Читать книгу Her Secret Fling - Sarah Mayberry - Страница 8

POPPY HAD PROMISED HERSELF she’d speak up if he did something provocative again. She figured broadcasting his antipathy to all and sundry more than qualified.

Leonard looked as though he’d swallowed a frog. Jake simply watched her, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable.

She offered Leonard a tight smile. “Would you mind if I had a private word with Mr. Stevens?”

Her new boss eyed her uncertainly. His gaze slid to Jake then to her. She widened her smile.

“I promise not to leave any bruises,” she said.

Leonard shrugged. “What the hey? Tear him a new one. Save me doing it.”

He headed to his office and Poppy turned to face Jake. His mouth was quirked into the irritating almost smile that he’d worn every time she spoke during their meeting yesterday. She wanted to slap it off his face. She couldn’t believe that she’d once thought he was good-looking.

“What’s your problem?” she asked.

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been taking shots at me since I arrived. I want to know why.”

He looked bored. “Sure you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t want to hear what I really think. You want me to be awed by your career and treat you like the department mascot like everyone else,” he said.

She sucked in a breath, stung. “That’s the last thing I want.”

“Well, baby, you sure took the wrong job.” He turned away from her, his hands returning to his keyboard. Clearly he thought their conversation was over.

“I’m still waiting to hear what you really think,” she said. She crossed her arms over her chest. She figured that way he might not notice how much she was shaking. She didn’t think she’d ever been more angry in her life.

He swiveled to face her. “Let me put it this way—how would you feel if your ex-coach suddenly announced I’d be leading the swim team into the next world championships because he liked a couple of articles I’d written?”

“You think I got this job under false pretenses.”

“Got a journalism degree?” he asked.

“No.”

“Done an internship?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Then, yes, I think you didn’t earn this job.”

She blinked. He spread his hands wide.

“You asked,” he said.

“Actually, you offered—to the whole office.”

“If you think some of them haven’t thought the same thing.” He shrugged.

She glanced at the other journalists who were all eavesdropping shamelessly. Was it possible some of them shared Jake’s opinion?

“Leonard came knocking on my door, not the other way around.” She sounded defensive, but she couldn’t help it.

“You accepted the offer,” he said. “You could have said no.”

“So I’m not allowed to have a career outside of swimming?” she asked.

“Sure you are. You’re even allowed to have this career, since we all know the Australian public is so in love with its sporting heroes they’ll probably eat up anything you write with a spoon, even if you can’t string two words together. Just don’t expect me to like it,” he said. “I worked long hours on tin-pot newspapers across the country to get where I am. So has everyone else on this team. I’m not going to give Leonard a standing ovation for valuing my skills so lightly he’s slotted a high school graduate into a leading commentator’s role just because she looks good in Lycra and happens to swim a mean hundred-meter freestyle. Never going to happen.”

Poppy stared at him. He stared back, no longer bored or cool.

“You might have come to this job by working your way through the ranks, but I’ve earned my chance, too.” She hated that her voice quavered, but she wasn’t about to retreat. “I’m not going to apologize for the fact that I have a public profile. I’ve represented this country. I’ve swum knowing that I’m holding other people’s dreams in my hands, not just my own. You don’t know what that’s like, the kind of pressure that comes with it. And while you’re on your high horse judging me, you might want to think about the fact that you wouldn’t even have a job if it wasn’t for people like me sweating it out every day, daring to dream and daring to try to make those dreams a reality. You’d just be a commentator with nothing to say.”

She turned her back on him and walked away.

The other journalists were suddenly very busy, tapping away at their keyboards or shuffling through their papers. She sat at her desk and stared hard at her computer screen, hoping it looked as though she was reading, when in fact, she was trying very, very hard not to cry.

Not because she was upset but because she was furious. Her tear ducts always wanted to get involved when she got angry, but she would rather staple something to her forehead than give Jake the Snake the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

Ten minutes later, Macca approached.

“I was just in, speaking to Leonard. I’m going to work with you on your first few articles, until you find your feet,” he said.

She stared at him, chin high. “What did he bribe you with?”

