Bethany Campbell - A Little Town In Texas

She swallowed and found herself saying, “I’m sorry for what happened this afternoon. You bought me a drink. I’d like to buy you one in return. After all, why not?”

The words sprang from her mouth before she had time to think of them. Instantly, she regretted them. He would of course say no. He would be scathing; she would be resentful, and they would dislike each other more than before.

He kept his finger resting on his upper lip thoughtfully. He looked at her such a long time that she thought he was not going to speak, only snub her. She was ready to spin on her heel and go.

But he said, “I could give you fifty reasons why not. Instead, I’ll say it’s a good question. Shall we start over, Mitchell?”

She looked up at him. For some reason she felt a smile stealing across her lips. “Let’s,” she said.

NOW WHY THE DEVIL HAD HE said that? He wasn’t supposed to talk to her.

But he already had in the airport, by accident, and the accident had turned out to be disastrous. Damage control was in order. Or so Mel told himself, looking into those blue eyes that were so lively—and so lovely.

He must change her image of him—not for his own ego. Of course not. For Fabian’s sake and the sake of the assignment.

But part of him wondered if he didn’t sympathize with her after listening to Gloria Wall dredge up the Mitchell family scandals. She had implied Kitt’s own past was stained. Had the woman spoken truth? Or slander?

But finally, Mel admitted that he was with Kitt because he wanted to be. As a lawyer he could think of a hundred reasons to justify this urge. As a man, the desire was reason enough.

Besides, for years Mel had followed Fabian’s whims and weird rules. He was smart enough to know when they could and should be broken. He certainly wasn’t going to surrender corporate secrets to this woman. He was merely going to repair some wrong impressions.

He looked down at her—Lord, but she was a little thing. She came just to his collarbone. She had her laptop computer slung over one shoulder, her bulging backpack over the other. Its weight made her lean to one side.

“You’re listing to starboard,” he said. “Can I carry something for you?”

“No thanks. I can handle it myself.” She shook her head for emphasis, and the ponytail flashed like silken fire in the lobby’s subdued light.

I can handle it myself. He bet that was the motto of her life. She probably had it tattooed on her forehead under her bangs.

They paused at the entrance of the pub. The place was indeed a piece of Scotland transplanted to the Texas Hill Country. Tartans and crossed broadswords ornamented the paneled walls. The sound system played Scottish music. Mel recognized Andy Stewart’s voice singing of pining for the love of an elfin queen.

A friendly waitress saw them and called, “Sit anywhere, y’all.” Mel nodded. A booth in the far corner promised privacy. He bent to speak in Kitt’s ear. “Back there?” Her minty perfume tickled his nostrils. He was both surprised and pleased at the old-fashioned scent.

She nodded. “Fine.”

He put his hand on the small of her back to guide her. Although all he touched was her travel vest, it was as if sparks jabbed the palm of his hand, shot up his arm and struck him through the heart.

She stiffened and jerked away slightly, as if she felt the same instantaneous shock. He snatched his hand back, thinking, What the hell? He told himself they must have worked up a charge of static electricity crossing the carpet, but he knew it was a lie.

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