angled her head to one side, as if studying him. “That, too.”
Rick leaned forward and cocked her a wry grin. “Get used to it, sweetie. I’m around for a while.”
She held his gaze, her eyes steady. “Don’t call me ‘sweetie,’” she said quietly. “It’s insincere.”
Was it?
Maybe she wasn’t a “sweetie,” per se—her tawny eyes and crooked grin negated that image—but there was definitely something about her that appealed. In spite of her off-putting attitude. “Maybe I’m teasing,” he said.
“Maybe you should be nice.”
“You could teach me.” The comment sounded lame, but he couldn’t think of anything snappier to say.
“Well, you know the saying, if you can’t say something nice, become a reporter.”
He couldn’t stop his burst of laughter. “You are in the right job.”
The waitress came just then with his order. “Here you go. I hope you enjoy.” She gave him a broad smile, lingered just long enough to show her interest but not long enough to create an embarrassing situation, and was gone. But she didn’t hold his interest.
The woman who did was packing up, and to his surprise, Rick felt a twinge of disappointment. It had been a while since he’d spent any time with a pretty woman. An even longer time with one who didn’t seem to be afraid to challenge him.
“The muse desert you?” he asked, unwrapping his utensils.
“She’s been a bit flighty lately.” Becky slipped her laptop into a knapsack.
“You’re so fond of mottoes, surely you know that for writers, when the going gets tough…” Rick let the sentence trail off.
“The tough writers huddle under their desk chewing the cuffs of their sleeves,” Becky finished off for him.
He couldn’t help it. He laughed again.
She slipped her knapsack over her shoulder and pulled her hair loose from the straps, shooting him an oblique smile as she did so. With a muttered “See you tomorrow,” she left.
As she wended her way through the tables, someone called out her name and she responded, her smile genuine now. She stopped at one table to chat someone up, waved at another person across the café and joked with Katherine Dubowsky, the owner of Coffee’s On, while she paid her bill.
Then with a laugh and the tinkle of the door’s bell, she was gone.
Rick turned back to his food, feeling curiously deflated, as if the day had lost even more light. He finished his supper quickly, then left for his apartment and his own brand of domestic bliss.
“I don’t know if I like the emphasis in this article.” Rick pushed the paper across his desk toward Becky and leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. He wore a black cotton shirt today, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His usual blue jeans. The subdued morning light highlighted the blond of his hair, shadowed the faint dimple in his cheek. He looked more like the cowboy she had written about in the article, than a publisher of a magazine.
Becky glanced down at the article, wishing for a moment that Rick Ethier weren’t so physically appealing. Not because she was attracted to him, mind you, but because the women in the office were starting to annoy her. And it was starting to interfere with her own objectives. She needed people on her side if she was going to maintain a toehold of control over this magazine.
Just this morning she had to listen to Trixie wax eloquent about those eyes, that careless hair. The way he, “well, you know, Becky, kind of strolls. Like he’s in charge of his world.” Which he was, of course.
Trouble was, it was also her world.
“It’s a fairly basic profile. What’s the problem?”
Rick rocked a couple of times in his chair, then leaned forward. “Here’s the deal. You’ve got an article about working cowboys who make lousy wages, yet you write it like these guys are the happiest men alive.”
“It’s what they told me.”
“That they were the happiest men alive?”
“That they loved their work. That it wasn’t a job as much as a vocation.”
Rick acknowledged this with a quick nod. “That may be, but you don’t bring up any of the negatives. And don’t tell me they didn’t talk about any.”
“Of course they did. They work long hours. Get hurt a lot. Have to work with rank horses and ornery bosses. As many more of us have to.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Nice. Nice. Be nice.
“I’m going to take that last comment as a generality.” Rick got up from his desk and stood by the window, his hands shoved in the back pockets of his pants. “But none of what you just told me made it into the article.”
“That wasn’t the point of the article.”
Rick turned to her, a dour smile on his face. “And that’s my point. You took your own preconceptions to the story and only used facts that worked with what you wanted to show.”
Becky didn’t have time for this and wondered that he did. She was behind on her own work and phone calls. She knew he was busy consulting with his marketing and focus group on the redesign.
“So what do you want me to do? Rewrite it?” She bit back the anger that was starting up again.
“No. I’d just like to see a bit more balance in what you’re doing.”
“In keeping with the vision of the magazine,” she finished with a light sigh. She wasn’t going to concede immediately.
“The vision is more business oriented. As well, I’m also trying to shape this magazine into a more honest view of life in this part of the country.”
“Oh, you made that very clear.” Becky stopped. Took a breath. “But business isn’t all grimness and focus. There are people who enjoy what they do. I wanted to show that in this article.”
“The glass is half-full.”
Becky frowned, then caught his inference. “Okay. So I’m an optimist. You say it’s half-empty. Neither of us is wrong. It just depends on what you want to focus on.” She felt, more than heard, the hardness creeping into her voice and tried to inject a note of humor. “And if you were our art director, you would say we would need a different glass.”
Rick frowned. He didn’t get it, obviously. “Water management aside, I’d also like to see the article shorter if possible.”
“Design will have problems with that.”
“We need the space for ads.”
“It’s a magazine, not a shopping network.”
“But ads pay the bills and our salaries.”
Becky bit back a comment. In the few days Rick had been here, she realized one thing. Money talked to this man. Loud and clear.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Anything else you want to discuss?”
“I’m calling a meeting tomorrow to go over the results of our market survey.”
Becky pulled out her Day-Timer and flipped it open to the date. “Sorry. I’ve got a practice with the children’s choir.”
“How about after?”
“After, I’m supposed to be meeting with the banner committee to discuss the new designs for the Thanksgiving service in the fall.”
Rick drummed his fingers against his thigh. “How about the next night?”
Becky flipped the page and