“Actually, I volunteered.”

She blinked.

“What can I say? I’ve always had a thing for water sports.”

She gave him a doubtful look.

“And I think Jake was out of line,” he added. “So what if you haven’t earned your stripes in the trenches? Welcome to the real world, pal. People get lucky breaks all the time for a bunch of different reasons. And even if he disagrees with Leonard’s decision, being an asshole to you is not the way to deal with it.”

“Hear, hear,” she said under her breath.

He smiled at her. “So, we cool? You want to show me what you’ve got so far?”

“Thank you.” She was more grateful for his offer—and support—than she cared to admit.

He pulled up a chair beside her. She shifted the computer screen so he could read her article more easily and sat in tense, twitchy silence while he did so. She’d spent a lot of time working on it—all of last night and most of this morning. She knew it wasn’t great, but she hoped it was passable.

“Hey, this is pretty good,” he said.

She tried not to show how much his opinion meant to her. She’d already been nervous enough before The Snake had aired his feelings. Now she knew all eyes would be on her maiden effort.

“You can be honest. I’d rather know what’s wrong so I can fix it than have you worry about my feelings,” she said.

“Relax. Ask anyone, I’m a hard bastard. Open beer bottles with my teeth and everything,” Macca said. “If this was utter crap, I’d tell you. I think we can work on a few things, make some of the language less formal and stiff, but otherwise there’s not much that needs doing.”

Poppy sank back in her seat and let her breath out slowly.

“And if you’re free for lunch, I’ll give you the lowdown on the office politics,” Macca said.

She smiled. Maybe there was an upside to being savaged by an arrogant, know-it-all smart-ass after all—she’d just made her first new friend at the Herald.

THAT NIGHT POPPY HAD her second Factual Writing for the Media class at night school. She’d enrolled when Leonard had offered her the job. So far, she’d learned enough to know she had a lot to learn. But that was why she was there, after all.

There was a message from Uncle Charlie when she finally got home. She phoned him on his cell, knowing he’d be up till all hours since he was a notorious insomniac.

“Hey there, Poppy darlin’,” he said when he picked up the phone. “I’ve been waiting for you to call and fill me in on your first day at work.”

“Sorry. To be honest, it was a little sucky, and day two was both worse and better. I was kind of holding off on calling until I had something nice to report.”

She filled him in on Jake and their argument and the way Macca had come to her aid.

“Bet this Jake idiot didn’t know who he was taking on when he took on you,” Uncle Charlie said.

She laughed ruefully. “I don’t know. I don’t think he was exactly cowed by my eloquence. It makes swimming look pretty tame, doesn’t it, even with all the egos and rivalries?” she said a little wistfully.

“Missing it, Poppy girl?”

She swung her feet up onto the arm of her couch.

“I miss knowing what I’m good at,” she said quietly, thinking over her day at work and how lost she’d felt in class tonight.

“You’re good at lots of things.”

“Oh, I know—eating, sleeping…”

“You forgot showering and breathing.”

They both laughed.

“Just remember you’re a champion.” He was suddenly very serious. “The best of the best. Don’t let some jumped-up pen pusher bring you down. You can do anything you put your mind to.”

Uncle Charlie was her biggest fan, her greatest supporter, the only member of her family who’d watched every one of her races, cheered her wins and commiserated her losses.

“You still haven’t told me what you want for your birthday,” she said.

He turned seventy in a few weeks’ time. She already had his present, but asking him what he wanted had become a bit of a ritual for the two of them.

“A pocketful of stardust,” he said. “And one of them fancy new left-handed hammers.”

She smiled. He had a different answer every time, the old bugger.

“Careful what you wish for.”

“Just seeing you will make my day.”

She couldn’t wait to see his face when she gave him her present. She’d had her first gold medal mounted in a frame alongside a photograph of the two of them at the pool when she was six years old. It was her favorite shot of the two of them. He was in the water beside her, his face attentive and gentle as he guided her arms. She was looking up at him, laughing, trusting him to show her how to get it right.

He always had, too. He’d never let her down, not once.

