity on my carefully constructed eye makeup.”

“I went to college for this.” Josh giggled. “I’ve got a degree in marketing and I’m using it to cover up a cartoon squirrel’s pretend penis!”

“We’re going to devote the next month of our lives to discussions of that squirrel penis!” I cackled.

“God, that’s sad,” he said, swiping a handkerchief across his eyes.

“How are we going to fix this?” I sighed. “Not just the PR nightmare, but designing a cartoon squirrel so that people forget they ever saw the previous Sammy and his unfortunately placed foot?”

“My first thought is that we put some pants on him,” Kelsey said. “Why don’t cartoon characters ever wear pants? Donald Duck, Winnie the Pooh, Porky Pig, Squidward. Not a pair of trousers in the bunch.”

“It disturbs me that you came up with your pantheon of pantsless cartoons so quickly,” I told her.

Kelsey waggled her eyebrows and stood, straightening her skirt. “I do what I can.”

As Kelsey walked out, Josh stood, jostling my arm. “I’ve got a few things to double-check for my state fair campaign, but I’ll meet you back here in an hour for a brainstorming session for that survey?”

“Promise me chocolate, or I can’t guarantee my participation.”

He snorted, walking out of the conference room and calling, “Brat” over his shoulder.

“Frat boy!” I yelled back.

I broke out a legal pad and pen. If Ray had taught me anything, it was that any public perception problem could be fixed. You just had to narrow the problem down to the three most important issues. Normally, it was something linear, like:

1. Campers view the Bear Creek Campgrounds as unsafe because of concerns about bears.

2. There are no actual bears at Bear Creek.

3. The community needs to be educated about the lack of bears at Bear Creek.

But right now, the only list I could come up with was:

1. Subliminal cartoon penis

2. Subliminal cartoon penis

3. Subliminal cartoon penis

This was not a helpful list. I’m pretty sure it was a list that would land me in therapy if someone saw it without context.

Kelsey stuck her head in the door. “Okay, good, he’s gone.” She snatched my pen and disturbing notes out of my hands. “What’s going on?”

“Sorry?”

She tossed my stuff on the table and crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t play coy with me. I locked the two of you in a closet hoping you would behave civilly toward each other. You overshot and landed on ‘annoying UST.’ ”

“UST?” I repeated as Kelsey flopped into the chair in front of my desk.

“Unresolved sexual tension. You two have more UST than you can shake a stick at.”

“You know, I’ve never understood that expression. Who walks around indiscriminately shaking sticks at things?”

“I can’t believe this conversation is actually taking place.” Kelsey sighed, dropping her head to the table.

“We’re not friends, exactly. He’s a nice guy, under the smug, defensive exterior.”

Kelsey was my best friend, but she would find out about the Fred Astaire kiss. I hadn’t figured it out myself. And as much as I loved her, Kelsey’s opinion would only muddle things further for me. Also, she would mock me. A lot.

“I’m not saying I want to date him. But I think under normal circumstances, we might have gotten along really well. We’ll try to tone it down.”

“It will make the rest of us a lot more comfortable,” Kelsey said. “But if you wanted to help me out, Melody set up an office pool to bet on when you would either sleep together or kill each other. I had Tuesday.”

“For which option?”

Kelsey shrugged. “Either one.”

In Which Josh Is a Tease

7

By the next Tuesday night, I was neither dead nor naked. I was spending the evening in my office working, rather than going home like a normal person. Mr. Leavitt’s grandkids were in town, which wasn’t exactly conducive to creative work. They tended to gather on the porch, four feet from my door, and play card games that involved smacking each other.

Josh and I had already submitted our proposed redesign contest materials to Ray. While Josh had rejected my title, “Give Sammy the Squirrel a Tail-Lift,” we had agreed on “A Whole New Squirrel: Help Us Make Sammy Brighter-Eyed and Bushier-Tailed.” With Dorie Ann’s help, we came up with a printed brochure to distribute at campsites and state parks. We did another kid-friendly form for camps and daycares. And using Kelsey’s knowledge of Info Monkey, we designed an online submission tool to allow artists to submit their updated Sammys to the conservation council via e-mail. It was clever, colorful, and coherent—Ray’s favorite c’s. At the moment, the legal department was reviewing the forms for hidden genitalia or illegal language.

On a more personal front, I was not quite as productive. I’d scrapped all of my original state fair campaign ideas because they seemed sort of blah. I didn’t know why I didn’t like them. I just knew they weren’t right yet, so I chucked all the materials into the trash bin.

I’d never had this much trouble with any project. I didn’t know if it was the pressure of possibly losing the director position or the fact that my Derby campaign had been scrapped entirely in favor of Josh’s promotion. But every time I sat down to work, my brain seemed to spin uselessly, spitting out ideas that didn’t lead anywhere—or just generally stank.

I needed a new idea. I was standing in front of my office’s clean whiteboard, using magnets to tack up index cards inscribed with potential campaign themes. And they all sucked. But that was part of my process. It usually took me about twenty sucky ideas before I stumbled upon a good one. The question was, did these ideas suck sufficiently to get me to the next stage of development?

One of the cards read, “Jams and Jellies of the Bluegrass.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty sucky,” I told myself. I stared at the blank whiteboard, waiting for inspiration to come. And it was due at any time.

“Any minute now,” I muttered, tapping the dry-erase marker against my chin.

Just more blank space.

The board was not speaking to me.

I hated the board.

“Really?” I muttered, casting a look toward my forehead. “The brain that came up with ‘A Drive-In-Movie Tour of Kentucky’ has nothing?”

One by one, I plucked the cards from the board and tossed them into the trash, all the while bashing my forehead against the whiteboard. I heard Josh’s voice behind me, asking, “What are you doing?”

“Brainstorming.” I sighed.

“Does your brainstorming usually involve head trauma?”

I flopped into my desk chair and massaged my aching feet. Thirteen hours in four-inch heels was just plain stupid, no matter how cute they were. “Unfortunately, this brainstorm seems to be more of a gentle, balmy breeze. The Weather Channel would giggle at my brainstorm.”

“I can’t tell when you’re kidding.”

“Oh, how I wish I was.”

He sighed. “Come on, come on.”

“Where are we going?” I grumbled as he pressed my purse and jacket into my hands. “I’m not going into any closets with you. I’ve learned my lesson.” Shutting off the lights behind us one by one, Josh led me out of the darkened offices and into the parking lot. His truck and my little Honda Civic were the only vehicles there.

“What are you even doing at the office at this time of night?” I asked.

“Same as you, working on my state fair idea.” He opened the door and gave me his hand to help me climb in.

“Was yours working out as well as mine?”

He leaned against the door frame, chuckling. “Do you really want to know?”

“Not really. Is this the part when you take me out to the woods to kill me?” I asked. “Because I think I just established that it’s not necessary to eliminate me from the running. I can do that on my own.”

He shut the door and jogged around to the driver’s side, sliding into the seat next to me. “We’re going for a drive.”

•   •   •

Josh stopped at Double R’s BBQ on the way out of town, grabbing pulled pork sandwiches and all the fixings. We turned off the radio, lowering the windows and driving out of the city in silence. Josh knew some back road to a bluff overlooking Elk Horn Creek, bouncing over the uneven gravel with ease. Parking with the tailgate facing the water, we spread out a moving blanket in the back of his truck and ate the sloppy, delicious food as best we could in our office attire. I kicked off my shoes and Josh stripped down to his undershirt to avoid his own okra catastrophes.

Despite an unfortunate incident involving fried okra and my blouse, I was happy. The crickets were singing summer music. I’d been liberated from my panty hose. And I had a tummy full of classic Southern comfort food. We were so far from the city, the light pollution was nil and we could actually see the stars dancing over our heads.

Sipping ice-cold Coke from an actual glass bottle, I asked, “So why are you being nice to me, when the best thing for you to do would be to let me stew in my own failure-juices? And maybe film it and post it on the Internet.”

He gave me a long, speculative once-over. “Because I like you. I can’t figure out why, but I do.”

I tossed a balled-up napkin at his head. “That is not a compliment.”

“I do like you, despite your violent tendencies. I like your sense of humor. I like the way you take care of people at the office, bringing Melody her treats and making sure Charlie gets some social interaction every day. I like annoying you, because you make these awful, adorable faces and start spouting nonsense. I know I’ve made fun of your being too earnest and rooting too much for the underdog, but it comes from a good place. You don’t believe in hearth and home and the power of road trips to Jesus-themed mini-golf courses because you think it makes you look good. You just do, even when it makes you seem naive and somewhat unprofessional.”

“Also not a compliment,” I mused.

“It’s a great compliment. You’re the last of the great cockeyed optimists, Sadie Hutchins.”

I snorted, leaning against the still-warm metal of the truck bed and tilting my head toward the sky. A long, silent moment later, I realized Josh was staring at me. “Yes?”

He sounded slightly wounded. “Do you like anything about me?”

“Is this why you brought me out here?”

“Oh, come on. I said something nice about you. It’s rude not to reciprocate,” he insisted.

I sighed. “You’re smart. You’re confident to the point that it’s a little bit irritating. But every once in a while, when you drop the act, you let me see the naked baby bird of emotion hiding deep inside the shell. And I really like that, because I feel like I’m finally meeting the real you. And the real you is . . . far less annoying than I originally thought.”

“Less annoying?” Josh placed one of those large, tanned hands over his chest. “Oh, the praise, it warms my heart, really.”

“From me, that is a compliment.”

Josh packed away the meal trash and scooted next to me in the truck bed. “So, why aren’t you out on the town?” he asked. “Why aren’t you going on dates and socializing instead of lurking in our office like a scary cat lady?”

“You are really pushing the boundaries of this whole new ‘being nice to each other’ thing, aren’t you?”

“Come on. I’ve worked with you for months and I’ve never seen any sign of a social life except for hanging out with your coworkers. When was the last time you were on a date?”

“How is this any of your business?” I demanded.

“Excuse me, but did I not tell you every little detail of my personal life?”

“It’s been a while,” I admitted. “But that’s okay for me. I don’t have time for dating. You know, I love the people we work with. They’re all the family I need. ”

“Please don’t tell me you actually believe that, because that would be incredibly sad.”

I chuckled, rubbing a hand over my face. “I know. You’re right. It’s just something I tell myself to feel less like a loser. But I really haven’t met anyone I’d want that kind of relationship with. Or really, any relationship, period.”

He grinned, his white teeth shining under the bluish light of the moon. “All those public events we go to and you can’t find a single guy that doesn’t turn your stomach?”

I shuddered, thinking of C.J. Rowley. “Well, what about you? You work just as many hours as I do. You’re not exactly burning up the social scene.”

“I’ve explained the whole ‘almost-engagement that nearly destroyed my life and my credit rating’ thing, right? I’m a little gun-shy.”

I scoffed. “No, you’re not. I’ve seen you at these work functions. You’re a flirt. You hit on anything with a pulse.”

“I do not!” he exclaimed, his cheeks flushing so brightly I could make them out, even in the dark.

I sucked my cheeks into an approximation of “Blue Steel” again and shot him a smoldering look. Josh groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I know. It’s just that you get used to being ‘on’ like that while you’re working and you don’t even realize you’re doing it. And what’s worse is that I have no intention of following through.”

“So, you’re a tease?” I snickered.

“I’m not really in a good dating place right now. What am I supposed to say to some woman, ‘Hi, I’m in full-on Dave Ramsey debt-payoff mode. I’m staying in a tiny rathole apartment. I’m living out of cardboard boxes. And I may be losing the job that I have within the next few months, depending on the outcome of some insane state fair contest. But how about we go out for drinks sometime?’ ” he scoffed, his voice becoming tinny and a bit panicked. “I’m sure that would really turn a girl’s head.”

I took his face between my palms and pressed my lips to his. He froze, spine stiffened, for a moment and then exhaled. I could feel the warmth of his breath against my lips, in my mouth. His hand slid along the length of my rib cage, pulling me closer. I settled into his lap, threading my fingers through his hair. I bit down gently on his bottom lip and he groaned.

“What was that?” he murmured.

“Me, calming you down.” I bumped the tip of my nose against his. “It was either this or slapping you. I may still slap you.”

“I prefer this.” He nodded, surging forward and kissing me again. Several lovely kisses later, he pulled away. “Wait, wait, wait.”

I rocked back on my heels, nearly tumbling back on my butt. “Wait?”

“We haven’t really had The Conversation about the last time we did this,” he said.

“Isn’t that my line?” I asked. “And pardon me, but was ‘The Conversation’ capitalized?”

“Yes.”

I sighed, settling back down in the truck bed. “You really are a tease.”

“Hey!” he grumbled. “I’m just saying there should be some ground rules, so when Ray and the higher-ups make their decision, we can avoid hurt feelings. Or try to, at least.”

“That sounds very reasonable. I predict it will fail spectacularly,” I told him.

“Humor me,” he said. “I don’t think we should date.”

“Well, I’m not going to be your coworker with benefits,” I told him, pulling away to the other side of the truck bed. “I’m not that desperate.”

He pulled me against his side, shifting around so we rested our backs against the cab of the truck. “No, no, I don’t want that, either. I’m just saying that I don’t think we should date or make out or get trapped in any small spaces together until after the state fair. I don’t want to start something with you only to have it fall apart when one of us doesn’t get the job.”

“So you think it would be better for us to get pissed at each other after the state fair and never get started in the first place?”

“I’m saying that I want you. I really, really want you. And I’m having a hard time keeping my hands off you in the office, which could lead to major violations of our workplace behavior policies. But we don’t know each other well enough to just throw ourselves into something that could seriously affect our jobs. I’m saying that when two very different people clearly enjoy each other despite all the big clues that they shouldn’t, they should do everything they can to make the differences work. I’m saying that we can keep getting to know each other between now and the state fair, and when the pressure is finally off us, if we still think we have something, we date the hell out of each other.”

I shook my head, despite the warm flutters as I turned the phrase “really, really want you” over and over in my head. “Again I say, doomed to failure.”

“Do you have an alternative suggestion?” he asked drily.

“Secret Naked Fun Time until such a time that we get caught or one of us gets hired as director?”

