Past Imperfect

Pushing the snack into her mouth, she knew what he was probably thinking: that she wasn’t merely liking the chance to preview his reporting.

That there were so many other things for her to like about him.

Things that just might get her through these troubled times.

After polishing off the popcorn last night, Ian had offered to take Rachel out for a more substantial dinner, but she had declined, saying that she planned to get up early for a painting class at the local learning center.

Even though he knew there was a current of attraction running between them like a live wire, he’d accepted her excuse, thanked her for the snack and made arrangements to meet her at the art shop the next morning.

Back in his hotel room, he’d burned the midnight oil, punching out his story on his laptop, satisfied enough with the results to get a few hours of shut-eye.

Morning didn’t come soon enough. But when it did, he shined himself up, sent an e-mail to a loop he’d created for his nine nieces and nephews and, by the time eleven o’clock rolled around, traveled by subway to meet Rachel.

Her class was located in a shop on a quiet, tree-lined block that included knitting and crocheting boutiques, a small Italian restaurant and an antique emporium. Thank God the place was tiny enough so that he could see the students through the lettering of the front window. Ian didn’t go into these kinds of stores unless he was chasing a story. And it’d have to be a damned good one, at that.

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