C.J. Carmichael - Seattle after Midnight

As she recited the phone number, Pierce imagined what it would be like to call Georgia, to actually speak to her.

He shook his head, amazed that the idea had even crossed his mind. He muttered the toll-free number that Georgia repeated frequently through out her program. So frequently he had it memorized. His fingers itched for the cell phone in his jacket pocket.

God, he was worse than an obsessed teenager.

Keep your mind on the job, he reminded himself. He’d gone thirty years without falling in love. He certainly wasn’t about to start now, with a woman he’d never even met.

FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD Brady Walsh couldn’t sleep, which was nothing unusual. He was often awake for hours after his mother said good-night to him, usually around ten o’clock. It was their unspoken agreement that as long as he stayed in his room, she wouldn’t interfere with whatever he chose to do—homework, surfing the Internet, or playing video games.

On weeknights after twelve he listened to the radio. He’d found a new program he really liked. The music was kind of hokey, but the disk jockey was really cool. Listening to Georgia he forgot about the fact that he had no friends, no girlfriend, no life.

And no wonder.

Brady stood in front of his bedroom window. With his bedside lamp on, and the big oak outside screening the streetlamps, the glass was perfectly reflective, showing in excruciating detail all the reasons he would forever be a nerd.

Too tall, too skinny, too many zits. Braces on his teeth. Then there was his nose. Brady put a hand up to his most hated feature. It was the same as his father’s and though he knew his dad had been considered a good-looking man in his day, on Brady the nose looked gargantuan.

He wasn’t surprised Courtney wouldn’t talk to him anymore.

He went to his desk, where he kept his old junior high yearbook open to page twenty-five and a photograph of the drama club. In the center of the group of students—most of them girls—was Courtney herself, her blond hair gleaming, her perfect teeth, which had never needed braces, showcased in her heart-stopping smile.

Courtney. She was so far out of his league—in looks, personality and popularity—that he never would have dared to dream about her if they hadn’t been assigned to the same research project at the start of the school year.

He’d been surprised at how smart she was, how easy to get along with, how funny. She contributed ideas, but was willing to listen to his suggestions, too. They’d met after school for three precious afternoons, and one Friday evening at her house, her mother had ordered pizza and they’d worked until after nine.

She laughed easily and often, but not foolishly like so many of the girls at school.

They’d aced the project. Got the highest mark in the class.

Restless, Brady paced his room, not sure what to do with his energy. It was well past midnight, but he knew he’d never sleep. His room was beginning to feel like a cell.

Gently, he eased the door open. His mother had stopped crying about half an hour ago. Her door was shut and no light showed in the gap between door and carpet.

He slipped downstairs and raided the fridge of that night’s leftovers. As he munched on a piece of roast shoved into a crusty dinner roll, he noticed his mother’s purse on the counter next to the phone. Beside the purse was the key holder for her new Audi.

The car had been a birthday present from his father in June. That was six months ago and she’d driven the car only a handful of times, preferring to get around in his dad’s old Buick.

Brady could hardly wait until he had his driver’s license. His mother had already told him she’d let him use the Audi whenever he wanted. What freedom that would be! He imagined himself at the wheel, the window rolled down, a fresh breeze in his hair.

The first place he’d go would be Courtney’s house. He remembered where she lived, had even figured out which window belonged to her room.

An urgent longing to see her, right this second, hit him. If he drove by her house, maybe the light in her room would be on. Maybe he’d catch her silhouette as she walked past the window to her bed…

He stared at the key holder that he had no legal right to touch. He had only a learner’s permit. The car wasn’t his.

Then he scooped the black plastic case up and pressed the silver button on the side. The key sprang out like a secret weapon. Cool. He felt like he could tap into the power of the V-8 engine just from this slender piece of metal.

Why not? An inner voice challenged. How would Mom ever find out? Just don’t go too far, don’t use too much gas and you won’t have any problems.

Brady tossed the key into the air once, then grinned. He was going to do this.

Five minutes later, he was in his mother’s car. He glanced over the dashboard, familiarizing himself with the various controls. The car came equipped with a cell phone. That could come in handy, too.

Nervous, but determined, Brady reversed out of the garage. On the radio the woman with the throaty voice welcomed him back to Seattle after Midnight. He thought about what she’d said earlier. Imagine you’re at a table in a Parisian bistro, sipping wine and thinking of that one person….

Clear as daylight, he saw that person. For a moment he had to close his eyes, choke back tears.

Courtney, he reminded himself. I have to check out her house. Tentatively he opened his eyes. Tried clearing his throat, then singing along to the song on the radio.

He was fine. Everything was under control. He turned on the windshield wipers, then hit the button on the visor to close the garage. He was more determined than ever to get away from this place. Carefully, he eased onto the road, then switched gears and nosed the car down the lane.

STANDING AT the window in her darkened living room, Sylvie Moreau watched until the taillights of her lover’s car had disappeared around a corner. Feeling a confused mixture of relief and disappointment, she dropped the curtain into place and retreated to her kitchen.

The countertops were spotless. Reid had cleaned up from the feast he’d brought with him—take-out sushi and chocolate-covered strawberries. He’d even rinsed the empty bottle of champagne and disposed of it in her recycle bin on the back step.

Reid was considerate, both out of bed and in, and Sylvie still considered it a small miracle that she’d ever met him. At the very least it had been a fluke. A couple of months ago at her favorite bookstore, she’d noticed him in line ahead of her for a coffee. Later she’d found that he’d never been to the store before in his life, and had only stopped in on impulse.

They’d started chatting and had eventually taken their coffees to a small table where the conversation had continued to flow as if they’d known each other forever.

Of course, she’d noticed he wore a wedding ring, but that first meeting had been so innocent. When he’d asked her to lunch, she’d assumed his intentions were merely friendly. And probably that was all he had been interested in, at first, for them to just be friends.

But for over a month now, they’d been more than friends and she’d never been happier.

Or unhappier.

Strange how opposite emotions could coexist in one body. In truth, the ups and downs were somewhat addictive. They kept her from thinking about her past—her mother’s death, then her own aborted engagement, and the miserable years after.

Sylvie turned off the main floor lights and headed upstairs to her bedroom. Six months ago, on her thirtieth birthday, she’d come into her inheritance from an income-trust on her father’s side of the family. Her first step had been to buy this house, a cute little Victorian on Queen Anne Hill. Then, she’d quit her job, a move that with hindsight had been a mistake. Without the daily interaction with her co-workers at the bank, she’d felt more lonely than ever.