Josh frowned, wrapping his fingers around mine. “I don’t do Secret Naked Fun Time. And what little I know of you suggests to me that you have too much integrity to accept that, too.”

“Damn my cock-blocking integrity,” I grumbled.

“If I lose to you, I won’t get angry,” he said. “I’ll be disappointed in myself, but I could live with you getting the job. I could work under you, in a strictly professional, non-entendre sort of way. Could you live with me getting the job?”

I mulled that thought over for a long, awkward moment. “I don’t know yet.”

Josh flinched. “Well, I didn’t expect that.”

“You were the one who was just ogling my integrity.”

“Okay, so if we put off the dating and the Naked Fun Time for now, you can take the time to decide whether you can live with it. And whether you’re really interested in me,” he said.

It was probably wrong to leave a long gap of silence to respond. But I wanted to really consider my answer. Despite everything, I’d come to really enjoy Josh’s company over the last few nonhostile weeks. He fit nearly all of my requirements for a good dating candidate. He was funny, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to keep up with me, quip-wise. He was considerate. I’d seen that much during our incarceration in the supply closet. He was a nonsmoker. I was pretty sure I’d established that I was crazier than he was. And he definitely wasn’t living with his mommy. He was a good person. He was a kind person who was able to admit his faults and see right through mine. I wanted to hold on until I figured out what exactly I felt for him. Claiming otherwise was cowardly, and I’d like to think we both deserved better than that.

“I am,” I promised him. “I’ve wanted you since that day at the Derby when I finally had a real conversation with you. I probably wanted you before then, but that was only because you’re crazy hot, and I don’t want you to think I’m superficial.”

“Nice,” he snickered, nuzzling his forehead against my neck. “So we’re agreed. No dating. No Fun Time, naked or otherwise. Until after the state fair.”

“Wait.” I held up one finger to hold off his final word. I pressed my mouth to his, teasing it open with my tongue to claim him for my own. I was leaving my mark. These lips now belonged to me. God help anybody who tried to poach between now and August. “Okay.”

It was going to be a long damn time until that August deadline. “One more,” I said, kissing him all over again. Josh’s hands shook a little as they slid around my waist, pulling me firmly against his lap. I reluctantly broke away from him, panting. “Okay. I’m good.”

Josh’s mouth had followed mine like a magnet, as if he weren’t quite ready for the second round to be over. “You’re sure?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“ ’Cause we can put the decision off for a few more minutes,” he said.

“Oh, no, I have to preserve my sexy integrity,” I promised, holding my hand up in a mockery of the Girl Scout salute.

He sighed. “I knew that was going to come back to bite me.”

In Which I Lose My Bloomers

8

Once again, I was reminded that I was not tough enough to be a woman in the days of corsetry and smelling salts.

I pulled at the collar of the Civil War–era nurse’s uniform I was wearing, praying for some cool air to make its way under the multitude of layers. I should not have let Kelsey pick out the costumes for the Columbus-Belmont summer encampment. She was clearly still a little pissed at me about the previous fall’s hoopskirts.

Still, I was rather proud of the encampment campaign Josh and I had put together under our new ceasefire agreement. We ran with the recruitment theme for brochures, flyers, Internet banner ads, and a radio spot narrated by one of the chief reenactors. We picked a final shade of blue without coming to blows. We used a careful pro-con system to determine revisions on printed materials. I’d even managed to write the copy for the radio spot with a minimum of fussing from Josh. He added unnecessary semicolons, but I don’t think he could stop himself from making some changes.

The state park coordinators had enjoyed our efforts so much that they made us promise we would visit the summer event as a staff. Instead of, say, relaxing and enjoying the encampment like normal people, we were there as volunteers. Our office had worked as support staff at the fall event for so many years that it was sort of a tradition. Our tradition was that we stayed at a motel just down the highway, worked ourselves to exhaustion, and then made questionable late-night nutritional choices at Denny’s each night. There was no reason we couldn’t do that in July. The event was sponsored and run by the state park staff and county officials so we were mostly there to run errands, answer general questions, and occasionally help out with the workshops.

Kelsey and I tried different costumes every year and had learned the previous fall that elaborate hoopskirts did not combine well with negotiating the uneven ground surrounding the camp. Or at least, with clumsy people. There was an incident involving a campfire that will not be discussed under terms of the “sacred assistant-supervisor oath.” (Kelsey insisted that was a real thing.) So this year, Kelsey had strapped herself into the circa 1861 equivalent of a tavern wench costume, and I was a not-so-naughty nurse. I was wearing a dark gray wool dress covered by a thick white apron with a lovely matching cap.

On its own, the dress wasn’t terribly uncomfortable. However, Kelsey, who had her own collection of corsets for reasons I preferred not to think about, insisted that I be historically accurate down to the bloomers and cincher. When she found me leaning against the pole of the canteen tent, having a claustrophobic fit and pulling at the boning of the short “active wear” corset, she told me to suck it up.

“You know, I refuse to take fashion criticism from someone dressed as a nineteenth-century cocktail wench,” I told her, eyeing her blowsy costume top.

That was the moment when I looked up to see Kelsey’s stunned expression, then followed her line of sight. Josh was walking across the encampment, framed in the kind of golden morning light Hollywood divas had written into their production contracts. He was wearing a Union officer’s uniform, complete with saber and dark cowboy-style Hardee hat.

Oh, and apparently Charlie was standing next to him.

Who knew?

I waved a hand in front of Kelsey’s glazed-over eyes. No response. We were both going to need some knee support if we were going to make it through the day. Josh was not making this whole delayed-gratification, no-dating thing easy at all. How was I supposed to be professional when he walked around taunting me with his hotness? He was an unrepentant taunter.

“This is so unfair,” I whimpered.

Kelsey wiped at her chin, where I detected a trace of drool. “Tell me about it.”

Josh and I were still keeping our potential maybe-feelings for each other under the radar. The good news was that routing all of my mental energy to the “behaving appropriately” portion of my brain provided a respite for the creative portion, and I finally came up with a solid idea for my state fair campaign. Ironically enough, it was based on something Josh said about “making the differences work.” My title was “Kentucky—Not What You Expect.” It took several all-nighters, but I had just enough time to arrange the photo shoots for Kelsey and put a plan together before the printer’s deadline.

It seemed that kissing coworkers was the best way to reset your noggin. And all of my mental progress was being undone by the sight of my pseudo-work-boyfriend dressed up like something out of a historical romance.

“You promoted yourself to sergeant, huh?” I said, nodding at the gold chevrons on Josh’s sleeves as he and Charlie approached.

“The officer’s uniform came with a sword,” he said, unsheathing the prop and holding it up proudly. “I thought I was going to have to pull rank on Charlie to get it. But he’s just excited to be here.”

He nodded toward Charlie, who was talking animatedly with Kelsey about the various reenactor groups involved in the encampment. He made lots of swooping arm movements, which I could only assume were descriptions of how the individual units would flank each other.

“We try not to let him out this much. We’re afraid that if he realizes there is life outside of the office, we’ll lose him to the real world,” I said.

I noted that despite Kelsey’s low neckline, Charlie kept his eyes on her face, which made me like Charlie just a little bit more. Kelsey was smiling up at him with this sweet, puppy-eyed expression that I never saw from my sardonic little assistant. It made my heart ache for her. She liked him so much, and yet she stayed with her dink of a boyfriend because she thought that was all she deserved.

For the thousandth time since they’d started dating, I mentally catalogued the ways I could make Darrell’s death look like an accident.

“Completely clueless, isn’t he?” Josh asked, nodding at them.

“No, I’ve made it pretty clear to Darrell that no one would find his body,” I mused.

Josh’s sandy eyebrows flew up to his hairline. “Sorry?”

I shook myself out of my murderous musings, cheeks flushing. “Nothing. What were you saying?”

“Charlie; he’s clueless that Kelsey’s nuts about him.”

I gave an unladylike snort. “I think she could bedazzle ‘Take me, I’m yours’ across her forehead in rhinestones, and he would ask her what she meant.”

“I would get involved, but I’m focusing all of my energy on behaving myself around you,” he said, fingertips hovering ever so close to my wrist, one of the few exposed areas of my body. “And to be honest, Kelsey scares me.”

I chuckled. “She should.”

“And what’s with your outfit?” he asked. “It’s not that you don’t look adorable, because you do. But you have the opportunity to dress like Scarlett O’Hara, and you go for Florence Nightingale?”

“Florence Nightingale was British.”

“I’m just saying, Bonnie’s dressed up in some cute Little Bo Peep deal and you picked something that would let you fade into the background,” he said, his tone disappointed. “You don’t have any trouble standing out when we’re at the office.”

“Previous experience. We need to be able to maneuver around quickly and quietly if something comes up.”

His bottom lip stuck out a bit, giving him a petulant look. “I was just looking forward to seeing you all corseted up.”

I leaned in so my mouth just barely brushed his ear. “Who says I’m not wearing a corset?”

He cringed, raising his eyes heavenward. “That was mean.”

“Are you pouting on me, Vaughn?”

“Men with swords don’t pout,” he retorted.

“What do boys with plastic props do?” I asked.

“Do you always have to have the last word?”

I shrugged. “Not really.”

“Stop that!” he cried.

•   •   •

While the guys led small groups along the walking trail and prevented small children from getting too close to the bluffs, Bonnie gave regular dramatic monologues from the perspective of the wives left behind as soldiers from both sides marched off to war. Kelsey ended up explaining the root-beer-making process to rotating groups of middle-school kids, but thanks to her nerd herd, she was able to give a fact-filled, easy-to-understand explanation of the science behind the brew.

I ran back and forth between the headquarters tent and the various activity tents, carrying bottled water and first aid kits to the staff and being a general dogsbody. The problem with this year’s costume was that people assumed I was an actual nurse, so I had to stay away from the medical tent or be subjected to blisters, scrapes, and other ickiness I was not qualified to handle.

Josh and his sword were a big hit with the kids. It was fortunate that he’d read up on the location’s history, allowing him to construct believable stories when they stopped him to ask what it was like in the “old” war. Eventually, the kids were giving him referrals, telling their playmates to find him and ask for a story. Bonnie was so impressed that she planned to ask him to join her on her next Daniel Boone Trail traveling exhibit. I wished her luck with that.

It was a long, exhausting day, but it was a lot of fun. It was nice being an assistant rather than running the show. And I learned new things about Kentucky history, which was always a plus. While I had known that both Lincoln and Confederate president Jefferson Davis were born in Kentucky, I’d had no idea they were born within a hundred miles of each other, in LaRue and Christian counties, respectively.

The only problem was the corset. I was expected to wear it all day and then attend the bonfire dance that evening, but I didn’t anticipate how much the new style would cage in my poor aching ribs. I hated this confined, squeezed feeling, like being strangled by a really weak python. My plan was to make a polite effort at dancing a few before we made our excuses and headed back to the motel for some well-deserved grease-based late-night breakfast. At the moment, I could barely move enough to do the electric slide, much less a reel.

Most of the reenactors were sleeping in period-appropriate tents nearby and wandered back to our area after their own cookouts. The crowd had thinned considerably to just the reenactors and the hard-core enthusiasts. The more experienced reenactors led us through basic dances and floor patterns while the band warmed up their fiddles.

The dance was an informal affair, the dance floor consisting of a hard-packed dirt circle surrounded by rough-hewn pine benches. For lighting, we had Mason jar lanterns strung around the perimeter. The lanterns’ battery-powered LEDs weren’t period accurate, but the state’s liability officer would have had a stroke if the staff had strung tiny fireballs just above the guests’ heads. We all seemed a little worse for wear, tired from our long day out in the sun. But I figured that the people of the time period were probably rumpled and less-than-perfectly groomed, so it just added to the authenticity.

I’d taken a few period-appropriate dance classes over the years, because that was Ray’s twisted idea of a team-building exercise. He’d found a guy who taught folk- and square-dancing classes professionally and invited him to boss us around for two days. For months, when an employee acted out, all Ray had to say was “Virginia Reel” and they’d straighten right back up.

And for the record, those YouTube videos were entirely Kelsey’s fault. I didn’t even see her set up that tripod.

Josh was out of his element, but didn’t seem to care. He stepped out of turn and went the wrong direction more than once, but he also laughed his head off the entire time. The fiddle player knew what he was doing, playing lively tunes that kept the feet moving. The closest we got to a slow jam was going to be the occasional waltz. I took pity on poor unpartnered Charlie, who had lost Kelsey to some burly older guy in buckskin pants. Charlie lost his footing twice and nearly took me down with him before he finally decided to sit out. I made my way over to the refreshments table, where the organizers were serving tart, ice-cold hard cider in Mason jars. I’d had two glasses before my wallflower time was cut short and Josh pulled me to his side.

“Help me,” he whispered frantically, blue eyes darting wildly around the dance floor. “That woman in the pink dress keeps pinching my ass!”

I looked over his shoulder to see a rather horse-faced woman in period costume eyeing Josh’s backside hungrily. When she realized I was looking at her, she sneered at me. I stifled a snicker. “Well, what am I supposed to do about it?”

“I told her you were my wife.”

I set my jar of cider aside. “Why is it that every time things get rough, we let people believe that we’re a couple?”

“Because you always have that exasperated look on your face when you’re near me, which makes it believable. Please be my human shield, one more time?” he begged, pressing my hand to his chest. The brass buttons of his uniform glinted dully in the battery-operated lights. And I could smell the clean scent of his cologne wafting up from his collar. Over his shoulder, I could see Ray watching us, mouth pressed into an inscrutable expression. My lips twitched upward, but I tamped them down into a stern, straight line.

“This is the last time,” I told him. He gave me one of those million-watt boyish grins, took my arm, and we were flying.

Josh clutched my arm as we wove through the other couples, bobbing and ducking under the bridges formed by joined arms. The cider must have had a bit more kick than I thought, because I went from sober to giddy and dizzy within a few minutes. The music grew louder, beating a happy tattoo inside my head as I threw myself into the movements with abandon. I tripped on my skirt a few times and Josh had to brace my elbow to keep me from face-planting in the dirt. He took a more proactive approach, looping his arm around my waist and holding me close. Rather than the polite clasp of hands, he laced his fingers through mine, his thumb resting across my wrist. Could he feel my pulse racing? Could I play it off as the exertion of dancing in seven layers of clothes?

