Worth the Risk(47)

“I knew we’d wear you down.” Her laugh rumbles across the space as I turn back to my laptop. “Well, get ready to fall more in love with us in a few hours. We always cut loose early on Harvest Day.”

“Really?”

“Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“No.”

“I told the crew as soon as we get the layout finished, we can bail. It may be Harvest Festival time here in Sunnyville, but it’s deadline day for us to submit to Thorton Publishing.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

We turn back to our work. My calls are endless, my press releases about the contest’s third round of voting emailed, and between everything I do, my eyes find their way to the preparations outside to watch a festival come to life. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. The staff outside our open office door buzzes with anticipation over one of the biggest nights of the year.

“Rissa, we have a problem.”

Those words pull my attention from my spreadsheet. Before Rissa even has a chance to respond to Lilah, I notice all the staff standing in various places of the large conference room, looking our way with defeat etching the lines of their faces.

“What’s wrong?”

“Something happened with the software program. The file got infected.”

“Did we lose it?”

“We aren’t sure. A portion perhaps. We need to go back through each contributing file and try to piece it back together and . . .”

“And that’s going to take hours,” Rissa finishes for her.

You could hear a pin drop in here. All eyes are on Rissa as her shoulders sag and the festivities spark to life out on the street.

“I’ll stay and piece the files back together.” I think I shock everyone with my comment. Heads whip my way. Eyebrows raise.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Rissa says while everyone remains listening with bated breath.

“No. It’s fine,” I lie, swallowing over the lump forming in my own throat. “I don’t have kids or friends out there waiting for me to show up. I have it.”

Rissa locks eyes with mine, and there’s so much gratitude in them it makes me feel uncomfortable. “Sidney . . .”

“Just go.” I plaster a smile on my lips. “I sat with Lilah earlier this week and passed her little quiz. For the most part, I’ve done this before at my other job . . . I can do it.”

“I’ll keep my cell on me,” Lilah says.

“Just go. I have it handled.”




“Knock. Knock.”

“Ohmygod.” I startle and slam my knee on the underside of the desk as I jump up, but I don’t think the racing of my heart has anything to do with being surprised. It has everything to do with the man standing with his shoulder resting against the doorjamb, hands shoved into his jean pockets and eyes finding their way up and down the length of my body.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay. It’s just—I didn’t hear the door.”

“You were kind of lost in your own world.” Silence settles between us as our eyes hold and ask and answer things I don’t think we’re ready to say aloud.

“I was. I didn’t expect anyone—yes.” Why am I suddenly so nervous? Maybe it’s because of how I left things with him last time and now I wish I could take those words back?

“I saw Rissa outside with her kids. She said you were up here. Are you not going to join in the festivities?”

“There was an issue with the layout, and we’re on deadline, so I offered to stay and fix it.”

“Why?”

Nervous energy has me stepping back and then yelping when I bump into a leaf of the fern behind me. The intrigued expression on his face softens as he smiles at my clumsiness.

“Because I don’t have a family or kids who were waiting for me to take them, like most of the staff did. I don’t have anyone looking forward to me being there.” I shrug as something flashes through the blue of his eyes that I can’t quite read. “So, I told them I’d stay and fix things to meet the deadline.”

“I was looking forward to you being there.” The deep tenor of his voice is a seduction all in its own right.

“Oh.” My breath hitches at his comment, and I hate that for a girl who never gets tongue-tied over a man, I’m doing a damn fine job of pretending I am. Next thing I know, I’m going to forget that I know how to walk in heels and accidentally trip and fall into his arms. That’s how ridiculously dorky I feel right now.

He takes a step toward me.

“What else did Rissa say?” I ask for the sole reason of needing something to say.

“She thanked me for agreeing to do the contest.” He angles his head and stares at me for a beat, and I’m suddenly so very aware how dark the main office space is . . . and how very alone we are. “Why did you say the magazine needs to be saved?”

His question takes me off guard and also gives me a small reprieve from the sexual tension that eats up the oxygen in the room.

“It has failing viewership. I was brought on staff to elevate the numbers and help save it.”

“The contest.”

“The contest.”

“And where do I fit in all of this?”