Worth the Risk(67)

“What do you want out of your life?”

I shrug, knowing it’s going to sound so very different from the life he leads. “I wanted a career and the freedom to move about as I please.”

“You mean head off to St. Tropez on a whim?”

I glare at him. “That’s not fair.”

“Yeah, well . . . it’s the life you’re used to, right?”

“Does it look like that’s the life I’m used to?” I hold my hands out, knowing that it’s the only defense I have when he’s right. Packing my bags and leaving at the drop of a hat is what I sometimes do . . . because I can.

“Yes. It does. So that begs the question, what in the hell are you doing here in Sunnyville? You told me you were here to help save the magazine. Fine. But there’s more there you aren’t telling me.” He’s ready to pounce on any response that I give, so I give him the truth.

“I screwed up.” I think I’m startled by the admission as much as he is. “I was working for the main office of Thorton Publishing. We had a big interview with Wendy Whitaker.”

“You mean the fashion lady who’s on all the shows? The one who just blew the whistle on the fashion designer and his abusive behavior?”

“She’s the one, and that was our exclusive . . . until I botched it.” I can still feel the crushing panic I felt when I realized what time it was and that I’d missed our appointment. “She had contacted my father and said she wanted to speak to me personally. We had met at industry events because fashion is where my passion lies, and she knew enough about me to know I would keep her name quiet. Anyway, she told my father he could have the exclusive for our weekly news magazine. It was all set up. Then Zoey, my best friend, called me because she needed me—like needed me, needed me,” I say, not wanting to spill her secrets. “I was so busy helping her that time flew, and I missed the meeting.”

“And the story broke elsewhere.”

“Yep. And her name with it, when she wanted it to be kept secret.” I stare at the streetlight a little way down the road before I respond. “I screwed up big time.”

“Choices always have a chain reaction. How did that chain reaction lead you to Sunnyville?”

“My dad was pissed, which is putting it mildly, since it wasn’t the first time I had done something to let him down—”

“Impossible expectations? It’s always hard working for a family member.”

“Perhaps, but I really did screw up. Not only did I let him down, but also, I let myself down.” I glance his way, expecting judgment but finding compassion instead. “My dad said I was acting like Richie Rich. Wanting everything without having to work for it.” I say the words knowing full well how they are going to hit his ears after everything he went through with Claire.

“And what is the everything that you want?” He angles his head to the side and holds my gaze. I hate that I almost tell him that it’s him I want.

Then I get a grip and come to my senses.

“My two loves are fashion and writing about fashion,” I explain as his eyes narrow some as he tries to follow me. “That’s the job I want someday, to be an editor-in-chief of a fashion magazine, so I can do something that has to do with both. For now though, it’s proving myself to my father and boosting the circulation of Modern Family somehow and increasing the online constituency.”

“So, the contest was your idea?” he asks. I nod, feeling rather shy about it all of a sudden. “And how are you managing living in small-town USA when it isn’t your thing?”

“There’s nothing wrong with small-town USA, but—”

“Those red-soled shoes of yours don’t quite fit the town image for you.” Irritation edges his voice.

“That isn’t fair, Grayson.”

His chuckle fills the air as he looks at me over the edge of his bottle as he tips it up. “It doesn’t seem that life is fair much at all.”

When I rise from my seat, I have no idea what my intentions are, but I make my way across the short distance and stop right in front of him. We stare at each other for a moment as the crickets continue to sing and the moths fly in front of the porch light, casting shadows that shift and dance around us.

“And when you tire of Sunnyville like you did before . . . what then? Where to then?”

I stare at him and am thankful for the shadow over my face because I realize that I never told him I was leaving. I never explained to him that after this contest, I was moving on.

For the life of me, I can’t bring myself to say the words. I can’t make myself tell him that I’ll be leaving in a few months. Telling him about my dream job was my subtle way of letting him know that I’m not here long term . . . and yet I fumble with what to say because the thought of not being near him is suddenly unwelcome. When I finally speak, my words are soft and my voice breaks. “Just because I like my red soles, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t fit in here if I wanted to. I did once.”

“You did once because you were born here, but from what I remember, you were always itching for more of the limelight. You’d sit in that diner and talk about all the places you wanted to go, while some of your friends talked about the next party, the next whatever that wouldn’t mean shit once you graduated.”