The music ended with a flourish and Josh bowed over my hand. “I should have chosen a better dancer for my pretend wife.”

“Be nice,” I told him, “or your pretend wife will develop a sudden case of the vapors and you will be left to fend for yourself.”

Josh cast a nervous glance over my shoulder, where I assumed Pink Dress Lady was still ogling him, and shuddered. “I take it back, you’re a lovely dancer. Please don’t leave me.”

•   •   •

We crawled out of Bonnie’s van, exhausted and disheveled. But because the locals were accustomed to the reenactments, three Civil War soldiers and three women in varying stages of period undress wandering into the motel lobby didn’t merit a second look. Bonnie and Kelsey had elected to share a room this time around, so I was left with a single. The group had been assigned to random floors of the Easy Rest Inn, so we split up at the front desk. Josh and I were in the same wing, on the third floor, and limped our way to our doors side by side.

“I’m going to shower forever,” I grumbled, swaying a bit from exhaustion and the influence of the cider. “I smell like a combination of campfire and fry bread.”

“You know, I think that’s a combination that could work for a lot of guys. The outdoor, he-man types could be into it,” he said, sniffing my hair appreciatively. “Maybe we could bottle it and call it Blue Moon Babe.”

“That’s incredibly wrong on many levels. Get your face out of my hair. I don’t remember anything in the pretend-marriage agreement about hair smelling.”

“So this was fun,” he told me as we rolled to a stop in front of my room. “I’m starting to understand why you love going on these outings.”

I grinned at him. “I’m glad . . . that I’ve pulled you over to the dark side. The rumor is we have cookies.”

He barked out a laugh. “Good night, Florence.”

“Good night.” And once again, we found ourselves in the awkward position of not knowing how to bid each other good-bye. Did nondating coworkers shake hands in situations like this? (Were there other situations like this?) Did we one-arm hug? I stared at him, the curve of his mouth, the way his eyes never left my face. I forced myself to lean away from him, to take a step back. I would not do this. I would not engage in inappropriate behavior with Josh when he was dressed like an extra from Gone with the Wind. At a semi-work function. Just a few yards away from our soon-to-retire boss, who expected to leave the office in one set of our capable hands. I hadn’t had that much cider. I gave him a perfunctory smile while I jiggled my key card into the digital lock. “Good night.”

I practically launched myself through the motel room door, closing it so fast that I barely registered Josh’s hurried “Good night!” I leaned my forehead against the door, thumping it against the map of emergency exits.

I was making the right choice, the smart choice. Josh and I had agreed about this waiting thing. And I had no doubt that screaming his name in my orgasm voice would give him quite a bit of leverage in this strange battle of wills we had going. I didn’t know if we really liked each other or if it was just our weird creative natures combined with the thrill of competition creating these intense situations. We had heat and chemistry, but so did most nuclear reactors, and I tried to stay away from those whenever possible.

But still, I was all keyed up, with no place to go. Okay, yes, dragging Josh into my room and stripping that uniform off him with my teeth might have proven awkward around the office next week, but being left wondering “What if?” seemed so much worse now. I was horny, frustrated, and wearing about four articles of underwear I wouldn’t be able to remove by myself. Maybe I should call Josh back here. I would need his sword to hack my way out of this corset.

Flopping onto the scratchy polyblend motel comforter, I took off my white cap, rubbing at the pressure marks the pins had left in my scalp. I kicked off my pointed black shoes and had begun my wrestling match with the apron when I heard a knock at my door.

I looked through the peephole to see Josh bouncing on his heels in the hallway. “What the—” I opened the door. Josh opened his mouth long enough to say, “I—” and suddenly that mouth was on mine, kissing, nibbling, biting, until I sagged against him. His lips were just as soft as they looked and he tasted like cider and smoke.

“Waiting?” I asked, breathless. “Professional integrity?”

“Screw it,” he growled, fumbling with my apron. I wrapped my fingers around the collar of his coat and dragged him inside. His fingers plucked at the knot at my waist, tossing the apron aside. I felt like I was suffocating under all these layers. He ripped open the back of the dress with a yank, sending buttons skittering across the motel room’s nubby green carpet. I pushed the heavy blue jacket from his shoulders, taking time to appreciate the way his linen shirt fit across his broad, built chest. This was so much better than any historical romance novel could ever be, because this was real, and for the moment, he was mine.

Insistent fingers at the stays of my corset brought me back to the moment. The laces had gotten tangled and knotted over the course of the day and Josh was tugging at them like a frustrated kid with stubborn shoelaces. The more he pulled on the stays, the harder it was for me to breathe.

“Go get the sword!” I wheezed. Josh, who had apparently left the sword in his room, patted his pockets and produced a Swiss Army knife. With mental apologies to Kelsey, I leaned back and let him slice through the stays. I gulped in deep, greedy breaths as my ribs expanded fully for the first time all day. The sense of release was incredible, the rush of blood back to its proper place creating a full, dizzying rush of sensation that only helped Josh’s cause.

“Oh, thank goodness, I had no idea how I was going to get out of this thing on my own.”

“Well, I’m glad to serve some purpose,” he snickered, nuzzling my neck.

He sat on the bed, positioning my legs between his, and began unwrapping me like a present—first the corset, then the shift. I was a bit worried, considering the heat and hard work of the day, but Kelsey had taken the time to launder the underclothes with lavender water before she gave them to me. So the more he removed, the more the sweet floral scent wafted up from my skin. He paused when he found the frilly white bloomers underneath that counted as my underwear.

“Those are way hotter than they should be,” he breathed, stroking the lace and ruffles at my rear reverently before pressing a kiss above the drawstring, just under my bellybutton.

“The truth finally comes out,” I said, noting that look of panic he shot me. “You have an antique underwear fetish.”

“When you’re wearing them, yes.” His hands gently skimmed up the back of my thighs and squeezed lightly before he slipped his finger in the opening of the pantaloons. He dragged his thumb over wet, warm flesh. I gasped and he pressed harder, working in small, tight circles until my knees went watery and I collapsed against him. He tumbled back on the bed, dragging me with him, all the while keeping his hand working. I hovered over him, barely brushing over the growing bulge in his pants as he pulled me into his lap.

He reached up and shook my hair loose, grinning as it fluttered against his face. Meanwhile, I was struggling with the series of suspenders and fasteners on his pants. I could not figure out how to get him out of his pants! There was no zipper, no buttons, no instructions. Shouldn’t trousers like this come with instructions?

“Get the pocket knife!” I grunted as he flipped us over and wriggled out of the blue wool prison. I let out a giggle as he gave the pants a final yank and shimmied out of them. We crawled up the bed, naked—and oh God, we were really going to do this. I couldn’t help feeling terrified, but on the verge of ecstatic, girly squeals.

I combed my fingers through his hair, sliding my feet along the lines of his thighs. He sank into me, pressing his mouth to mine, surprising me by staring right into my eyes as he slid in to the hilt. I made an embarrassingly breathy little sound in my throat because—damn. Damn, it had been a long time since I’d done this. He sighed, tilting his forehead against mine as I adjusted. I hitched my leg over his hip, anchoring him to me as he moved. His hips shifted forward at just the right angle and I yelped a bit, throwing my head back.

I kissed the little divot in his chin, biting gently at the curve of flesh. I groaned, nuzzling his neck. His hands clutched at my hips and I was sure I would have fingerprint bruises the next morning. But part of me was looking forward to it, to some evidence that this really happened. This wasn’t some crazy, home-brewed-cider-induced hallucination.

He slid his hand under my back, fanning his fingers over my tailbone and holding me secure while he slid home again. I’m not sure what I’d expected of Josh, probably a bit more anger and thrown furniture, but we seemed to be savoring each other. As if we both knew this was probably going to be the only opportunity we had before the commissioner made his decision or one of us lost patience with the other.

I could feel everything. The scratchy motel sheets against my skin. The bite of his fingernails against my hip. The tight, coiling pressure that had me so slick and hypersensitive inside. I was so close, but didn’t want to end this way, writhing on my back like some recently deflowered waif. So I rolled, crouching over him and rolling my hips until I saw his eyelids flutter. He clutched at my hips, grinding me against him until that last bit of distance from the edge became falling over and plummeting. I clutched at Josh’s shoulders, sure I was leaving deep claw marks in my wake. Through the pulsing waves of sensation, I felt him bend his head to my breast. He gently bit the skin over my heart, as if he could leave his mark, making it impossible to forget the moment I completely lost control.

•   •   •

I woke up around 2 a.m. to find him still there, still wrapped around me with his fingers curled around my hip. His face was buried in my hair and I could barely feel the warmth of his mouth against my neck. This was nice, sharing a bed with someone—knowing that at least one person knew and cared that you were tucked away safe for the night. How long had it been since I’d done something as simple and intimate as sharing sleeping space with someone?

Years, I realized. I’d cuddled up with a drunken one-night-mistake in a narrow dorm-room bed and slept like a baby. Since then, I’d been careful to get up and get dressed before I or my date had the chance to nod off. That probably said much more about my taste in boyfriends than anything else.

Still, this was nice. I doubted that it would last. For all of Josh’s insistence that we would attempt to date after the fair, I just didn’t see how our feelings could stay the same when one of us had what we wanted and one didn’t. But for the moment, I would let myself enjoy this. I smiled to myself, turning to him and pressing my face against the warm skin of his shoulder, and went back to sleep.

•   •   •

Josh was gone the next morning, and for a second, I thought I had dreamt the whole thing. Until I swung my legs out of bed and felt the smooth, round buttons of my nurse’s uniform loose on the carpet. And, of course, there was the strange Jell-O sensation in my legs when I tried to stand. Ow.

Note to self: have sex more than every few years. I leaned against the dresser and chewed my lip, considering the damage we’d done to my clothes, my skin.

I felt like I’d fallen victim to an interoffice booty call. While I wanted to interpret this as Josh being sensible and not wanting to be seen doing the Walk of Shame from my room by our coworkers, I knew it wasn’t a good sign that he hadn’t woken me up before he left. I was 90 percent sure it didn’t mean, “I will love you forever. Would you like to meet my mom?” I guessed this meant he’d reconsidered the whole dating thing. Because I was pretty sure that when you attached some sort of emotion to sex, you actually stuck around the morning after.

I tried to bite back my disappointment, though it stuck in my throat like a stone. I had no one to blame for hurt feelings but myself. I was a big girl. I’d made the decision to pull him into my room. I’d stripped him out of that uniform like it was my job. I’d taken the ride and come Monday morning, I would pay the awkward price.

I wobbled a little on my unsteady legs as I made my way to the bathroom and couldn’t repress the slightly smug smile on my face.

It was still a pretty good ride.

In Which Murdering Kelsey Seems Like a Viable Option

9

Pulling on yoga pants and a hoodie after the corset experience and the hip bruises was absolute bliss. I managed to put myself together enough for the drive home in Bonnie’s van, adding a few accessories and a huge pair of Jackie O sunglasses. At least, I thought I looked presentable until I wheeled my little suitcase out to the van and Kelsey got a look at me.

“Oh my God, you had sex,” she gasped, nearly dropping her cell phone, which would have seriously disrupted the text message she was typing.

“What? How would you . . . ? What?” I spluttered.

Kelsey’s jaw dropped as she yanked my scarf—a floral linen affair that had been stuffed in the corner of my overnight bag after a previous trip—away from my neck. “You have a hickey, you big hussy!”

“Who are you texting at this time of the morning?” I asked, pulling the light linen floral print back into place. “And that’s not a hickey.”

“Why else would you be wearing a scarf in fricking July? And don’t change the subject,” she snapped.

I chewed on my lip, trying to think of a plausible explanation. I fell on a circular hairbrush. I’d been hit by a high-powered Ping-Pong ball. It was an experiment with a new makeup technique. Unfortunately, Kelsey was not, in fact, an idiot and wouldn’t believe any of it. I sighed. “I’m blaming the cider.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Because apple juice makes you want to do the dirty?”

“One-hundred-proof apple juice does.”

Kelsey burst out laughing, the mischievous glint in her eyes making me distinctly nervous. “Sadie, that wasn’t hard cider we were drinking last night. The encampments are booze free to keep them family friendly, remember?”

And suddenly, I did remember. So why had I felt so silly and off-kilter the night before? Why had I been so quick to jump on the idea of being “tipsy” and not in control of my impulses? “Damn it.”

“So did you meet someone after we came back to the motel? Who was it? That cute fiddle player from the band? The glassblower? Was he able to put those strong pouty lips to good use? . . . Oh, no!” Kelsey cried. “We agreed that you would not have sex with Josh unless it was my day in the pool!”

“How did you guess— When did we agree to that?”

“It was an unspoken agreement,” she insisted, shaking my arms, which wasn’t helping the whole sex-soreness issue. “And I guessed because of that frozen ‘trying to find a way to tell Kelsey upsetting news’ face you make when you’re about to disappoint me. Seriously, Sadie, I don’t think you’re ready for anything Vaughn is going to dish out. He’s a classic nail-and-bailer. And you’re sort of a prude. You’re going to get all emotionally involved and he’ll be throwing his clothes back on and texting his next ‘appointment.’ And then the rest of us at the office will be treated to the awkwardness that is post-breakup Sadie.”

“You’ve never dealt with post-breakup Sadie.”

“And that’s what scares me. Developing squishy feelings for the person who could end up being your boss is not a good idea. You know this. Hell, you led our office sexual harassment training on this. And let’s not even discuss the fact that he may be just trying to distract you from working on your campaign so he can swipe the job out from under you.”

“So the only way I could get a guy to date me is if he were trying to literally screw me out of a job?”

“No, you know I don’t feel that way. I just . . . I worry about you, Sadie. You glide along, acting like everything is okay, when we both know you take this stuff so seriously that it makes you physically ill.”

“What happened to all of your sympathy for Josh?”

“I wasn’t worried about Josh. I was worried about you and your bad decisions.”