“Love you, Uncle Charlie,” she said.

“Poppy girl, don’t go getting all sentimental on me. Nothing more pitiful than an old man sooking into the phone,” he said gruffly.

They talked a little longer before she ended the call. She lay on the couch for a few minutes afterward, reviewing the day again.

She was proud of herself for standing her ground against Jake Stevens, but she wished she hadn’t had to. The only place she’d ever been aggressive was in the pool. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a stand-up argument with someone.

Just goes to show, you’ve led a sheltered life.

She stood and walked to her bedroom. She was pulling her shirt off when she caught sight of a familiar orange book cover on the bookcase beside her bed. The name Jake Stevens spanned the spine in thick black print.

“Uh-uh, not in my bedroom, buddy,” she said. She picked up The Coolabah Tree with her thumb and forefinger and marched to the kitchen. She dumped the book in the trash can and brushed her hands together theatrically.

“Ha!”

She’d barely gone three paces before her conscience made her swing around. Before she’d met Jake, The Coolabah Tree had been one of her favorite books. His being a jerk didn’t change any of that.

She fished out the book and walked into her living room. She looked around. Where to put it so it wouldn’t bug the hell out of her?

She laughed loudly as an idea hit her. She crossed to the bathroom and put the book amongst the spare toilet-paper rolls she stored in a basket in the corner near her loo.

She was still smiling when she climbed into bed.

“ANYONE WANT A COFFEE?” POPPY ASKED.

Jake didn’t bother looking up from his laptop. There was no way she would bring him a coffee, even if he was stupid enough to ask for one. The three weeks she’d been at the Herald hadn’t changed a thing between them.

“I’m cool,” Davo said.

“White for me,” Hilary said.

Jake glanced over his shoulder as Poppy moved to the back of the press box. The room was buzzing with conversation and suppressed excitement. In ten minutes, the Brisbane Lions and the Hawthorn Hawks would duke it out for the Australian Football League Premiership.

Jake still couldn’t believe that Leonard had assigned the newest, greenest writer on the staff to cover the AFL Grand Final. It was the biggest event in the Australian sporting calendar, bar none. Even The Melbourne Cup didn’t come close. The Herald would dedicate over six pages to the game tomorrow—and Poppy hadn’t even clocked a month with the paper and had only a handful of columns under her belt.

Granted, her articles had been a pleasant surprise. Warm, funny, smart. She needed to loosen up a little, relax into the role. Stop trying so hard. But in general the stories hadn’t been the disaster he’d been anticipating. Which still didn’t make her qualified to be here.

They’d flown into Brisbane two days ago to cover the teams’ last training sessions and interview players before the big event, and he’d been keeping an eye on her. What he’d seen confirmed she was a rookie in every sense of the word. She interviewed players from a list of questions she’d prepared earlier, reading them off the page. She studiously wrote down every word they said. She was earnest, eager, diligent—and way out of her depth. Yesterday, Coach Dickens had brushed her off when she tried to ask him about an injured player. She’d been unable to hide her surprise and hurt at the man’s rude rebuff.

Better toughen up, baby, Jake thought as he watched her wait patiently in the catering line for her chance at the coffee urn. Most journalists would eat their own young for a good story. As for common courtesies such as waiting in line.

As if to demonstrate his point, Michael Hague from the Age sauntered up to the line and slipped in ahead of her, chatting to a colleague already there as though the guy had been saving him a place. Poppy frowned but didn’t say anything.

Jake shook his head. She was too nice. Too squeaky clean from all that swimming and wholesome food and exercise. Even if she developed the goods writingwise, she simply didn’t have the killer instinct a journalist required to get the job done.

He was turning to his computer when she stepped out of line. Hague had just finished filling a cup with coffee and Poppy reached out and calmly took it from his hand. She flashed him a big smile and said something. Jake couldn’t hear what it was, but he guessed she was thanking him for helping her out. Then she calmly filled a second cup for Hilary.

Jake laughed. He couldn’t help it. The look on Hague’s face was priceless. Poppy made her way to their corner, her hard-won coffees in hand. Her gaze found his across the crowded box and he grinned at her and she smiled. Then the light in her eyes died and her mouth thinned into a straight, tight line.

