Kathleen O'Reilly - Breakfast At Bethany's

The play was very nice, but slightly depressing in that genuine Tennessee Williams manner. Afterward, he took her to a restaurant where she actually ordered dessert and coffee.

“I loved your ad. As soon as I read it, I thought, that’s the kind of woman I want to meet.”

“Thank you,” she said, trying to look confident and modest all at the same time.

He launched into a discussion of wines. Boring. Then he started in on politics. Boring. After the discussion on the current state of the education system, her cell phone rang.

Uh-oh. Technically, she should have turned it off. But what if she got an important call?

She looked at the caller ID, but it wasn’t familiar. Not that it mattered, because the discussion was really going nowhere. She wrinkled her nose at Donald. “Just a minute. Let me get that.”

“Beth, it’s Spencer James.”

She hung up.

He called back. However, she wasn’t mad enough to not answer.

“Don’t hang up. You need to look more entertaining. You just look bored.”

“Where are you?” she asked, realizing that the hair on her neck was now standing on end.

“Second table to the left, just at the edge of the kitchen.”

She looked. He lifted a discreet hand.

She hung up.

The phone rang. Donald looked at her with confusion. “Are you having problems?”

“No,” she said, laughing in that you-really-don’t-want-to-know manner.

“You could turn your phone off,” said Donald, full of wisdom.

Beth debated. In fact, her finger wavered over the power button. But when she glanced at Spencer, he shot her that arrogant look he did so perfectly. The phone rang again. “Just a minute,” she said sweetly to Donald. “What?” she snapped at Spencer.

“You look bored. Smile at him. You’re never going to get a man panting after you if you look like you’d rather be filling out your 1040 form.”

Beth smiled in an absolutely enchanting manner—at Donald. “Happy?” she said into the phone.

But he had hung up.

DONALD DROPPED HER OFF about an hour later. He wanted to see her again, and she said okay, mainly because she knew it would be stupid not to give him a chance.

He kissed her, two and half stars on the Von Meeter kissing meter, and then left her alone. A true gentleman.

That made her sigh, but immediately after kicking off her shoes, she picked up her cell phone and dialed.

“Don’t you ever follow me again without telling me,” she exclaimed, even before Spencer said hello.

“I wanted to see where he would take you, watch the interaction between the two of you, see if there were electrical currents.”

“Of course there were currents. A gazillion megawatts of currents. And if you hadn’t been there spying over my shoulder, there would have been even more. Enough to light up Lake Michigan.”

“Hmm. I didn’t get that impression. Let me write that down. ‘Currents. Gazillion megawatts of currents. Lake Michigan.’”

Beth never liked to be mocked, but she was capable of fighting dirty, too. She began taking off her skirt. “Look, Mr. James, I’m aware that you’re used to doing things your way, but this is my life. I’m not going to be part of your own personal reality TV series.”

Neatly she hung up her skirt on the hanger.

“I’m a journalist.”

“I don’t care if you’re Superjournalist—” he swore at that “—you have to ask my permission.”

“All right. Tonight was more of a trial run, anyway. When do you want to do the interview? Is now good?”

Beth pulled off her blouse and hung it up right next to her skirt. “No. I’m getting ready for bed.”

“Well, throw on a robe. You had a cup of coffee. You’re not going to sleep for another two hours.”

“Wait a minute,” she said, putting down the cell phone.

A wicked impulse had her bypassing the standard issue, worn-out sleep shirt and heading straight for the good stuff. She began rifling through her lingerie drawer, looking for her sexiest sleepwear. Slowly she pulled on the transparent peignoir, brushed her hair until it shone, then put on the necessary skin-care regimen. She stared in the mirror, pleased with the siren that appeared.

Finally, she retrieved the phone. “Spencer, you wanted to come over now?” she asked, making her voice low and husky.

He coughed. “It’s best to strike while the information is right there at the top of your head.”

She played with the silk ribbons, even daring to touch herself through the thin material. “I’ll see you in the morning. Nine a.m., just like we planned,” she said, still smiling.

“If that’s what you want.” She heard her own regret echoed in his voice.

Metaphorically speaking, he was the biggest slab of dark chocolate ganache she’d ever seen, a total caloric nightmare. She’d polish him off and be left with nothing more than fat thighs and an empty plate.

Tempting, but no.

After he hung up, she turned on the television in her bedroom and collapsed onto her bed. It wasn’t until two hours later, when Cary Grant kissed Ginger Rogers, that she finally fell asleep.

HE WAS THERE EARLY the next morning. Not surprising, since he’d never really got to bed. After discovering work was useless, and then tossing and turning, trying to sleep, he’d finally taken matters into his own hands and dispensed with the aftereffects she had left him with. Then he’d managed to sleep, for a full three hours.

Joy.

The morning was cold and the sidewalks were damp with post-Thanksgiving slush. If he wasn’t really excited about his article, he wouldn’t be trudging through the mess at 9:00 a.m. Or so he told himself.

Eventually she showed up at the coffee shop, looking fresh and well-rested and with that damn smile on her face. Why was she always smiling? What the hell did she have that made her so happy all the time?

He stood when she came over and joined him.

“Good morning,” she said, as if birds were perched on her shoulder, waiting to burst into song.

“If you’re into those sorts of things,” he said, surlier than usual.

“Are those circles under your eyes? Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

Spencer, whose sense of humor was absent on most days, had almost no patience for her games right now. “Are you trying to tease me just to see how far I’ll go? Do I look like the neighborhood mongrel who you’re going to poke at with a stick until he bites back? You’ve never been bitten, have you?”

The smile cooled a few degrees. “No.”

“Then I suggest you take your stick and put it away.”

Her eyes cooled, as well. It could have been guilt he was experiencing, or so he told himself.

“That little lapse is best forgotten—pardon the breach. So where do we start now? You want to know about the date?” she asked, then proceeded to tell him every detail about the previous evening. He took notes, paying close attention to the exact moment when the smile crept back onto her face.

“When’s your next date?” he asked, hating date number one with an unexpected passion.

“Tuesday evening. The Morton Arboretum is having a talk on flowers that bloom in the winter.”

“Sounds very educational,” he replied, thinking a root canal would be more fun. Chicago men seemed to be lacking in panache and creativity. If he were taking her out…

Damn.

He packed away his notebook and pen and took care of the check. “Great work. I’ll see you on, when, Wednesday morning or Wednesday afternoon?”

“I’ve got to open up Wednesday morning, at 6:00 a.m.”

“What about Wednesday evening?”

She winced. “Can’t. Have a date. What about Tuesday night?”

He raised a brow. “I thought the post-date postmortem was off-limits?”