“I’m fine. I’m a big girl. I’m not going to let this get out of control. And if I do, you will be the first person I will accept an ‘I told you so’ from.”

“You know I don’t do that,” she said, patting my shoulder. “Not without the proper backup music. But I will mock you in the moment. Hell, I plan on mocking you on the way home.”

I dropped my face into my hands and groaned. I heard approaching footsteps and realized that Charlie, Ray, Josh, and Bonnie were joining us in the caravan of discomfort.

Kelsey patted my shoulder. “You know, I was kind of bummed that I forgot my cell phone charger and have no entertainment. But I am really looking forward to the long van ride home, aren’t you?”

“You are not my favorite person right now.”

I looked up to see Ray watching me, carefully, a wrinkle of worry forming between his brows. Josh seemed to be making a concerted effort not to look at me, which was more than a little upsetting. So I focused on tucking my luggage away and not blurting out anything embarrassing.

I blushed furiously as I tried to step up into the van and faltered, those stupid strained muscles preventing me from climbing into the back row of seats. I hissed and Josh’s head whipped toward me. Charlie solicitously offered his hand and helped me up. “Walking around in period shoes has us all sore,” he assured me.

Kelsey snickered, and I smacked the back of her head as Charlie boosted me into the van. She glared back at me but I went all innocent doe eyes on her. “Muscle spasm.”

Josh climbed into the front row of seats and cast a glance over his shoulder toward me. I slid my sunglasses over my eyes and hid. I didn’t know how to respond, but it wouldn’t be like a high school girl upset that her boyfriend didn’t sit next to her in study hall. I would hold my head high. I would behave like an adult, an independent, progressive woman who did not assume that an evening of naked gymnastics equaled guaranteed lifelong commitment. I would stop blushing because it seemed to make Kelsey giggle.

Kelsey was getting on my last damn nerve.

“If anybody wants some more of that apple cider, I bought some for the trip home,” Ray offered.

I groaned and covered my face with my scarf.

“Best. Trip. Ever.” Kelsey sighed.

•   •   •

We seemed to have decided not to talk about it. Or at least, Josh had decided not to talk about it and I didn’t want to be the one to start that conversation. If I refused to bring it up, then he would assume I was just as emotionally well adjusted (read: shut off) as he was, so he didn’t have to worry about me breaking into his office to steal his Facebook password.

For a week, we both pretended to be just fine. We remained calm and cordial, but we only talked about work-related matters. Our previous playful banter was all but forgotten. There were a couple of days when I wondered whether the sex had actually happened, which was pretty damn irritating. I did not enjoy sexual gaslighting.

And this is why people should not sleep with coworkers. But I would never admit that to Kelsey, because her “I told you so” sometimes involves singing and complicated choreography.

My feelings about Josh were a big murky mess. I tried to figure out what I’d done wrong, and then I realized I hadn’t. I hadn’t done anything wrong. You know, other than sleeping with a coworker, which was frowned upon. But I hadn’t been clingy. I hadn’t started naming our unborn children the moment he took off his pants. I’d behaved like an adult. If Josh was upset about something, he could talk about it with me like a big boy. If not, well, that was on him.

To my disappointment, emotional maturity wasn’t any more fun than being a hypersensitive drama queen. My feelings were still hurt. Work was still awkward. But I held my head high and behaved professionally, with the exception of smacking Kelsey every time she mentioned the words “apples” or “cider.”

We were days away from moving into the Louisville Stay Inn, where we would be staying during our weeklong state fair stint. My “Not What You Expect” campaign had gelled beautifully. I’d checked and double-checked the proofs for my brochures and guides, then hand-delivered my copies to the printer. Just in case Josh had called off the truce without telling me. So other than my general uncertainty, things were looking pretty good for me.

The Kentucky State Fair was a great mix of fun and function for our office, clearing our schedule for a week in mid-August so we could provide support at the fair headquarters. More than half a million people visited the fairgrounds each year to ride their way through the Thrillway and mill through the exhibition halls displaying foods produced and prepared in Kentucky, handmade arts and crafts, and prize-winning animals and plants. And of course, gorge themselves silly on foods on a stick.

My staff usually worked a good portion of the morning before we were relieved by staff from other departments within the tourism office. Kelsey and I would run a little wild, dieting scrupulously for weeks before the fair so we could devour every deep-fried food we could find. I had no idea they could deep-fry Coca-Cola. Sometimes Angela joined us, but she had a lower tolerance for stomach-challenging cuisine and thrill rides.

And of course, I felt obligated to visit the Kentucky Cookout Tent, a large food venue sponsored by the state’s producers of pork, corn, poultry, and mutton. It was like a culinary tour of Kentucky on a plate. Kelsey always made fun of the fact that I overordered to prevent hurting the farmers’ feelings. Was it difficult to eat country ham, corn on the cob, barbecued chicken halves, and mutton in one sitting? Yes, but I didn’t want to play favorites.

We usually stopped by the horticulture displays to see Mr. Leavitt. Having stomped homemakers into annual submission at our local county fair with his rose and azalea specimens, Mr. Leavitt progressed to trying to make old lady gardeners cry on a state level. He’d won blue ribbons every year since I’d known him.

Kelsey’s My Little Pony fantasies ran amuck at the World’s Champion Horse Show in Freedom Hall. While there were some divisions for harness horses, the show was more about making the mounts and their riders as pretty as possible and showing the purity of the bloodlines. Kelsey also seemed to have some unresolved 4-H issues, because she was unnaturally interested in the agriculture displays. Personally, I thought if you’ve seen one impressively bred cow, you’ve seen them all. But she didn’t judge my need to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl over and over, so it worked for us.

This year, we had to put our fun off until after I’d set up my campaign display tent. Ray had declared Kelsey “Switzerland,” forbidding her from helping either of us. Instead, I was using the fairgrounds crew to set up the tables and hang banner racks. Hanging up the actual banners and posters, draping the tablecloths, and unpacking the various freebies was my job and mine alone. I was also responsible for mounting my own flat-panel TVs and stuffing my own goody bags. I was giving away tote bags filled with pens bearing the tourism commission’s Web address, an awesome book titled Weird Things You Didn’t Know About Kentucky, and custom bingo cards listing some of the strange highlights of the state’s year-round calendar.

By the time we arrived at the fairgrounds on the morning before opening day, the weather was blazing hot, with the sort of sticky humidity that had my clothes plastered to my body before I got to my car. I arrived at our tenting area between the midway and the main pavilion building to find both of the exhibition tents closed up tight. Our position relative to the rides guaranteed foot traffic would wind past us as people worked their way toward the exhibition halls.

The shipping crates marked HUTCHINS were waiting outside my tent, mummified in their plastic-wrap cocoons. Josh’s crates were similarly stacked outside of his tent. I barely resisted the urge to slice through the plastic wrap and look inside. When I saw Josh coming down the midway, I yanked the Velcro flap enclosures apart and ducked inside my tent. I dragged my crates inside and cracked them open, repressing the urge to squeal when I saw my materials.

The printer had used a bold blue to stretch “Kentucky—Not What You Expect” in elegant, scrawling text across my banners. Using Kelsey and her amazing image-manipulation skills, I tried to turn all of the traditional images on their ears. The photos ranged from women in fancy tea hats eating messy barbecue to grizzled old-timers in overalls quaffing mint juleps on a palatial porch. We used a picture of all of the state colleges’ mascots playing poker—using every marker in my big book of favors to get all of those costumes in the same room. We had a shot of three jockeys in their crisp, colorful silks fishing from a rowboat at Kentucky Dam. We had a big, happy dual family photo from the Hatfield-McCoy Reunion Marathon. We even used a picture of Josh in his Civil War uniform, texting on his smartphone. I tried a mix of the old and the new, the strange and the sublime.

Thanks to Kelsey, the visuals were great. The storyboards for the ads popped. The brochures gave all of the right information in a cool format. It was good. This wasn’t desperation or hubris talking. It was a solid campaign, visually interesting and memorable. The problem was that I didn’t know if Josh’s was more interesting and memorable. I had a good view across the fairway and could see a steady flow of traffic of staff going into Josh’s tent with pretty heavy equipment. I groaned. Knowing my luck, Josh had found some corporate diamond sponsor and secured an air-conditioned luxury tent with a pool.

I wanted Josh to do well, but I wanted to do better. Then again, if he got the job, I would stay at the office. I was comfortable working with Josh; it was the personal stuff that confused the hell out of me. And while I wouldn’t be happy continuing on as an assistant, I knew that I would continue to do good work. However, I was pretty sure that if I got the job, Josh would leave. His dream was to open up his own marketing firm, not to work for the state, supervised by some insane woman with way too much interest in oversize fiberglass objects.

I couldn’t think about it. Either way, I was going to be a little happy and a little upset. I had exactly twelve hours to make things work in my own tent before the grounds closed for the night, so I planned to make the most of it.

•   •   •

By the time I got the tent somewhere near the level of organization I desired, it was well past dark. I was dripping with sweat, and I had scraped several layers of skin off my arms while opening the crates. But my tables were the perfect mix of precisely fanned brochures and creative fluff—clear plastic jars filled with blue candy, piles of buttons with my slogan pressed on a blue background. This was the stuff of marketing legend.

I was going to have to refresh the tent at the end of each day, after the crowds (please, Lord) destroyed it. But I was pleased with how it had turned out. I might actually get some sleep that night, which would be a refreshing change. I came out to find Josh crouched outside his tent in a pair of tattered cargo shorts, nursing a bottle of water.

Sweaty and caked in a fine layer of dust, Josh looked exhausted. I plopped down on the ground next to him, wiping at the sweat gathering on my own brow. Josh didn’t acknowledge me, just sat staring off into space and glugging down his water. So I leaned back on my palms and gazed up and down the deserted midway. Heavy canvas tents fluttered against the soft summer breeze. The occasional food wrapper rolled across the packed dirt like a plastic tumbleweed. A furry gray-and-white shape toddled out from under a pile of trash and trotted past us, its leathery pink tail dragging behind it in the dirt.

“Was that a possum?” he asked, without looking up.

“Yes, it was,” I said, nodding. “I’m guessing he wants to be first in the funnel cake line.”

When the possum ambled around a corner toward the food vendors, Josh lifted a white paper bag. “Kelsey brought us some sandwiches. She didn’t want to seem like she was favoring you, so she delivered them here.”

“Thanks.” I chuckled, accepting a turkey club on whole wheat. I swatted away a fly that was too chummy with my kettle chips. “How is your display looking, Bambi?”

He frowned as he rolled his shoulders, cracking his back into place. “Bambi?”

“I’m trying to decide what I’m going to call you when you’re wearing your cheerleader outfit.”

It was clear from the expression on his face that he’d entirely forgotten our bet. While that gave me some hope he hadn’t actually bought my UK cheerleading outfit, there was no way he was going to get out of the specially designed U of L pleated skirt I’d had made. (Kelsey’s nerd herd made their own cosplay costumes, so they were pretty skilled with a needle.) “That’s not funny.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

He fiddled with the loose wrapper on his water bottle. “So, I behaved like a total jackass after the encampment, huh?”

“Emotionally stunted, uncommunicative jackass just about covers it, yes,” I said, nodding.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just—”

“I don’t really want to hear why,” I told him, pressing a hand to his chest to get him to both stop and give me some physical space. “For right now, we both need to stay focused on the contest and keeping our tents running. But I do want to say that if you get the job, I will stay. I will work as your assistant, with no reservations. I think we can make it work. As for everything else, the personal stuff, I don’t know. But for right now, everything’s okay. I’m not going to say I’m thrilled with how things are working out, but we’re going to get through the next week and we’re going to let the chips fall where they may. No pressure. No anger.”

I’d expected him to be happy, or at least crack the barest hint of a grin. But instead, for a split second, he looked upset. “Really?”

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming,” I told him.

“It’s just that up until now, you were pretty unsure.”

I unwrapped my sandwich, avoiding his searching stare. “And now, I’m sure. I’ve changed my mind. It happens sometimes.”

In a dance that was well practiced by now, we exchanged the unwanted sandwich ingredients—tomatoes from mine and onions from his—and tucked into our food. We ate in silence, each afraid of what the next day would bring, of the decisions we’d made and avoided. Josh reached over and wrapped his hand around mine, squeezing it gently. I looked up at him and smiled.

We were going to be okay, the two of us. I had to believe it. If we could get through the next week or so without one of us flipping out, we might be able to achieve some form of happily ever after.

That must have been the dehydration talking.

In Which Our State Fair Is a Great State Fair

10

An artist would have painted the state fairgrounds in bright acrylics—shiny primary colors and sharp light. In the distance I could hear the rumbling of the engines running the coasters. The sky was an impossible blue and the air smelled of sizzling oil and burning sugar. It seemed odd that someone would want a funnel cake first thing in the morning, but then again, it could be considered an extra-extra-large donut. I’m not one to judge.

The chatter of hundreds of people moving through the entrance gates was deafening but pleasant, punctuated by the occasional shriek of laughter. Most people dashed toward their favorite ride or food vendor. The farmers attending the livestock and agriculture exhibits were all business, walking with slightly pinched expressions, as if being separated from their animals for the night was like leaving a small child behind. Families took it slow, pushing their sport utility strollers at a measured, even pace, knowing they were in for a long day and conserving their energy.

I hadn’t seen Josh or any of my coworkers yet. Josh and I were each sequestered behind the canvas walls of our pavilions, the early morning sun giving the interior soft golden glow. Our coworkers, being normal people, hadn’t felt the urge to get out of bed before dawn and wait in the parking lot until the fair staff opened the gates. I was so nervous that my stomach felt twisted inside out. I didn’t dare eat anything, though the smell of deep-fried everything wafting into my tent was tempting.

If I knew Kelsey, she’d already had two deep-fried Oreos for breakfast. I didn’t have time to envy her position. There was a healthy flow of foot traffic through my tent. People seemed to enjoy the display and took plenty of freebies. Though I realized that wasn’t much of an indicator of success. People would take used Kleenex if you put it in a bowl next to a sign that said FREE!