Right. For a second there he’d almost forgotten.

He faced his computer.

He was on her shit list. Which was only fair, since she’d been on his ever since he’d learned about her appointment.

He shook the moment off and focused his attention on the field. The Lions and the Hawks had run through their banners and were lined up at the center of the ground. The Australian anthem began to play, the forty-thousand-strong crowd taking up the tune. The buzz of conversation in the press box didn’t falter, journalists in general being a pack of unpatriotic heathens. On a hunch Jake glanced over his shoulder. As he’d suspected, Poppy’s gaze was fixed on the field and her lips were moving subtly as she mouthed the words to the anthem.

It struck him that of all the journalists here, she was the only one who could even come close to understanding how the thirty-six players below were feeling right now. He had a sudden urge to lean across and ask her, to try and capture the immediate honesty of the moment.

He didn’t. Even if she deigned to answer him, just asking the question indicated that he was softening his stance regarding her appointment. Which he wasn’t.

The song finished and the crowd roared its excited approval as the two teams began to spread out across the field. Jake tensed, adrenaline quickening his blood. He loved the tribalism of football, the feats of reckless courage, the passion in the stands. It was impossible to watch and not be affected by it. Even after hundreds of kickoffs over many years, he still got excited at each and every game. The day he didn’t was the day he would retire, absolutely.

The starting siren echoed and the umpire held the ball high and then bounced it hard into the center of the field. The ruckmen from both teams soared into the air, striving for possession of the ball.

Jake leaned forward, all his attention on the game. Behind him he heard the tap-tap of fingers on a keyboard. He didn’t need to look to know it was Poppy. What in hell she had to write about after just ten seconds of play, he had no idea. Forcing his awareness of her out of his mind, he concentrated on the game.

POPPY CHECKED HER WATCH as she stepped into the hotel elevator and punched the button for her floor. By now, most of the players would be drunk or well on their way to it, and probably half of the press corps, too. She’d been too tired to take Macca up on his invitation to join him, Hilary and Jake for a postcoverage drink. Even if she hadn’t been hours away from being ready to file her story by the time the others were packing up to go, she’d had enough of The Snake over the past few days to last a lifetime. She wasn’t about to subject herself to his irritating presence over a meal. Not for love or money.

She scrubbed her face with her hands as the floor indicator climbed higher. She was officially exhausted. The leadup to the game, the game itself, the challenging atmosphere of the press box, the awareness that she was part of a team and she needed to deliver—all of it had taken its toll on her over the past couple of days and she felt as though she’d staggered over the finish line of a marathon.

She was painfully aware that she’d been the last of the team to file her stories every day so far. She’d sweated over her introductions, agonized over what quotes to use, fretted over her sign-offs. Writing didn’t come naturally to her, and she was beginning to suspect it was something she would always have to work at. No wonder her shoulders felt as though they were carved from marble at the end of each day.

She toed off her shoes as she entered her hotel room. She’d given up on high heels after the first week in her new job. Not only did they make her taller than most men, she couldn’t walk in them worth a damn and they made her feet ache. She shed her navy tailored trousers and matching jacket, then her white shirt. Her underwear followed and she made her way to the bathroom and started the shower up. She felt ten different kinds of greasy after a day of being jostled by pushy journalists and fervent football fans and hovering over her laptop, sweating over every word and punctuation mark. She tested the water with her hand and rolled her eyes when it was still cold. Stupid hotel. No one had warned her that the Herald were a pack of tightwads when it came to travel expenses. It was like being on the national swim team again.

She glanced at her reflection while she waited for the water to warm. As always, the sight of her new, improved bust line made her frown. She’d never had boobs. Years of training had keep her lean and flat. But now that she’d stopped the weights and the strenuous training sessions and relaxed her strict diet, nature had reasserted itself with a vengeance over the past few months.

