AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She put some of the gel on her hand and gently rubbed it into his foot. It was quiet; the only sound in the kitchen their breathing. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep hers even.
“So, Doctor Miller,” he finally said, “what is your problem with reporters?”
“I don’t have a problem with reporters…”
“Yes, you do. You told me so this afternoon.”
She’d finished putting on the bandage and gently dropped his foot back on the table.
“Just something that happened a long time ago.” She put the pills on the table, closed her bag, and picked it up. “If it’s not better by tomorrow, please let me know?”
“How do I contact you?”
“Your aunt has my number.”
“But I don’t.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You like having your own way, don’t you?”
He grimaced. “And just when I was beginning to think you do care after all, you had to spoil the moment. I still don’t know why you hate reporters.”
The damn man had a way of pressing all her wrong buttons. Annoyed, she reached into the side pocket of her bag and handed him a business card. Inhaling deeply, she tried to find her equilibrium. “I don’t trust them. Tell me, do you like snooping into other people’s lives?”
He grimaced. “I can understand why you’re asking that and, yes, that is unfortunately the way many reporters make their money. They probably haven’t started out that way. Like me, they thought they could change people’s minds with their writing. Words should be able to make a difference, should be able to change people’s narrow outlook on life, make them embrace new ideas. Journalism should be instrumental in bringing about a transformation, even if it only happens in a small part of the world.”
“You sound disillusioned.”
“At thirty-four, I know better. People won’t or can’t change. Someone different to the norm is distrusted, ridiculed, and lately, even canceled. I’ve seen this happen to anyone who dares to hold an opposing view held by the mainstream—whoever the hell the mainstream is—time and time again. What has happened to rational thinking? To debating? To free speech? As a journalist, I could only write the way management dictates, and they, in turn, are dancing to the tune of other faceless puppeteers. I thought I could help people. Turns out, that’s not true.”
For a few seconds she caught a glimpse of someone who looked as if he really cared, but then the cocky grin was back. “So, do you often make house calls this late at night?”
Vivian pressed her lips together and turned away. She should leave while she still had her dignity intact. Well, sort of. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to see Aiden O’Sullivan ever again.
“When necessary. Goodnight.” While he was still getting up, she rushed to the front door. Hopefully, she’d be gone before he—
When she reached for the door, however, one of those big hands closed over hers. She tried to pull it away, but her hand was trapped while he opened the door.
“I hope you’ll be better by tomorrow,” she blabbered. “How… how long are you staying?”
“I’m here for the Valentine’s ball.”
“You’re interested in a small town’s Valentine’s ball?”
“I’m on a quest for a feel-good story. Tell me, Doc… do you know of any feel-good stories I can write about?”
It took her a few seconds to realize her hand was still in his. Quickly, she pulled it out of his clasp and stepped out onto the porch. “There are plenty of stories in and around Marietta. You should talk to Carol Bingley; she knows all the gossip.”
“I’m not looking for gossip.”
“No? Isn’t that exactly what newspapers thrive on? Fleshing out rumors, adding whatever comes to mind to fill in the gaps?”
He pressed his lips together for a moment. “I get it. You don’t like reporters. You should talk to someone about it. All the festering isn’t good for one, I’ve heard.”
Inhaling sharply, she counted softly to ten. She was not going to react. “Goodnight.”
She’d nearly reached her car when he called out again. “Are you going to the Valentine’s ball?”
Shaking her head, she opened the door. “I’ll be working.”