For the most part, people seemed happy with my presentation. They laughed at the TV spot looping on the flat-screen TVs. And they kept coming back to the presentation boards to get another look at Kelsey’s photos. My sweet-talking the Weird Things You Didn’t Know About Kentucky publisher into all those free copies was clearly genius, because I couldn’t hand out those tote bags fast enough. People really seemed to get the message. I’d finally put out a campaign on my own and people liked it. It was all I could do to keep from doing a happy dance in the middle of my tent. Instead, I focused on making sure people received their voting cards before leaving, and very helpfully pointed out where the polling box was situated between the tents. Between keeping the tables fresh and answering questions, I was kept inside for much of the day.

Kelsey, carb-delivering saint that she was, stopped by around lunchtime to bring me a Krispy Kreme Cheeseburger, a delicious all-beef patty between two grilled Krispy Kreme glazed donuts.

“What are you trying to do to me?” I laughed as she deposited the grease-stained brown paper bag in my hands like a sacrificial offering. “I’m going to have to live on an elliptical machine next week.”

“Hey, there’s lettuce, tomato, and a pickle,” Kelsey insisted. “It’s practically a salad.”

I groaned as I dropped into a folding chair, discreetly situated behind a display board so no one would see me chowing down on this calorie-laden monstrosity. “Thanks, Kels.”

“Hey, you’ve got to keep your strength up,” she said, munching on her own helping of deep-fried dill pickles. “Have you had a look at Josh’s tent lately?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t had the nerve. Is it busy?”

Kelsey nodded and cringed at the same time, which took some facial contortion skill. “Yes. His theme is ‘Come Home to Kentucky.’ It’s cozy, a little bland, but still pretty upscale. Lots of pictures of bourbon tasting, trotting thoroughbreds, sailboats on Kentucky Lake, and families enjoying nice dinners at big farmhouse tables. He’s putting gift certificates for free Dippin’ Dots in every ergonomic, eco-friendly ‘Come Home to Kentucky’ water bottle he gives away, so they’re moving pretty quickly.”

I blanched. Dippin’ Dots were the “ice cream of the future,” tiny beads of ice cream flash-frozen in a plant in Paducah. They were completely unique and original to Kentucky, not to mention cold and free, which would appeal to the fair crowd. “That brilliant bastard!” I exclaimed, making a couple mothers on the other side of the display board gasp in horror. Well, there went two votes. “I can’t believe he came up with that. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that!”

“It’s pretty popular,” she said. “But nobody is chuckling as they’re walking out of his tent, which is happening in droves here. And I see people all over the fairgrounds leafing through those books you gave them. So at this point, I’d say you have a pretty even split.”

“Ugh.” I bit into the burger, a surprisingly delightful mix of sweet, creamy pastry and beefy, salty goodness. “I can’t believe we have to do this for a whole week. I don’t know if my nerves can take this.”

“Well, speaking of nerves.” Kelsey’s lip curled distastefully. “I thought you should know, I saw C.J. Rowley skulking around Josh’s tent.”

“Again, I say ‘Ugh,’ ” I growled. “He’s probably just sucking up to Josh so he can make excuses for being such a jackass at the Derby party.”

“Actually, he didn’t seem to be talking to Josh, just loitering in his usual skeezy fashion.”

My lips twitched. “Was he also cackling while twirling a long handlebar moustache?”

“Everything but,” she said primly. “I’m just saying, be on your guard. And remember, large men are a lot less scary with your foot lodged in their crotch.”

“That’s your suggested solution to everything,” I said, sighing and sipping my lemon shake-up.

“Because it always works.”

•   •   •

Crotch-related warnings aside, Rowley didn’t come near my tent. On the rare occasion I managed to work up the nerve to look toward Josh’s tent, I saw neither hide nor oily hair of Rowley. I did catch a glimpse of Josh, who looked as uncomfortable and unsure as I felt. He gave me one long, lingering look before I gave him a weak little wave. He inclined his head, more of a bow than a nod, and we retreated to neutral corners. Or tents.

By the end of the day, I was no more sure of my position in the race than Josh seemed to be. But there wasn’t anything more I could do except go home and try to get a good night’s sleep—because I had to do this all over again the next day. I hoped maybe I could catch Josh on his way home and we could grab dinner.

But when I walked out of my tent and bade good night to the security team, I saw the grounds crew dismantling Josh’s tent. His tables were folded and stacked in the back of a truck. His displays were packed up in crates. The brochures he’d worked so hard on were trampled into the ground by passersby. Where the hell was Josh?

“What the . . . ?” I dashed into the collapsing tent space, much to the annoyance of the grounds crew. Josh had disappeared. The fair staff couldn’t give me any answers when I demanded to know what they were doing. My call to Josh’s cell phone went straight to voice mail.

Passing droves of tired parents toting their unconscious offspring to the exit, I made my way to the main headquarters tent for staff. There I found Ray schmoozing Deanna Stanhope, who served on the state fair board. She was wearing another fantastic millinery creation of silk flowers and wax fruit arranged over a straw bonnet. “Mrs. Stanhope, I see we’ve paid another visit to New York,” I said sweetly, remembering her story about a personal milliner in Manhattan.

“Oh, Ms. Hutchins.” Mrs. Stanhope giggled, patting her head to make sure the hat was situated correctly. “How nice of you to notice. And I visited your display earlier; what a funny idea. I was just telling Ray here that I can’t wait to see what you come up with next year.”

“Thank you,” I said, wondering if I was supposed to curtsy in the presence of such a hat. “Would you mind if I borrowed Ray for a moment?”

As Mrs. Stanhope dismissed us, a strange kaleidoscope of emotions crossed Ray’s face. He was pleased. He was sorry. He was a little scared. I was reminded of that day at the Derby hat auction when Ray told me about Josh’s hiring. This did not bode well.

Ray immediately tucked his arm through mine and pulled me outside the tent. “Sadie, you’ll be happy to know that I’ve gotten nothing but positive feedback about your campaign.”

“Great. Where is Josh?”

“Josh isn’t here,” he said carefully.

“So I gathered,” I retorted, clearing my throat to keep my voice from shaking. “And if you do that thing where you try to delay bad news by giving me useless information, you know I’ll just end up making a scene. So please cut to the chase.”

“He quit this afternoon, Sadie.” Ray sighed. “He came to the headquarters a couple hours ago and turned in a handwritten resignation. On a Tasty Time napkin. And because he’s only been with the commission a few months, he asked for a waiver of the usual two weeks’ notice. He’s not coming back to the office.”

I felt all the blood drain from my cheeks. Josh was just walking away? He left again? He quit without a word? Forget how much that hurt me on a personal level, that was just freaking rude to the entire staff. He’d come in and stirred up tension and instigated this bizarre beauty pageant over the job for nothing? He’d put me through the wringer at the office for months for nothing?

Ray put an arm around me. “Hon, I know you’ve put up with a lot and frankly, we’ve jerked you around pretty good here. I’m sorry about that, but you’ve got it. You’ve got the job. And not just because Josh dropped out, but because you deserve it. This campaign is fantastic. It’s different than anything we’ve ever done. I’m so happy to know I’m leaving the office in good hands, Sadie.”

I nodded shakily. Winning didn’t feel as good as I thought it would. To be honest, I could barely feel anything. Not the warm breeze on my neck or Ray’s gentle hands on my arms. I had what I wanted, and it didn’t mean much in the face of this dizzying numbness.

“Sadie, hon, the job’s yours,” Ray told me. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

I narrowed my eyes at Ray. “I’m going to kill him.”

•   •   •

It is really difficult to kill someone when you can’t contact that someone. Despite my numerous voice-mail messages, Josh didn’t respond to my calls or e-mails. When we returned from Louisville, his office had been cleaned out. And for the sake of not getting arrested on a charge of disturbing the peace, I elected not to drive over to his apartment building to check if his lights were on. He didn’t want to see me, that much was clear. And I was going to listen to what he was “telling” me. It was just as well. I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet, either.

I was so angry with Josh. I was so angry with him, and at the same time, hurt and sick and sad. I could barely register the idea that I’d achieved my dream job, because I couldn’t seem to breathe.

I accepted my promotion with grace, minimizing the “In your FACE!” to Gina and former Team Vaughn as much as possible. Okay, I only did it once, and that was after overhearing Gina tell Theresa that the only reason I’d won was that Josh dropped out of the race.

I’d underestimated just how fabulous Ray’s office was. Having a window of my own was fan-freaking-tastic. I didn’t want to be a vulture, but I will admit that the minute the buttercream on Ray’s retirement-party cake was scraped into the trash can, I was changing the height settings on his desk chair and making myself right at home. The walls were now a light spring green and I had a potted mint plant on my desk, courtesy of the ever-hopeful Mr. Leavitt. (He left care instructions with Kelsey, just to be on the safe side.) And there was a framed print of the newly redesigned Sammy the Squirrel on my wall. The good news was that the job wasn’t that different from working as assistant director, except that I weighed many more decisions and didn’t have to get a second opinion when I made them.

While I’d met with Commissioner Bidwell several times, it had never been under circumstances where it would be appropriate to have the conversation I wanted. So I bided my time. Fortunately, I had much to keep me busy. I moved into my new office, met with other department heads, and implemented the secondary phases of my winning campaign, including a Web site redesign, mailings, and a new forty-page magazine-style travel guide. The interns left, meaning that much of the office grunt work—copying, stapling, and the like—was left to us to do ourselves. (Kelsey grumbled endlessly about this.)

Though his absence left its mark, my coworkers took Josh’s departure in stride, assuming that he simply didn’t want to return to the office after losing to me. Meetings were calmer and quieter. Out-of-office trips were a little less of an adventure. There was an overabundance of jelly donuts, because Melody had gotten used to buying extra for Josh. Kelsey was disappointed she wouldn’t see Josh dressed up in his little cheerleading outfit, but she was happy he had taken most of the tension out of the office with him. She sensed there was something off with me, but she didn’t comment on it. She was restraining herself from her usual “I told you so” spectacular and I appreciated it.

Every once in a while, someone would mention Josh’s name in passing and then shoot me this guilty look that some give recent widows. I wasn’t sure if it was because they thought I had survivor’s guilt over getting the job or because they knew I had more-than-professional feelings for my vanquished opponent.

I missed him. It was hard to admit that someone I’d known for such a short amount of time was affecting my daily routine so dramatically. Particularly when I’d spent the better part of the summer mocking him. But I missed Josh like a phantom limb I kept trying to lean on, only to find myself off-balance and depressed when I realized it wasn’t there.

I missed the way he teased me, the way he threw ideas around and got us focused on the task at hand, the way he made me laugh. I missed his voice in my ear, and the way he dissolved into twang whenever he was rattled. I missed the way he invaded my personal space, because frankly, those boundaries I’d built so carefully needed to be shaken up every once in a while.

There was a moment every morning when I walked past the conference room and looked through the blinds to check whether Josh was sitting at the table, knowing that he wouldn’t be. And somehow, I was always a little crushed when he wasn’t there. I kept an eye out for him in the same way that Kelsey looked out for Charlie, as if he were the highlight of my day and I wasn’t sure how to get along without him. And eventually I realized I was sort of, maybe in love. With a total idiot.

Now what?

•   •   •

I did what any woman did when she was in love with an idiot. I forced him to talk to me, whether he wanted to or not. Because I was a little bit of an idiot, too. That night, I went to his apartment building and spotted Josh sitting on his tiny balcony, drinking a beer.

Holy hell, he wasn’t making this easy on me. Josh actually had beard stubble. I’d never seen him with more than the faintest five-o’clock shadow. He was wearing a faded plaid flannel shirt over a gray T-shirt and jeans. It was the sloppiest I’d ever seen him. And I sort of wanted to eat him up with a spoon and smack him all at once. Apparently I had a thing for unkempt frat boys/mountain men.

This was not a good beginning.

I didn’t exactly get the warm, effusive greeting I’d hoped for. He just sort of nodded grimly at me and got up to open his door.

The apartment was impeccably neat, even if its owner wasn’t. Other than the big stack of flattened cardboard boxes stacked against Josh’s kitchen cabinets and the professional portfolio spread out on the kitchen table, it barely looked as if anyone lived there. I moved closer to the table and looked over the miniaturized campaign samples glued to small black presentation boards. It seemed Josh was preparing for a job interview.

Josh gestured at the comfy-looking denim couch and chairs that provided the only seating in the room, right in front of a mammoth flat-screen TV. It was a perfectly nice, if a little small, room. But it was completely impersonal. There was no art on the walls, no little knickknacks. He didn’t even have pillows or an area rug. The only sign that he actually lived there, beyond the portfolio, was a small framed snapshot by the TV. It was a picture of the staff dressed up in our Civil War Days finery.

The snapshot was a sweet one. We’d just started the day and Bonnie wanted to preserve us for posterity while we were still “pristine.” She’d managed to talk one of the state park staff into taking the picture while she posed with us. Kelsey and Charlie were grinning at each other impishly, making me wonder what sort of mayhem Kelsey had just suggested. I was smiling, bright and open, straight into the camera, while Josh was looking down at me. Why didn’t I see him look at me that way before? How had I missed it? Why had he taken the time to print and frame a picture when he didn’t plan to stay with us?

Josh’s gravelly voice sounded just left of my ear. “If you’re here to try to make me feel worse, Sadie, don’t bother.”

“Oh, no, this is more a ‘making sure you’re not dead’ visit than a social call. Because the people you worked with—the ones that you thought of enough to frame a picture of them, but not enough to say good-bye to when you left—would like to know that you’re okay.”

“I’m sorry I left the way I did. I thought it would be easier if I didn’t have to answer a bunch of questions,” he said. “The job is yours, Sadie. It should have been all along. You want it so much more than I did. And the office just doesn’t fit me the way it fits you. This is what you wanted. At least, it was until I showed up.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded.

“Before I showed up, you knew exactly where you were headed. You wanted to be the director of marketing. There was no doubt. And when that was taken away from you, at first, you fought like hell to get it back. Even after we became . . . involved, you still wanted it. You didn’t protect my feelings and tell me you’d be happy to be my assistant, until the night before the fair. All of a sudden you were willing to settle for less. And that scares me, Sadie. I don’t want you to accept anything less than what you really want. And I definitely don’t want you to do it because of me. You want that job more than I ever could, Sadie. You’re the right person for it.”