She slid her hands onto her breasts, feeling their smooth roundness, lifting them a little, studying the effect in the mirror. She shook her head and let her hands drop to her sides. It was too weird. She wasn’t used to them. Kept brushing against things and people. And she’d had to throw out half her wardrobe. Then there was the attention from men. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to that. Never in her life had she had so many conversations without eye contact. She’d quickly learned not to take her jacket off if she wanted to be taken seriously. Which meant she wore it pretty much all the time.

The water was warm at last and she stepped beneath the spray. Ten minutes later, she toweled herself off and went in search of food. The room service menu was uninspired. What she really felt like eating was chocolate chip ice cream and a packet of salty, crunchy potato chips. She eyed the minibar for a few seconds, but couldn’t bring herself to pay five times the price for something that was readily available in the convenience store two doors down from the hotel.

She pulled on sweatpants and a tank top, decided against a bra since she was making just a quick pig-out run, then zipped up her old swim team sweat top. Her feet in flip-flops, she headed downstairs.

The latest James Bond movie was showing on the hotel’s in-house movie service. She smiled to herself as she thought about Daniel Craig in his swim trunks. Sugar, salt and a buff man—not a bad night in.

She was still smiling contentedly when she returned to the hotel five minutes later, loaded down with snack food. She was in the elevator, the doors about to close, when Jake Stevens thrust his arm between them. She stood a little straighter as he stepped inside the car.

Damn it. Was it too much to ask for a few moments’ reprieve from his knowing, sarcastic eyes and smug smile?

She moved closer to the corner so there wasn’t even the remote chance of brushing shoulders with him.

His gaze flicked over her briefly. Suddenly she was very aware of her wet hair and the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She shifted uncomfortably and his gaze dropped to her carrier bag of goodies.

“Having a big night, I see,” he said.

“Something like that.”

He leaned closer. She fought the need to pull away as he hooked a finger into the top of the bag and peered inside.

“Chocolate-chip ice cream and nacho-cheese corn chips. Interesting combo.”

Up close, his eyes were so blue and clear she felt as though she could see all the way through to his soul.

If he had one.

“Do you mind?” she said, jerking the bag away from him.

He raised his eyebrows. She raised hers and gave him a challenging look.

“Just trying to be friendly,” he said.

“No, you weren’t. You were being a smart-ass, at my expense, as usual. So don’t expect me to lie down and take it.”

His gaze dropped to her chest, then flicked back to her face. She waited for him to say something suitably smart-assy in response, but he didn’t. The lift chimed as they hit her floor.

Thank God.

She stepped out into the corridor. He followed. She frowned, thrown. Then she started walking toward her room, keeping a watch out of the corner of her eye. As she’d feared, he was following her.

She stopped abruptly and he almost walked into her as she swung to face him.

“I don’t need an escort to my door, if that’s what you’re doing,” she said. “I don’t need anything from you, which I know probably sticks in your craw since your ego is so massive and so fragile you can’t handle having a rookie on the team.”

Jake cocked his head to one side. Then he smiled sweetly and pulled a key from his pocket. The number 647 dangled from it. Two rooms up from hers.

Right.

She could feel embarrassed heat rising into her face. Why did this man always make her so self-conscious? It wasn’t as though she cared what he thought of her.

She started walking again. She had her key in her hand well before her door was in sight. She shoved it into the lock and pushed her door open as quickly as she could. She caught a last glimpse of his smiling face as she shut the door.

Smug bastard.

She grabbed a spoon from the minibar and ripped the top off the ice cream. She needed to keep an eye on her temper around him. And she had to stop letting him get under her skin. That, or she had to somehow develop Zen-like mind-body control so she could stop herself from blushing in front of him.

Large quantities of chocolate-chip ice cream went a long way to calming her. She turned on the TV and opened the corn chips. An hour into the movie, she was blinking and yawning. When the movie cut to a love scene, she decided to call it quits for the night. She liked watching James run and jump and beat people up, but she wasn’t so wild about the mandatory sex scenes. She knew other people liked them, even got disappointed when they didn’t get enough of them, but she so didn’t get it.

She contemplated the issue as she brushed her teeth.

