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Andrea’s gaze dipped to the newspaper on Constance’s desk. Finding an affordable apartment was harder than it sounded. Although Andrea guessed Constance made more than she did—par t-time seasonal workers probably made more than she did—which would make it easier to find decent accommodations for her and her little girl. “Good luck.”
“Thank you. Are you here to see Mr. Marshall?”
She’d never heard Troy referred to so formally. His previous administrative assistant had used his first name in a proprietary tone. “Is he available?”
“He’s working through lunch.” Constance lifted her telephone receiver and pressed four keys. “Andrea Benson of the New York Sports is here.” She thanked Troy, then ended the call. “He’ll be right out.”
Seconds later, Troy appeared in his office threshold. Andrea’s pulse jumped.
4
Excitement swept through Troy at the sight of Andrea waiting for him. It was always this way when he saw her. Like the anticipation of a new NBA season or the euphoria of a winning game.
“Come in.” He stood aside so she could enter his office.
Andrea tossed a smile to Constance before approaching him. Troy felt a sharp slap of envy. Her expression was so different from the guarded looks she gave him. On occasion he’d surprised a laugh from her. But the moments never lasted.
She walked past him. Troy inhaled her powder-soft scent and the morning’s tensions eased. Her long, efficient strides carried her to the three black-cushioned guest chairs in front of his mahogany desk. She chose one, then surveyed his office—the framed community commendations, advertisements and news articles covering the cream walls—as though she hadn’t been here a score of times before. Did his office tell her anything about him? What would her desk at the newsroom reveal about her? Andrea was as much a mystery today as when they’d first met three years ago. That fact bothered him more than it should.
Troy circled his desk and settled into his seat. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you again so soon much less see you.”
“Neither did I. I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch.” Andrea avoided his eyes. She seemed uncertain. Why?
“Don’t worry about it. Have you eaten?” Troy pulled the lid from his plastic soup container. The savory scent of beef and vegetables floated into the room.
Andrea tucked her brown purse beside her. “I’ll eat later.”
He pulled a plastic-wrapped sandwich close to him. “Do you like PB and J?”
She dragged her suspicious, sherry-brown gaze from the thick peanut butter and jelly sandwich on wheat bread to his face. “Are you offering me food to make amends for your comments this morning?”
A corner of Troy’s mouth kicked up as he struggled with a smile. “I don’t need to apologize for what I said. But I’m sorry for the way I said it. My temper got the best of me.”
“Your accusations were untrue and unfair.”
Troy unwrapped his sandwich. He slid it just a little closer to Andrea. “So was your article.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.” Her voice cooled.
He released his smile. “You sound as though you’re chewing nails. Wouldn’t you rather have PB and J?” He took half of the sandwich and slid the other half, still on its wrapper, toward her.
“No, thank you. I’ll eat later.” Andrea’s stomach growled, betraying just how much she wanted that sandwich. Her right hand flew to her flat abdomen, pressing against it.
Troy watched a blush sweep under the honey tones of her skin. He’d never seen her composure slip. She was usually so controlled. The unsuspected vulnerability triggered buried needs inside him. The need to protect, to provide, and to possess.
Troy cleared his throat. “It’s PB and J. Who doesn’t like PB and J?” The words were rougher than he’d intended.
Andrea hesitated before leaning forward to accept his offering. Her voice was warmer. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” It was like having the most popular girl in high school agree to be his date for the prom. He crossed to the mini-refrigerator in a corner of his office. “Milk or soda?”
“Milk, please.”
She sounded surprised. Had she come to continue their argument? Instead, he was giving her a meal. Could half a PB and J sandwich and a pint of milk count as a first date? Perhaps in another life, one in which her newspaper didn’t come between them.
Troy carried the milk and some extra napkins to her and accepted her thanks in exchange. He picked up his half of the sandwich. “Are you here to continue our discussion?”
“Gerry’s up to his old tricks.” Andrea tipped back her head to drink the milk.