“And the only way for me to get the job was for you to leave the running?” I asked sharply.

“Don’t put words in my mouth like that,” he said, pulling at the collar of his shirt. “But my leaving was the only way to guarantee that the voters would make the right decision. I didn’t want to leave it to chance.”

A wave of anger and doubt rolled through my stomach with such force, I was afraid I would be sick all over Josh’s nice denim couch. He had tried to do a nice thing, I told myself, even if the result seemed to hurt me more. He thought he was giving me what I wanted, not realizing that I wanted him, too. I looked up to see him tugging at his collar as he watched me. And the wave of anger receded to make way for recognition. “Wait a minute, that’s bullshit.”

Josh’s hand fell away from his neck. “What?”

“You’re pulling at your collar, which I guess is what you do when there’s no necktie available. And you only pull at your tie when you’re really uncomfortable.”

“Of course I’m uncomfortable. A crazy woman is lecturing me in my own home!”

“Josh! Tell me what is going on. And don’t tell me that you wanted to make me happy. I know you don’t respect me on a personal level—”

“Hey, don’t put words in my mouth!” he exclaimed again.

“—but you wouldn’t just walk away and surrender to me on a professional level. You have too much pride in your work. Now, tell me!”

“Fine!” he yelled back. “I caught Rowley stuffing the ballot box.”

“What?!”

“Why do you always say ‘what’ so loudly?” He sighed. “I caught Rowley that first afternoon of the fair. I walked out of my tent and saw him shoving a bunch of papers into the ballot box between our tents. He’d photocopied a ballot a few hundred times and got a couple of his friends to sign a bunch of different names to them. It wasn’t like we were going to do in-depth checks on a fair vote for one job. We didn’t exactly have Fort Knox security. I asked him what he thought he was doing and he just grinned at me with that stupid smug face of his and said he was ‘helping a brother out.’ He said he was going to fix it so I won the job by a landslide. I told him to go screw himself, that I’d tell Ray not to count that day’s votes. But he said he’d just come back and do it again the next day and the day after that and the day after that. He was going to make sure you’d lose, come hell or high water. He didn’t particularly care if I won, he just wanted to make sure you didn’t win.”

I plopped down in my seat, suddenly remembering Kelsey spotting Rowley on the midway just before she’d brought me lunch. He must have skulked around all day until he got the chance to rig the ballot box. Being the ego-driven moron that he was, Rowley wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to do his dirty work for him. He would have relished stuffing the faked ballots into the box himself. And it wouldn’t have occurred to him to shove a few ballots into the box at a time over the course of the day.

Ray hadn’t even counted that first day’s vote, because it didn’t matter after Josh quit. And frankly, I hadn’t really wanted to know the results. I was awarded the job, no questions asked.

“Oh my— Of all the insane, sadistic, creepy, detail-oriented things to do,” I marveled. “And it didn’t occur to you to tell anybody?”

“Rowley was going to find a way to keep you from getting the job,” Josh said. “Even if we forgot about the vote or found some way to make it more secure. He would have found some way around it. So I figured the best way to keep that from happening was to quit right there. If I took myself out of the running, they would give it to you immediately and he would miss his shot.”

I stood and held my hands up as I tried to process everything he had said. To sum up, Rowley was insane. I had the job under false pretenses. And Josh cared about me a little bit more than I’d thought.

“I am trying so hard to decide between kissing you for being all valiant and stoic and trying to protect me, and smacking you for being all valiant and stoic and trying to protect me. You—you considerate asshole! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I hated the fact that Rowley steered me toward the job in the first place to hurt you. Because you wouldn’t have let me walk away. You would have forced me to explain and I just didn’t want you to start off your new job wondering whether you should have it or not. And I couldn’t take that from you. I couldn’t stand the idea of you being unhappy because of me, so I left.”

“And I’m assuming it would be pointless to ask you to come back?”

He stepped closer and I pressed my back against the wall to get away. The space felt so small and his body took up so much of it. I’d done so well avoiding proximity. But now I could feel the warmth of his skin, breathe in his clean cotton-and-rosewood smell, and my resolve was weakening right along with my knees. I wedged my palm against his chest and pushed him back. His mouth tilted down just a bit at the corners, but he seemed relieved by my reluctance.

I was wrong. This is why you don’t sleep with people you work with.

“Yes, because I’m not good for you. Because I’m still the guy with the bad credit and the shaky job prospects . . . and the former frat buddies hell-bent on making trouble for you. Because it’s better for you if I’m not around the office. You’ll have more control of the staff. There will be no doubt who’s in charge. I won’t be there to distract you.”

“You don’t get to make those decisions for me,” I told him.

“No, but I can make them for myself,” he sniped, stepping around me to go into the kitchen and rummage around the fridge for two more beers.

“Okay, then how do you plan on getting another job? You did quit in a pretty unprofessional fashion in a very public venue. People in our field tend to remember that sort of thing.” Josh shifted uncomfortably, his eyes glued to the floor. I glimpsed the flattened cardboard over his shoulder. That wasn’t backed-up recycling. Those were leftover boxes, the kind you harassed grocery stores into giving you when you were packing up.

“You’re moving?” I exclaimed.

“Well, you said it yourself. This is the sort of thing that will follow me. Ray said he would give me a good recommendation, but I’m probably going to have to move somewhere without connections to here.”

“You were just going to move,” I scoffed, anger surging through my chest until I thought my heart would lurch up through my rib cage like something out of Alien. “You were going to leave and not say anything, about Rowley or any of this. You were going to leave me wondering what I’d done to chase you off, what I’d done wrong.”

“Sadie, I—”

“Don’t you ‘Sadie’ me, you jackass!”

“I didn’t want to hurt you! There just wasn’t time to explain!”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I told him. “I don’t have anything to say to you right now.”

I strode toward the door before I threw anything that couldn’t be unthrown. “You know what, that’s not true. I do have something to say. You left Atlanta before, when things got hard. If you leave us—and by that, I don’t mean the lovely people we work with, but us, you and me—if you leave now, it’s going to become a habit.”

No response. He continued to stand in the kitchen, his back to me, not saying a word.

“We’re going to be hiring a new assistant director and I can choose my replacement. If you want it, the job is yours. I’m accepting résumés, but so far the applicant pool has been frighteningly low on guys who inspire me by being as irritating as possible. If I don’t fill the position by the end of the year, I’ll probably lose funding for it. So this is a limited-time offer.”

And still nothing. Just a longer view of Josh’s back. It was a perfectly nice back, but it was still pissing me off.

“Fine,” I bit out. “I’ll send everybody your regrets.”

Snagging my bag, I stormed past the kitchen, toward the door, and he caught my elbow, yanking me close. His forehead brushed against my hair as he spoke. “It’s not easy,” he swore quietly. “I promise you. It’s not easy to leave. I just need to do things my own way.”

“Well, your way sucks,” I told him, pulling out of his grip.

He pressed a kiss to my cheek and another to my forehead, making me pull away entirely, out of reach. “Good-bye, Sadie.”

“Good luck, Josh.” I closed the door behind me without looking back.

In Which I Touch Potential Employees Inappropriately

11

If I never saw another résumé, it would be too soon.

People just didn’t know how to accurately assess and account for their strengths and weaknesses. And for the record, knowing how to set up programming on a TiVo is not a special skill. Also, putting your résumé on scented, floral paper is super annoying.

The interviews were not going well. Kelsey was sure I was violating several labor laws by giving hypothetical scenarios designed to measure the applicants’ “douche-bag factor.” But until she could show me the statute proscribing it, I would keep up the tactic. It had already helped me weed out several candidates who lost their cool and stomped out of the interview.

Some people are so touchy when it comes to questions about previous episodes of office espionage or personal flakery.

I was officially director, but we still hadn’t hired my replacement. I was fairly certain that with our current staff, I could get along without an assistant director, but I didn’t want to chance it. So far, the applicants had been underwhelming. They were either just out of college or had been in the marketing field for so long that they felt they had nothing to learn from me or my staff. Oddly enough, a member of each demographic group asked me whether they could just interview for the director’s job. Meaning my job—the job of the person interviewing them.

The closest I’d come to an acceptable match was Jill Worthen, a perfectly nice woman with ten years of experience in the field, including working for the Tennessee state parks system. She seemed motivated, positive, and focused on making local residents just as interested in the state’s resources as visitors. The problem was she was just like me. There would be too much agreement, not enough interplay. If working with Kelsey and Josh had shown me anything, it was that I needed challenges and strengths that complemented my weaknesses.

I was sitting at my desk in Ray’s old office, poring over Jill’s résumé and mentally cataloguing all of the reasons she would make a perfect addition to the staff, when Kelsey came through the door bearing bottled water and her sick kit.

“I know you still rely on me to be your inner mean girl, so I’m just going to say it. She bored the hell out of you, didn’t she?”

“She was so nice.” I sighed. “How can I not hire someone that nice, who knows how to do the job?”

“Because she bored the hell out of you,” she told me. “A few weeks in power and you’ve already started abusing it.”

I made a rude hand gesture at her, which she pointedly ignored.

“Come on, come on,” she huffed, pulling me up out of my chair and straightening my jacket. She pulled my cosmetics bag out of my desk drawer and began rummaging for powder. I looked down at the mini mouthwash bottle she’d shoved into my hand.

“I’m not feeling sick,” I told her. “I’m not nervous about hiring an assistant director. I need one too badly.”

“I just think it would be a good idea to put your best foot forward,” she said in a tone too nonchalant to be trusted. She brushed a fine layer of pressed powder over the bridge of my nose and handed me a coral lip gloss. “Don’t forget to blot.”

“I won’t,” I grumbled, swiping the gloss across my bottom lip.

“Just one more interview,” Kelsey promised. “And then I will drive you home so you don’t endanger the other drivers with stoplight hysterics.”

“I’m not having ‘stoplight hysterics,’ ” I protested. “That would imply that I’m just having hysterics at stoplights, which isn’t accurate.”

“Trust me, I know.” Poor Kelsey had been propping me up with foreign chocolate and non–Dr. Phil–approved pep talks for so long that it was wearing on her nerves. I hadn’t heard from Josh since my uninvited visit to his apartment weeks ago. And frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to. What was I going to say? Please come back? You were wrong? I’m sorry that I may have overreacted to your absence in such a way that my cop cousins have arranged for you to be pulled over and ticketed at every opportunity?

“Buck up, little camper,” Kelsey cooed, “and there’s a Toblerone in it for you.”

“Stop patronizing me,” I grumped.

“I think we can both agree that’s not a good idea.”

“I know.”

I closed my eyes and waited for the door to open. This interview was going to go well, I told myself. This time, I would behave like a professional. I would not make the potential employee afraid of the possibility of working for me. I would think optimistically instead of fine-combing their personality for flaws. The next person who walked through the door would be perfect for the job.

A familiar rat-a-tat-tat had me turning toward the door. My mouth dropped open as Josh walked in, wearing his good blue suit and my favorite blue-and-green-striped tie.

What. The. Hell?

I was torn between the urge to pole-vault over my desk and wrap myself around him like an affectionate squid and the urge to whip my nameplate at his head. He was okay? All these weeks, I was worrying about him, picturing him jobless and lost and possibly living in a refrigerator box, and he was okay? Hell, he looked tanned, happy, in his element. Other than a touch of interview nerves, he seemed to be doing just fine.

Josh tugged at his tie, as if he were any other nervous applicant who had not, in fact, seen the interviewer naked. “Ms. Hutchins? I’m here for my interview?”

I raised an eyebrow, barely catching a glimpse of a triumphant Kelsey peering through the door just before Josh closed it. I narrowed my eyes at her.

Josh gave me his most expectant, charming smile as he stood in front of my desk, briefcase in hand. My mouth hung open and I could not seem to make actual word sounds. I had no idea what to say. And his attitude would determine whether I forewarned him about the tickets.

Josh reached into his briefcase and pulled out a copy of his résumé, carefully placing it into my hands. I cleared my throat, deciding to play along. If we were going to role-play our way through this, I could at least enjoy one of these interviews. “Oh, of course. Mr. . . . ?”

“Vaughn.” He stretched his hand out to shake mine. “Josh Vaughn.”

His warm fingers wrapped around mine and squeezed them tight. Lord help me, my knees almost folded under me right there. I gave him a little squeeze back and then motioned to the chair opposite my desk. I sat in my own chair and primly folded my hands in front of me. “So, tell me about yourself.”

The most dreaded and lame of all interview questions. I was keenly interested in how Josh would make this bearable.

“Well, I’m a Kentucky native. I grew up in Ohio County. I’m familiar with the tourism industry here in the state and believe I could provide all of the support you need to produce successful campaigns. Kentucky has so much to offer. I think that the people here are unique and interesting, and we should do everything we can to preserve and promote that character.”

I smirked, recognizing the words I’d used to get things off to such a rough start on Josh’s first day. Josh preened.

So much for professional.

“And can you tell me a little bit about your last job?”

He grinned. “Well, I just got out of a position that I really enjoyed.”

“Really? Well, if the position was so enjoyable, why would you leave?” I asked, a bit more pointedly than I’d intended.

“Well, the fit wasn’t quite right,” he told me. “I think I need something with a little less control, a little less stress. It will give me time to learn a new style of campaigning. A bit more relaxed, user-friendly.”

I tilted my head, giving him a long, pensive once-over. “How would you feel about working under a woman?”

“I’m very comfortable under women,” he assured me, letting that thick molasses accent creep back into his voice. He lowered it, leaning closer as he grinned up at me. “Particularly pert, complicated brunettes with a penchant for historically accurate corsetry. I’m willing to put a lot of time and effort into making sure you’re satisfied.”

I shook my head, clucking my tongue as I stood and rounded the desk. “Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to show me exactly what you mean by that.”

And no, I didn’t care that I was re-creating every workplace-themed porn ever made. If working with Josh had shown me anything, it was that sometimes being direct, and a little vulgar, is the best route.