Sex, in her opinion, was one of the most overrated activities under the sun. She figured she was experienced enough to know—she’d had three lovers in her thirty-one years, and none of them had come even close to being as satisfying as George, her battery-operated, intriguingly shaped friend. Disappointing, but true.

Of course, it was possible that she’d had three dud lovers in a row, but she thought it far more likely that sex, like most anti-aging products and lose-weight-now remedies, was not all it was cracked up to be.

But that was only her opinion.

She spat out toothpaste and rinsed her mouth. Then she climbed into bed. Just before she drifted off, she remembered that moment in the hallway again. Next time she came face-to-face with The Snake, she was going to make sure she was the one who came out on top. Definitely.

THE NEXT DAY SHE CAUGHT A CAB to the airport for her flight home and discovered that while she and the bulk of Australia had been focused on the ups and downs, ins and outs of a red leather ball, the baggage handlers union had decided to go on strike.

The mammoth lines of irate and desperate-looking people winding through the terminal were her first clue that something was up. She collared a passing airport official and he filled her in. The strike was expected to run for at least three days. Most flights had been canceled.

“Damn it,” she said.

He held up his hands. “Not my fault, lady.”

“I know. Sorry. It’s just my uncle’s birthday is on Wednesday.”

She’d planned to drive to her parents’ place in Ballarat, about an hour north of Melbourne, for the party. But at this rate it didn’t look as though she was even going to be in the same state come Wednesday.

“Lots of weddings and funerals and births, too,” the official said with a shrug. “Nobody likes an airline strike.”

He moved off and Poppy stared glumly at his back. This was not the first time she’d been left stranded by an airline. As a swimmer, she’d been at the mercy of more than her fair share of strikes, bad weather and mechanical failures. Once, the swim team had almost missed an important meet in Sydney thanks to an airline strike, but their coach had had the foresight to hire a minibus and had driven them the thousand kilometers overnight.

A lightbulb went on in Poppy’s mind. If it was good enough for Coach Wellington, it was good enough for her. She turned in a circle, looking for the signs for the car rental agencies. She spotted the glowing yellow Hertz sign. Then she spotted the lineup in front of it. Well, she could only try.

Fingers crossed, she headed over to join the masses.

JAKE WOKE, FEELING LIKE CRAP. Headache, furry mouth, seedy stomach—standard hangover material. He groaned as he rolled out of bed and blessed his own foresight in ensuring he had an afternoon flight out of Brisbane and not a morning one. He’d played this game before, after all, and he’d known last night would be a big one. And it had been. He’d lost track of which bar he’d wound up in, and who he’d been drinking with. There had definitely been some disappointed Bears players in the mix, drowning their sorrows. And he could distinctly remember someone singing the Hawk’s club song at one stage.

Whatever. A fine time was had by all.

Well, not quite all. Some people had chosen to forgo the festivities and hole up in their room with chocolate-chip ice cream and nacho-cheese corn chips.

He rinsed his mouth out as the memory of Poppy’s uptight little “I don’t need an escort” speech filtered into his mind.

He didn’t know what it was about her, but he couldn’t seem to resist poking her with a stick. Maybe it was the way her chin came up. Or the martial gleam that came into her eyes. Or maybe it was the pink flush that colored her cheeks when he bested her.

He stepped beneath the shower and lifted his face to the spray. Oh, man, but he needed some grease and some salt and some aspirin. Big-time.

Of course, Ms. Birmingham wouldn’t be in search of saturated animal fats this morning. She’d had hers last night, in the quiet privacy of her room.

Someone needed to tell her that road trips were a good opportunity to bond with her colleagues. Especially when you were a newcomer to the team.

He shrugged. Not his problem. And she was unlikely to take advice from him, anyway.

He recalled the way she’d looked last night, hair wet, face devoid of makeup. Sans bra, too, if he made any guess. She had more up top than he’d expected. Definitely a generous handful.

He soaped his belly and wondered again what she’d look like naked. She wasn’t his type, but he supposed he could understand why Macca followed her with his eyes whenever he thought no one was watching. She was striking. She could almost look Jake in the eye, she was so tall. He bet she liked to be on top, too.

