Despite the touchy adjective, I had to laugh. “Trust me, if Carter made a move on me, it wouldn’t be unwanted. Besides, did he sound like an arrogant ass in the Republic’s feature? I read it as well, and he’s still good natured and respectful. So don’t worry about me, okay?”
With reluctance in her voice, she conceded. “Fine. Take my interview and write the story.” She handed over the Post-It note with the reservation time and date scrawled across it in her flamboyant penmanship.
“Thanks, Taylor. I owe you.”
“I’m holding you to that. I’ll need help with my baseball story.”
The magazine had suffered hard times of late, particularly after the economy tanked and our target audience, Scottsdale’s affluent, had tightened its collective purse strings. Thus, covering exclusive and extravagant topics and events no longer kept the magazine thriving or the advertisers from jumping ship. Taylor and I, along with our fellow writers Claire Williams and Giselle Kemper, had agreed to each try a different approach with four features, focusing on sports-related topics that appealed to the masses.
Thus far, Claire and Giselle had achieved fantastic results, having covered an athletic club looking to increase its female clientele, and off-road racing, a trendy sport. Now that Taylor and I had swapped assignments, I’d be writing about the local arena football team that had gone to the national championship the previous season. Taylor would get to cover the boys of summer, which I suspected would be a very popular story, given the solid fan base of the Diamondbacks.
In fact, she likely had the most potential to expand our readership since baseball season was in full swing and the team was doing well.
Thrilled she’d agreed to make the trade with me, I headed off to my desk to prepare my interview questions. And to plot my reunion with the guy who’d swept me off my feet our senior year and had left me with the never-fading memory of him holding me in his arms during the last dance at our prom, followed by the softest, sweetest kiss known to womankind.
Carter was still single. The grownup Cherish Westerly intended to do something about that…
* * * * *
I pulled into the cobblestone drive of the Royal Palms with butterflies rioting in my stomach. I left the engine running while the valet reached for the handle on the door of my BMW. He helped me out of the car and I took the claim ticket from him before ascending the few steps that led to a short, dimly lit entryway that opened onto the Mediterranean-style courtyard with a fountain in the middle.
I traversed the patio covered with bistro tables and chairs, most of which were occupied, given the warm, late-spring evening. In my peripheral vision, I saw a number of heads whip in my direction and I took that as a good sign. I wanted to make a splash. I wanted to stand out. I wanted Carter to take one look at me and have his jaw hit the ground.
Whether or not I could achieve my goal remained to be seen, but I caught enough appreciative looks along the way to bolster my confidence as I crossed to the far side of the courtyard. Admittedly, I was slightly shaky in my high heels. My knees nearly knocked together at the mere thought of seeing Carter. I could only imagine how turned inside out I’d be when I actually came face to face with him for the first time in a decade.
A tantalizing prickle of desire against my clit proved how excited I was by the simple prospect of being in such close proximity to him. He was the savior I’d fantasized about enough times to border on obsession.
I took the short steps up to the tiny porch and opened the door to T. Cook’s, one of the most renowned restaurants in the Valley. I hadn’t been there in years, but as soon as I entered the foyer, my stomach settled a bit. The atmosphere was upscale and eclectic, yet warm and inviting. The tall windows were all open, allowing the sound of the waterfall in the courtyard to flow into the room. Low flames flickered in the fireplace, couples gathered at the small tables scattered about the reception area and a pianist tickled the ivories for the patrons in the bar.
When I approached the hostess stand, having purposely arrived fifteen minutes early, I was greeted with an inviting smile.
“Welcome to T. Cook’s. Do you have a reservation?”
I was about to give my name, but quickly remembered Taylor had made these arrangements. So I said, “Whitney. Eight o’clock for two.”
“Yes, of course,” the hostess said. “Would you prefer inside or out?”
“The patio would be great. I’m interviewing someone for a magazine article,” I told her. “A table with some privacy would be helpful. I don’t want to disturb anyone.”
Her indiscreet gaze, as it quickly roved my body and took in my curve-hugging, siren’s dress, suggested she thought I was looking for more than an interview. Ah, how right she was…