Bracing his hands against the desk, a palm placed on either side of my hips, he stood and hovered a hair’s breadth away from my face. His lips parted over that white, wide smile, and he nudged his nose along my cheek. He slipped his hands under my jaw and pressed his lips to mine. I sagged into him, ignoring the way my stapler was digging into my back while I wound my arms around his neck

“You were right. I’m so sorry,” he said, sighing against my lips. “I should have stuck around.”

“I’m going to need to hear that one more time.”

He kissed me again. “I’m sorry.”

“Nope, the other part.”

“You were right.” He rolled his eyes.

“What changed your mind?”

“I went back home to see my family, turned off the phone, and thought it through. I missed you. I missed this office and the people here. Everybody else I know is too damn normal. I don’t want to work with anyone else. I want to work with you.”

“Thanks,” I scoffed, trying to pull away from him to smack him or something, but he just held me tighter. “You’re sure you really want to work for me? It’s not exactly running your own firm. I don’t want to make you give up your dream.”

“Dreams can change, especially when you had them for the wrong reasons,” he said. “Besides, what good would it do, running my own firm, when I wouldn’t be able to take the team with me? I’d have secretaries who could make nonchewable coffee, interns without distinct personality disorders. Where’s the fun? I want to be with you. I want to work with you and watch you achieve these bizarre, wonderful visions of yours.”

I chuckled, running my fingers through his hair. “I missed you so much . . . It’s not as much fun without you here tormenting me. I . . . I don’t love you,” I told him. “I really like you. But I think we should actually, you know, go out on a few dates before we make the big pronouncement. And you will have to take me somewhere without cloth napkins, preferably with wall-mounted paper towel dispensers tableside.”

“That’s all I’ll be able to afford for a while anyway.” He snorted. “And I don’t love you either, by the way. I just want you to know that. I have strong feelings of like for you, that’s all. You being adorable, and gorgeous, and incredibly smart, and the only person who could possibly understand the way my twisted head works, those are just bonuses.”

“We would still need to put off dating for a while,” I said. “You know, the whole ‘unwelcome sexual advances’ thing. It’s one of those frowned-upon things that won’t exactly impress, hiring my new boyfriend as one of my first acts as marketing director.”

“So, we behave like normal people—for us—at the office, and then when we’re off the clock, you can make all the sexual advances you want. Trust me, they’re welcome,” he said. “Please let me come home, Sadie.”

I told him, “You’re putting yourself in an awfully weak position, you know. You don’t want to at least ask some questions or set some conditions? No special requests for vacation time or a parking spot?”

“Okay, I have two conditions,” he said, his hands settling at the small of my back. “One, I get to work with you from square one, so I can figure out your creative process. And two, whatever evil phobia-based revenge you have planned for C.J., you let me help.”

I grinned, just sharply enough to make Josh wince a little. “Actually, we don’t have to do anything to Rowley. He’s got enough problems to deal with.”

Josh frowned. “I haven’t heard anything.”

“Well, these are the sort of problems you wouldn’t post in the fraternity alumni newsletter. Let’s just say that some of Kelsey’s technologically gifted friends intervened on our behalf. And now the federal government is acutely aware that Rowley owes forty thousand dollars in back taxes, has six years’ worth of unpaid parking tickets, and has several bench warrants for failure to appear for those unpaid tickets.”

Josh’s mouth fell open. “Kelsey has friends that can change government records?”

I waffled my hand back and forth. “They didn’t so much change the records as flag them so Rowley’s problems would come to the attention of the court system and IRS sooner. Last I heard, Rowley came barreling out of his favorite bar to yell at some poor traffic cop for ticketing him—he was parked in a handicapped spot, by the way. The cops noticed the bench warrants and he was hauled away. And in front of all his friends, too.” I clucked my tongue and shook my head as if I felt some sympathy for the tool.

“Could you please tell Kelsey that we’re on good terms now?” Josh asked, shifting uncomfortably. “Because I have enough problems with my credit report.”

I laughed. “I think we can arrange that.”

Josh pressed his mouth to mine and pulled me into the office chair, into his lap. I pressed my forehead against his while he twined his fingers through mine. “So do I get the job?”

“You’re hired,” I told him solemnly. “But we need to talk about your first Casual Friday.”

“What about it?”

I grinned wickedly. “Don’t forget your pom-poms.”

He frowned for a split second before he figured out my meaning. He groaned. “You’re not serious!”

“Of course I am; you lost. Therefore, you wear the cheerleader uniform.”

“You wouldn’t,” he scoffed as I crawled off my desk and rooted around in a drawer until I found a red-and-black bow. I tossed it to him, and he blanched when he saw the little U of L cardinal imprinted on the material.

“Try to put your hair into two tiny pigtails,” I told him. “For authenticity.”

“This isn’t funny, Sadie.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

Afterword

If you are interested in visiting any of the locations or events described herein—and I hope you are—please visit the following Web sites:

Kentucky Department of Travel
www.kentuckytourism.com

Columbus-Belmont Park—For the record, there is no summer encampment. But the fall event is awesome.

www.parks.ky.gov/parks/recreationparks/columbus-belmont/default.aspx

Vent Haven Museum—Not nearly as creepy as Josh believes it to be. An extremely cool collection of showbiz history.

http://venthavenmuseum.com

Kentucky State Fair
www.kystatefair.org

My personal favorite sites in Kentucky:

Wickliffe Mounds
http://parks.ky.gov/parks/historicsites/wickliffe-mounds

Lost River Cave
http://lostrivercave.com

Newport Aquarium—Home to Sweet Pea and Scooter, stars of the only shark ray breeding program in the world.

www.newportaquarium.com

And if you are interested in finding the weird in your own state, I recommend searching www.weirdus.com

Click through for a sneak peek of the next scintillating tale by

Molly Harper

A Witch’s Handbook of Kisses & Curses

Available June 2013 from Pocket Books

If you are fortunate enough to receive a message from the other side, pay attention to it.

—A Guide to Traversing the Supernatural Realm

My week started with spectral portents of doom floating over my bed while I was trying to have anniversary sex with my boyfriend. It was all downhill from there.

Stephen had not been pleased when I’d pushed him off of me, rolled out of bed, and yelled, “That’s it! I’m going!” at the image of a crow burning against my ceiling. I mean, I guess there are limits to what men are willing to put up with, and one’s girlfriend interacting with invisible omens is a bit out of a perfectly nice investment broker’s scope. He seemed to think I was huffing off after taking offense to that counterclockwise tickle he’d improvised near the end.

Of course, telling him about the increasingly forceful hints I’d received from my noncorporeal grandmother for the last two weeks would have made the situation worse. Stephen tended to clam up when we discussed my family and their “nonsense.” He refused to discuss my Nana Fee or the promise I’d made to her that I’d travel all the way from our tiny village to the wilds of America. So I’d tried ignoring the dreams, the omens, the way my alphabet soup spelled out “HlfMunHollw.”

I tried to rationalize that a deathbed promise to a woman who called herself a witch wasn’t exactly a binding contract. But my grandma interrupting the big O to make her point was the final straw.

And so I was moving to Half-Moon Hollow, Kentucky, indefinitely, so I could locate four magical objects that would prevent a giant inter-witch-clan war and maintain peace in my little corner of northwestern Ireland.

Yes, I am aware that statement sounds absolutely ridiculous.

Sometimes it pays to have a large tech-savvy family at your disposal. When you tell them, “I have a few days to rearrange my life so I can fly halfway across the world and secure the family’s magical potency for the next generation,” they hop to do whatever it takes to smooth the way. Aunt Penny had not only booked my airline tickets, but also located and rented a house for me. Uncle Seamus had arranged quick shipping of the supplies and equipment I would need to my new address. And my beloved, and somewhat terrifying, teenage cousin Ralph may have broken a few international laws while online “arranging” a temporary work visa so I wouldn’t starve while I was there. Not everybody in our family could work magic, but some members had their own particular brand of hocus-pocus.

Given how Stephen felt about my family, I’d decided it was more prudent to tell him I’d accepted an offer for a special six-month nursing fellowship in Boston. The spot came open when another nurse left the program unexpectedly, I told him, so I had to make a quick decision. He argued that it was too sudden, that we had too many plans hanging in the balance for me to run off to the States for half a year, no matter how much I loved my job.

I didn’t want to leave Stephen. For months he had been a bright spot in a life in need of sunshine, with the loss of my Nana Fee and my struggles to keep the family buoyed. And yet, somehow, here I was, sprawled in the back of a run-down cab as it bumped down a sunlit gravel road in Half-Moon Hollow, Kentucky. The term “cab” could only be applied loosely to the faded blue Ford station wagon, the only working taxi in the entire town. We had a fleet of two working in Kilcairy, and we only had about four hundred people living inside the town limits. Clearly, living in Boston until my early teens hadn’t prepared me for life in the semirural South.

Yawning loudly, I promised myself I would worry about cultural adjustments later. I was down-to-the-bone tired. My skirt and blouse were a grubby shambles. I smelled like airplane sweats and the manky Asian candy my seatmate insisted on munching for most of the thirteen-hour flight from Dublin to New York, which had been followed by a two-hour hop to Chicago and another hour on a tiny plane-let. I just wanted to go inside, take a shower, and sleep. While I was prepared
to sleep on the floor if necessary, I prayed the house was indeed furnished as Aunt Penny promised.

While the McGavock clan had collectively bankrolled my flight, I needed to save the extra cash they’d provided as “buy money” for my targets. Living expenses were left to me to figure out. I would have to start looking for some acceptable part-time work as soon as my brain was functional again. I squinted against the golden light pouring through the cab windows, interrupted only by the occasional patch of shade from tree branches arching over the little lane. The sky was so clear and crystal blue that it almost hurt to look out at the odd little clusters of houses along the road. It was so tempting just to lay my head back, close my eyes, and let the warm sunshine beat hot and red through my eyelids.

“You know you’re rentin’ half of the old Wainwright place?” the cab driver, Dwayne-Lee, asked as he pulled a sharp turn onto yet another gravel road. I started awake just in time to keep my face from colliding with the spotty cab window. Dwayne-Lee continued on, blithe as a newborn babe, completely oblivious. “That place always creeped me out when I was a kid. We used to dare each other to run up to the front door and ring the bell.”

I lifted a brow at his reflection in the rearview. “And what happened?”

“Nothin’,” he said, shrugging. “No one lived there.”

I blew out a breath and tried to find the patience not to snap at the man. Dwayne-Lee had, after all, been nice enough to make a special trip to the Half-Moon Hollow Municipal Airport to pick me up. Dwayne-Lee had been sent by Iris Scanlon, who handled various business dealings for my new landlord. His skinny frame puffed up with pride at being tasked with welcoming a “newcomer,” he’d handed me an envelope from Iris containing a key to my new house, a copy of my lease, her phone number, and a gift certificate for a free pizza delivered by Pete’s Pies.

Anyone who tried to make my life easier was aces in my book. So from that moment on, I was a little in love with Iris Scanlon. Less so with Dwayne-Lee, who was currently nattering on about the Wainwright place and its shameful conversion from a respectable Victorian home to a rental duplex after Gilbert Wainwright had moved closer to town years before. I closed my eyes against the sunlight and the next thing I knew, the cab was pulling to a stop.

Wiping furiously at the wet drool trail on my chin, I opened my door while Dwayne-Lee unloaded my luggage from the trunk. Separated from the other houses on the street by a thicket of dense trees, the rambling old Victorian was painted robin’s-egg blue with snowy white trim. The house was two stories, with a turret off to the left and a small central garden separating the two front doors. Given that the opposite side of the front porch seemed occupied with lawn chairs and a disheveled garden gnome, I assumed that the “tower side” of the house was mine. I grinned, despite my bone-aching fatigue. I’d always been fascinated by the idea of having a tower as a kid, though I’d long since cut my hair from climbing length.

The grass grew scrabbled in patches across the lawn. A section of brick had fallen loose from the foundation on the west corner. Knowing my luck, there was a colony of bats living in the attic to complete that Addams Family look.

“I’ll have bats in my belfry.” I giggled, scrubbing at my tired eyes.

“You feelin’ all right, ma’am?” Dwayne-Lee asked.

“Hmm?” I said, blinking blearily at him. “Oh, sorry, just a little out of sorts.”

I pulled a wad of cash from my pocket and handed him enough for my fare and a generous tip.

Dwayne-Lee cleared his throat. “Um, ma’am, I can’t take Monopoly money.”

I glanced down at the bills in my hands. They were the wrong color. I was trying to pay Dwayne-Lee in euros. “Sorry.”

With Dwayne-Lee compensated in locally legal tender, I took my key out of Iris’s envelope, unlocked the door, and hauled my stuff inside. My half of the old Wainwright place consisted of two bedrooms and a bath upstairs, plus a parlor and a kitchen downstairs. It was a bit shocking to have this much room to myself. I was used to living in my Nana Fee’s tiny cottage, where I still whacked my elbows on the corner of the kitchen counter if I wasn’t careful.

At some point, the house appeared to have been decorated by a fussy old lady fond of dark floral wallpaper and feathered wall sconces. The house was old, but someone had paid some
attention to its upkeep recently. The hardwood floors gleamed amber in the afternoon light. The stairs were recently refurbished and didn’t creak once while I climbed them. The turret room turned out to be a little sitting area off my bedroom, lined with bookshelves. I ran my fingers along the dusty shelves. I loved a good book. If I stayed long enough, I could put a little reading chair there . . . if I had a reading chair. I’d need to do something about getting some more furniture.

Despite Aunt Penny’s assurances, the rooms were furnished in only the meanest sense. There was a table and chairs in the kitchen, a beaten sofa in the parlor, plus a dresser and bare mattress in the front bedroom. Sighing deeply and promising myself I wouldn’t mention this to my aunt, I drew the travel sack—a thin, portable sleeping bag for people who were phobic about touching hotel sheets—over the bare mattress. The travel sack was a Christmas gift from Stephen. I smiled at the thought of my dear, slightly anal-retentive boyfriend and resolved to call him as soon as it was a decent hour overseas.