He stared down at his hard-on.

Okay, maybe she was his type. But only because it had been a while since he’d gotten naked with anyone. Four…no, five months. That was when he’d decided that his fledgling relationship with Rachel-from-the-gym was too much of a distraction from the book he still hadn’t written.

He turned the water to cold. Brutal, but effective—his erection sank without a trace.

He dressed and packed his luggage. Then he checked out.

“We hope you enjoyed your stay with us, Mr. Stevens,” the woman on the reservation desk said. “And we hope the strike doesn’t inconvenience you too much.”

He lifted his head from signing his credit card slip. “Strike? What strike?”

“The baggage handlers’ strike. It looks like it’ll last three days minimum at this point. We’ve had a lot of people coming back from the airport to check in again.”

Shit. He had ten days vacation starting tomorrow. He had plans to go fishing with an old college buddy. No way was he going to kick his heels in Brisbane when there were rainbow trout going begging.

He grabbed his bags and headed to the taxi stand. He’d been caught out like this before and he knew that even during a strike there were still planes in the air. He might be able to talk his way onto one of them. And there was always the bus, God forbid, or a rental.

The moment he hit the airport he nixed the idea of talking himself onto a flight. Lines spilled out the door and every person and his dog was on a cell, trying to hustle some other way home.

He turned for the rental desks. No lines there. Bonus. Maybe no one else had thought of driving home yet.

He dropped his bags in front of the counter and smiled at the pretty blonde behind the desk.

“Hey, there. I need to rent a car,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “You and the rest of the country. Sorry, sir, as we announced five minutes ago, we’re all sold out.”

He kept smiling.

“There must be something. A car due back later today? Something that didn’t pass inspection?”

“Many of our cars didn’t come in when our customers heard about the strike. We’ve been pulling cars in from our other branches, but there’s no stock left. I’m very sorry, sir.”

She didn’t sound very sorry. She sounded as though she’d had a long and stressful day and was privately wishing him to hell.

“There must be something,” he said.

“Where are you traveling to?”

He waited for her to start tapping away at her keyboard to find him a car, but she didn’t.

“Melbourne.”

“The only thing I can suggest is that you hook up with someone else who is driving your way. I know that blond woman over there is going to Melbourne. She got our last car—maybe she’ll take pity on you.”

Jake turned his head to follow the woman’s finger. He stared in disbelief at the back of Poppy Birmingham’s head.

“Shit.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

There was no way Poppy was going to take pity on him. She’d more than likely laugh in his face—if he gave her the opportunity.

“Is there a bus counter around here?” he asked. He hated bus travel with a passion, but desperate times called for desperate measures. There were trout swimming in the Cobungra River with his name on them, and he intended to be there to catch them.

“They’re on the west side of the airport. Just follow the crowd.”

“Thanks.”

He hefted his bags and started walking. He could see Poppy up ahead, talking on her cell phone. If it were anyone else—a complete stranger—he’d throw himself on her mercy in a split second. But Poppy didn’t like him. Admittedly, he’d given her plenty of reasons to feel that way, but the fact remained that she was far more likely to drive over him in her rental car than offer him a lift in it.

He walked past her, wondering how she’d react if he snatched the keys from her hand and made a bolt for it. But she was probably pretty fast on her feet. She had those long legs and hadn’t been out all night swilling beer and red wine the way he had.

He kept walking. Then he started thinking about sitting on a bus with seventy-odd other angry travelers, sucking in diesel fumes and reliving horror flashbacks from half a dozen high school excursions.

Man.

He stopped in his tracks. He lowered his chin to his chest. He thought about the bus, then he thought about his pride. Then he turned around and walked to where Poppy was finishing her phone call.

He stopped in front of her. She stared at him blankly. Then her gaze dropped to his luggage. A slow smile curved her mouth. He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t.

She was going to make him ask.

Shit.

He took a deep breath. “Going my way?”

Her smile broadened. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to do much better than that.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and waited. He stared at her for a long moment.

Then he braced himself for some heavy-duty sucking up.