Franconia Notch Series 

Book One

“But fraud for a defense contractor is serious.  You don’t want to defend your reputation as a provider to our armed forces?”

It took him a minute to realize that clicking noise was her following him over the pavement.  He spun around, his arms coming up once more to gesture his acquiescence, only she was standing too close, and instead of gesturing with authority, he ran into her, his arms striking her shoulders and knocking her against him.

He froze, feeling the length of her body collide with his, the scent of her shampoo invade his senses, her breath fall across the exposed skin above his shirt collar.  He felt her hesitation, the hitch in her breath, before she shoved against him, pushing herself away.

“I’m very sorry,” he said, his hands moving uselessly in front of him as if to help her regain her balance.

She stood with her pad held against her chest like some sort of shield, and he felt his anger drain into annoyance.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, much more carefully, “I don’t have a comment, and I need to get back to work.  Please excuse me.”

He turned slowly this time, resuming his walk to the loading dock door.

“What is it that you’re using this factory for, Mr. Darke?”

He didn’t answer.  No matter how much he wanted to turn around and rail about his stupid brother’s stupid decisions, he did not.  He kept walking.

“Fraud, I mean, come on, that’s—”

And then he did turn.

“If you want a comment, you can call our PR department.”

“Great!” she said, and he almost smiled at her enthusiasm as she pulled up a clean page of her notebook.  “What’s the phone number?”

He shook his head at her and let his feet carry him back to where she stood on the pavement, notebook poised for the phone number.

“Shannon, was it?” he said when he was close.

He had felt her breath hitch when she had bumped into him, and now he dared to step a little closer than politeness would have dictated.  He saw it again, the slight hitch in her chest, and he felt a smile spread over his face.  He leaned in, dropping his voice to a soft, rich level.

“Have you heard of the Internet, Shannon?”

“Yes,” she whispered softly, her eyes locked on his.

“Use it,” he said and walked away, leaving her standing in the parking lot, her pen completely still.

“I kissed you, Ms. Baxter.  You needn’t stand there biting off your tongue in shame.”  He grabbed another paper towel, ran it along the back of his neck.  “I just wanted to see if the woman I married was still inside of this cool, matronly woman who answered the door of your townhouse.”

There it was again.  The Cam she wanted to throttle.

“Fuck you.”  She glared at him as she bent to retrieve the dropped pamphlets, scooping them into a pile on the floor.

“You always had a little too much class,” he said on a fading laugh, but she got the feeling that he was speaking more to himself than to her.

She did not like the way his accent lengthened the A and made her feel inferior in its archness.  She stood.

“I would beg to differ on that point.  I do not believe anyone can have a little too much class.”  The last word was flat and American, and Lydia stuffed the menus back in their cubby.

She had never expected to feel uncomfortable in his presence, and she was not sure if that was what she felt now.  Her emotions were such a roiling mess, and he had not helped her when he kissed her.  She should have been angry with him about that, but it had been so long…so long since…

Well, anything.

Since Cam surely, but since Cam there had been frighteningly little with which to distract herself.  She could have dwelt on that, or she could have convinced her husband to help her.

“Cam, please take a seat.”  She gestured to the stools at the peninsula.

“I’d rather stand, thanks.  I sat for seven hours across the Atlantic.  My legs would rebel if I sat now.”

Lydia thought about the disadvantage of having him stand through this.  He was six foot two and counting, and his shoulders intimidated doorways.  After having shoved him out the door a mere four months after their marriage, she did not feel at all certain that he would be receptive to what she was about to say.

But then why had he immediately gotten on a plane to come to Boston?  She had sent the email a scant three days before, and he was already here.  How much had he paid for that plane ticket?

“So get on with it.  What is it that you’ve dragged me this far to ask me?  You know we have telephones now.   They can cross the length and breadth of the biggest ocean, and you feel as if the person is standing right there in front of you,” Cam said, gesturing with the crumpled paper towels he held in his hand.

She had been lost in her own thoughts, but her vision suddenly focused on him.  Cam held his arms aloft still, and she recalled a long ago time when Cam had swept her in with his big stories and his bigger storytelling ways.  He winked at her, and she knew he was remembering the same thing.  She cleared her throat.

“I need you to be my husband,” she said.