Bitten by Cupid(62)

She took her cup, feeling the warmth seeping into her cold fingers. “I, uh…thank you.”

He led her toward their table, but her thoughts were a scramble. Owen stood and extended his hand. He wasn’t nearly as tall or as built as Adrian. His smile was bland, his gray eyes blank behind his square, black-rimmed glasses. The shaggy blond hair and wrinkled, linen shirt gave him the look of someone confused about what style he was going for: business, college student, or surfer.

She shrugged out of her coat, and Adrian took it from her and draped it over the empty chair. He held out her chair for her. She tried not to seem surprised at the act of chivalry as she thanked him.

She was faced away from most of the café and had to fight not to turn around and keep studying the crowd. Okay, just a glance. Still, no one obvious. The thoughts she heard weren’t the killer’s:

I’ve got to get this formula memorized before the exam tomorrow.

When is she going to get here?

Her elbow tipped over her coffee. She caught it before it hit the table even as Adrian tried to grab it, too. Their hands collided, but she kept a hold on her cup. She smiled and tried her best to compose herself. It didn’t help that through her earbuds, which were hanging around her neck, Katy Perry was singing about kissing a girl. Kristy yanked down the wires and set them in her lap.

She focused on the two men sitting across from her, her forced smile still in place. “It’s so nice to meet you both.”

Adrian and Owen had gotten publicity by being twenty-year-olds who’d started a successful outdoor adventure magazine three years ago. They were hailed as “Beauty and the Brain” by one snarky magazine because someone had found a modeling shoot Adrian had done to earn money while he, as he’d put it, worked and lived his way across the country.

She knew she’d like him when he commented in a later article that he was glad he hadn’t done the nude layout he’d been offered. That would have given the name of his magazine a whole new meaning.

She tried to push aside the creepy sensation of being watched and focus on the interview. “I love Get Out! It’s fresh, fun, a bit irreverent, and pushes the boundaries. Maybe I shouldn’t say this at the outset, but I’d really like to write for you.”

Adrian’s perfect smile and white teeth made her heart flutter. “I feel the same about your writing.” For such a masculine man, he was surprisingly soft-spoken. “Most of our articles are in-your-face, out-there, rugged adventures. When I read your article about finding inner peace while sitting on a rock in a rushing creek in Helen, Georgia, I forgot about the five meetings I had scheduled that day, forgot about the pile of phone messages sitting on my computer, forgot about the looming deadline. I was there on that rock. I want to share that experience with my readership. I’m thinking a monthly column of about six thousand words to start.”

Oddly enough, she had also done some modeling, nudged by her mother, and when she found herself in exotic locales, she became lost in the moment, journaling about how the place made her feel…much to the annoyance of the photographer who was waiting on her. She quit modeling and pursued a freelance writing career, covering far-flung (and thus not-so-populated) places.

Owen spoke his first words so far. “As soon as he read your piece, he was determined to bring you on board.”

Adrian gave her a pointed look that demonstrated his determination. “You’re good. I want you.”

Those words shimmered through her. Want you. Her writing, of course. With all the other thoughts flying around, she couldn’t quite pick up theirs.

Owen’s voice was as deadpan as his expression. “As the sales manager, I need to make sure your kind of column would integrate well with the rest of the magazine. And with advertisers. We’d like to see some sample pieces, with Get Out! and its high-octane readership in mind.” He pulled out three issues of the magazine from a leather satchel and handed them to her.

She nodded as she fought to filter out random thoughts, including one she knew was about her: That girl’s wearing socks with her high heels?

She involuntarily crossed her ankles beneath her chair, then uncrossed them and even extended her left leg. Yes, pink socks with the periwinkle blue heels that matched her dress. A pink silk scarf around her neck matched her socks.

“I can write up a couple of pieces over the next few days.” She brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, taking the opportunity to glance back in hopes of catching someone leering at her with menace in his eyes. No such luck.

She turned back to the two men at her table. Could it be one of them? The thought startled her. Get hold of yourself, girlie. You’re good at masking your reactions. Put on that perky smile, no matter what the other person is thinking.