I found blankets in the bottom drawer of the dresser. I wasn’t too keen on using them as covers, given their moldy state, but I thought they would make a good shade for the window so the sun wouldn’t keep me awake. I boosted myself against the dresser to hang one . . . only to observe that some sort of Greek statue had come to life in my garden.

He was built like a boxer, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, with narrow hips encased in ripped jeans. Thick sandy hair fell forward over his face while he worked. His sculpted chest was bare, golden, and apparently quite sweaty given the way it glistened while he planted paving stones near a pristine concrete patio.

I wavered slightly, grabbing the window frame, my weakening knees coupled with jet lag causing me to collapse a little. Was this my next-door neighbor? I wasn’t sure if I was comfortable living so close to a he-man who could lift giant stones as if they were dominoes. And when had it gotten so bloody hot in here? I hadn’t noticed I was warm in the cab . . . Oh, wait, it was time for he-man to take a water break. He took a few long pulls off a bottle from his cooler and dumped the rest over his head.

My jaw dropped, nearly knocking against my chest. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Just then, he looked up and spotted me ogling him from above. Our eyes connected . . .

And he winked at me like some lothario gardener out of a particularly dirty soap opera! I spluttered indignant nonsense before tucking the blanket over the window with a decisive shove.

I pressed my hands over dry, tired eyes. I didn’t have the mental reserves for this. I needed to sleep, eat, and bathe, most likely in that order. I would deal with the man reenacting scenes from A Streetcar Named Desire in my garden at a later date. My shoulders tense and heavy, I crawled onto the mattress, bundled my shirt under my head, and plummeted into sweet unconsciousness.

•   •   •

I woke up bleary and disoriented, unable to figure out where the hell I was. Why was it so dark? Was I too late? Were they here already? Where was my family? Why couldn’t I hear anyone talking? I lurched up from the mattress and snagged the blanket from the window, letting in the weak twilight.

As soon as I saw the paving stones, I remembered the flight, the mad taxi ride, and the Adonis in the back garden.

“Oh.” I sighed, scrubbing my hand over my face. “Right.”

I stumbled into the bath and splashed cool water on my face. The mirror reflected seven kinds of hell. My face was pale and drawn. My thick, coffee-colored hair was styled somewhere near “crazy cat lady,” and my normally bright, deep-set brown eyes were marked with dark smudges that weren’t entirely composed of mascara. I had my grandfather’s features, straight lines, delicate bones, and a particularly full bottom lip. Of course, that meant I looked like my mother, too, which was not something I liked to dwell on.

I stripped out of my clothes, standing under the lukewarm spray and letting it wash away the grime. Long after the water cooled, I climbed out of the tub, only to remember that I hadn’t thought to bring any towels into the bathroom with me. Aunt Penny had stuffed a few into my suitcase because she knew the house wouldn’t have them. But my suitcase was downstairs, next to the door. And I was stark naked.

“Moron,” I cursed myself as I took a sprightly, shivering walk across the bedroom to retrieve my jacket. I took the stairs carefully—because I wasn’t about to die in a household accident wearing only an outdated rain jacket—and carefully avoided windows as I made my way to my luggage. The towels, somehow, still smelled line-fresh, like the lavender and rosemary in Nana Fee’s back garden. I pressed one to my face before wrapping it around my body toga-style.

I mentally blessed Aunt Penny for packing some ginger tea in my bag, which was good for post-flight stomachs. I retrieved the tea bags and cast a longing glance at the kitchen. Did the “furnished” bit include dishes and cups? I could function—I might even be able to dress myself properly—if I just had some decent tea in me. Even if it meant boiling the water in a microwave.

I shuddered. Blasphemy.

If I set the water to boil now, it would be ready by the time I picked out clothes. Multitasking would be the key to surviving here. There would be no loving aunties to make my afternoon tea, no uncles to pop into town if I needed something. I was alone here with my thoughts, for the first time in a long time. And considering my thoughts of late, that could be a dangerous thing.

“Staring into space isn’t going to get the tea made,” I chided myself. Securing my towel, I made my way to the stove, careful to avoid the windows. I didn’t know if my neighbor was doing his sweaty work out in the yard, and I didn’t fancy being winked at wearing this getup.

Setting the tea bags on the counter, I began rummaging through the cupboards, finding dirty, abandoned cookware, but no kettle or cups. I opened the top cupboard nearest the refrigerator and—

“ACCCK!” I shrieked at the sight of beady black eyes glaring out at me from the cupboard shelf. The furry gray creature’s mouth opened, revealing rows of sharp, white fangs. It swiped its paws at me, claws spread, and hissed like a brassed-off cobra.

I let loose a bloodcurdling scream and ran stumbling out of the kitchen, through a screened door, and into the moonless purple light of early evening. With my eyes trained behind me to make sure . . . whatever it was didn’t follow me, I slammed into a solid, warm object. The force of my momentum had me wrapping my arms and legs around it as I struggled away from the fanged menace.

“Oof!” the object huffed.

The object was a person. To be specific, the shirtless, sweaty person who’d been standing in my garden earlier. Dropping a couple of yard tools with a clank, he caught my weight with his hands, stumbling under the impact of struggling, panicked woman. Certainly as surprised to find me in his arms as I was to be there.

Slashing sandy eyebrows shot skyward. The full lips parted to offer, “Hello?”

Oh, saints and angels, I was doomed. He was even better-looking up close. Tawny, whiskey-colored eyes. A classic Grecian nose with a clear break on the bridge. Wide, generous lips currently curved into a naughty, tilted line as he stared up at me.

Completely. Doomed.

Focus, I told myself, there’s a mutant rodent in your cupboard, waiting to devour your very soul, then terrorize the townsfolk.

“In my kitchen!” I shouted in his face.

“What?” The man seemed puzzled, and not just by the fact that I seemed to be wrapped around him like some sort of cracked-up spider monkey.

“In. My. KITCHEN!” I yelled, scrabbling to keep my grip on his shoulders while leaning back far enough to make eye contact. Despite my all-out terror, I couldn’t help but notice the smooth, warm skin or the tingles traveling down my arms, straight to my heart. He smelled . . . wild. Of leather and hay and deep, green pockets of forest. As my weight shifted backward, his large, warm hands slid around my bottom, cupping my cheeks to keep me balanced against him.
“Th-there’s a creature!” I cried. “In my kitchen! Some demon rat sent from hell! It tried to bite my face off!”

The fact that his hands were ever so subtly squeezing my towel-clad ass managed to subdue my mind-numbing terror and replace it with indignant irritation. I didn’t know this man. I certainly hadn’t invited him to grope me, spider-monkey climbing or no. And I had a perfectly lovely boyfriend waiting for me at home, who would not appreciate some workman’s callused hands on my ass.

“You can move your hands now,” I told him, trying to dismount gracefully, but his hands remained cupped under my left cheek.

“Hey, you tackled me!” he protested in a smoky, deeply accented tenor.

I narrowed my eyes. “Move your hand or I’ll mail it back to you by a very slow post.”

“Fine.” He sighed, gently lowering me to my feet. “Let’s get a look at this creature in your kitchen.”

Struggling to keep my towel in place, I led him into my kitchen and tentatively pointed toward the home of the Rodent of Unusual Size. I could hear the beast hissing and growling inside, batting at the closed door with its claws. I was surprised it hadn’t managed to eat its way through yet. But somehow, my would-be rescuer seemed far more interested in looking around, noting the pile of luggage by the door.

“Haven’t had much time to unpack yet, huh?” he asked. I glared at him. He shrugged. “Fine, fine, creature crisis. I’m on it.”

He opened the cupboard door, let out a horrified gasp, and slammed it shut. He grabbed a grimy old spatula I’d left on the counter during my rummaging and slid it through the cupboard handles, trapping the monster inside. He turned on me, his face grave while his amber eyes twinkled. “You’re right. I’m going to have to call in the big guns.”

He disappeared out the door on quick, quiet feet. I stared after him, wondering if I’d just invited help from a complete lunatic, when the early evening breeze filtering in through the back door reminded me I was standing there in just a towel. I scrambled over to my suitcase and threw on a loose peasant skirt and a singlet. I wondered what he meant by “big guns.” Was he calling the police? The National Guard? MI5?

I was slipping on a pair of knickers under my skirt just as my bare-chested hero came bounding back into the kitchen with a large, lidded pot and a spoon.

“Are you going to cook it?” I gasped, ignoring the bald-faced grin he gave my lower quadrants as my floaty blue skirt fell back into place.

“Well, my uncle Ray favors a good roast possum. He says it tastes like chicken,” he drawled, holding the lid over his thick forearm like a shield as he tapped the spatula out of place. “Personally, I have to wonder if he’s been eating chicken that tastes like ass, but that’s neither here nor there.”

I darted away as he opened the cupboard door. A feral growl echoed through the empty house as he maneuvered the lid down and the pot over the front of the cupboard. He used the wooden spoon to reach over the grumpy animal and nudge the possum into the pot. He slapped the lid over it, turning and giving me a proud grin.

“Thank you.” I sighed. “Really, I don’t know what I would have done—”

The giant rat began thrashing around inside the pot and making the lid dance.

“I want that thing tested for steroids!” I yelped.

“It’s just a baby,” he said, placing one of his ham-sized hands on the lid. “These things burrow in pretty much wherever they want to, doors and walls be damned. A cousin of mine went to tuck his daughter in one night and found one cuddled with her stuffed animals.”

“This is a baby?” I peered down at the dancing pot. “How big do the mothers get?”

He shrugged. “Better question: where is his mama?”

“Oh,” I groaned as he opened the back door, crossed the yard, and gently shook the possum out of the pot and into the tall grass near the trees. I called after him, “Why did you have to say that? I have to sleep here!”

Climbing my back steps, he looked far more relaxed than he should have been after evicting a vicious furred fiend from my kitchen. Shirtless. “I have to sleep here, too. And if it makes you feel better, there’s a good chance that the mama could be sleepin’ under my side of the house,” he told me. “I’m Jed, by the way.”

I giggled, a hysterical edge glinting under the laughter, as he extended his hand toward me. “You’re kidding.”

He arched a sleek sandy eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”

I cleared my throat, barely concealing a giggle. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve never met a Jed before.”

He chuckled. “I’d imagine not, with that accent and all.”

Now it was my turn to raise the bitch-brow. He of the sultry backwoods drawl was mocking my accent? That was disappointing. Since landing in New York, I’d worked hard to control whatever lilt I’d picked up since moving in with Nana Fee. It wouldn’t do for the locals to know where I was from.

“Your accent,” he said, his forehead creasing. “Boston, right? ‘Pahk the cah in the yahd’? ”

I blushed a little and regretted the bitch-brow. I’d forgotten how muddled my manner of speaking was compared to my new neighbors’ Southern twang. My accent was vaguely Boston, vaguely Irish. Nana Fee had tried to correct my lack of R’s in general and attempted to teach me Gaelic, but the most I picked up were some of the more interesting expressions my aunts and uncles used. Mostly the dirty ones. So I spoke in a bizarre mishmash of dialects and colloquialisms, which led to awkward conversations over what to call chips, elevators, and bathrooms.

“Oh, right,” I said, laughing lightly. “Boston-born and raised.”

Technically, it wasn’t a lie.

Jed looked at me expectantly. I looked down to make sure I hadn’t forgotten some important article of clothing. “If you don’t give me your name, I’m just going to make one up,” he said, leaning against the counter. “And fair warning, you look like a Judith.”

“I do not!” I exclaimed.

“Half-dressed girls who climb me like a tree are usually named Judith,” he told me solemnly.

“This happens to you often?” I deadpanned.

He shrugged. “You’d be surprised.”

“It’s Nola,” I told him. “Nola Leary.”

“Jed Trudeau,” he said, shaking my outstretched hand. “If you don’t mind me sayin’, you look beat. Must’ve been a long flight.”

“It was,” I said, nodding. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just go back to bed.”

There was a spark of mischief in his eyes, but I think he picked up on the fact that I was in no mood for saucy talk. His full lips twitched, but he clamped them together. He held up one large, work-roughened hand. “Hold on.”

He disappeared out the back door and I could hear his boot steps on the other side of my kitchen wall. He returned a few moments later, having donned a light cotton work shirt, still unbuttoned. He placed a large, cold, foil-wrapped package in my hands. “Chicken-and-rice casserole. One of the ladies down at the Baptist church made it for me. Well, several of the church ladies made casseroles for me, so I have more than I can eat. Just pop a plateful in the microwave for three minutes.”

I stared at the dish for a long while before he took it out of my hands and placed it in my icebox. “Do local church ladies often cater your meals?”

“I don’t go to Sunday services, so they’re very concerned about my soul. And I can’t cook to save my life. They’re afraid I’m just wasting away to nothing,” he said, shaking his head in shame, but there was that glint of trouble in his eyes again. He gave me a long, speculative look. “Well, I’ll let you get back to sleep. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Thanks,” I said as he moved toward the door. I locked it behind him, turning and sagging against the dusty curtains covering the window in the door. “If there are any greater powers up there—stop laughing.”

I massaged my temples and set about making my tea. Jed seemed nice, if unfortunately named. And it was very kind of him to give a complete stranger a meal when he knew she had nothing but angry forest creatures in her cupboards. But I couldn’t afford this sort of distraction. I’d come to the Hollow for a purpose, not for friendships and flirtations with smoldering, half-dressed neighbors.

Just as I managed to locate a chipped mug in the spice drawer, a loud, angry screech sounded from somewhere left of my stove. I turned and fumbled with the locked kitchen door, yelling, “Jed!”

Enjoyed My Bluegrass Baby?
Look for the next delicious Bluegrass romance by Molly Harper
Available October 2013 from Pocket Star Books

ALSO BY MOLLY HARPER

The Care and Feeding of Stray Vampires

Driving Mr. Dead

Nice Girls Don’t Have Fangs

Nice Girls Don’t Date Dead Men

Nice Girls Don’t Live Forever

Nice Girls Don’t Bite Their Neighbors

How to Flirt with a Naked Werewolf

The Art of Seducing a Naked Werewolf

And One Last Thing . . .

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Molly Harper White

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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition December 2012

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ISBN 978-1-4767-0605-4