get around to it,” Christian said, righting the ceramic mug in front of him. He might be risking his life asking her to pour it for him, but it was a risk he’d have to take.
Mariah refilled another glass pot from the large percolator. He noted that her hand shook slightly as she filled his mug. “When did you get back?” she asked conversationally. Christian wasn’t fooled; she’d been the one to arrange his itinerary. She knew his travel schedule as well as he did.
“This afternoon.”
Mariah pulled an order pad from her apron pocket. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a piece of apple pie.”
Mariah called back the order to Ben, who appeared a couple of minutes later with a large slice of pie. He set it in front of Christian and eyed him warily, as if anticipating a confrontation.
Christian figured he didn’t need to say a word. Within a week, when Ben was out of coffeepots and patience, he’d recognize that Mariah was never cut out to be a waitress.
“How’s it going?” Christian asked Ben, tipping his head toward Mariah, who was busy serving Ralph his lunch. He’d apparently ordered the day’s special—meatloaf sandwich, with a bowl of beef-and-barley soup.
“With Mariah?” Ben grinned. “Great. Just great.” He gestured toward the tables. “Have you ever seen my place look better? Mariah’s responsible for all the fancy touches. I don’t know why I delayed hiring someone for so long. She’s the best thing that’s happened to the café since I got in the soft-ice-cream machine.”
Christian took a bite of the pie and raised his eyebrows. “Hey, this is great! What’s different?”
“Mariah baked it.”
“Mariah?” Ben could’ve knocked him over with a flick of his finger.
“It’s her grandmother’s recipe. Best apple pie I’ve ever tasted. As far as I’m concerned, she can do all the baking around here, she’s that good.”
Christian was confused, to put it mildly. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Mariah?”
Ben chuckled. “I’m sure.” The cook drifted back to the kitchen, but Christian wasn’t alone for long. Mariah hurried to bring him the small canister of cream.
“I—I forgot you like your coffee with cream, don’t you?”
Christian didn’t bother to correct her. “Do you have a minute?” he asked.
She hesitated. “The dinner crowd will start coming in any time now.”
It was barely four; a poor excuse. “I’d appreciate it if you could sit down and chat for a few minutes.”
“All right.” But her reluctance was obvious. She walked around the counter to sit on the stool next to him. Folding her hands on the counter, she waited for Christian to speak.
“Allison didn’t come with me,” he said, wanting to clear the air about that immediately. He understood her concern and was willing to admit that he’d been sadly remiss in mentioning the other woman in Mariah’s presence. He’d seen the error of his ways; now he wanted her back. They’d just begun to find their footing with each other, and it seemed a shame to end it all so abruptly. And unnecessarily.
Three months ago—three weeks ago—he would’ve cheered to see her leave Midnight Sons. But not now.
“Sawyer already told me she wouldn’t be coming.” Her gaze met his straight on.
“Then why’d you decide to quit?”
“It never really worked out between you and me.”
“Things were improving, though, don’t you think?”
“I suppose. Only you...”
“Yes?” he pressed.
“You wanted a different secretary.”
“I don’t anymore,” he said, growing impatient. It occurred to him to tell her he’d made a mistake, to apologize, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.
“I’m already committed to working for Ben,” she said, and she did sound mildly regretful. “Do you like the pie?”
At the moment it was stuck in his throat, but he managed to respond with a quick nod.
“So your mind’s made up?” he asked, pushing back his plate.
“Yes.” She eyed him expectantly, and he wondered if she was waiting for him to plead with her. Well, there’d be frost in the Caribbean before he’d grovel! If she didn’t want to work for Midnight Sons, fine. There were stacks of applications from women clamoring for the opportunity to move north. He’d met a number of them a year ago.
“Fine.” He stood and paid for the pie. “We’re sorry to see you go, but what the hey, right? You were with us for a year and it was fun.”
“Yes,” she said, but she didn’t sound so sure that it was fun.
Christian walked back to the mobile office. Their conversation hadn’t gone nearly as well as he’d assumed it would. Perhaps he should’ve waited a day or two. Rushing over to Ben’s the minute the plane landed made him look too eager; that had been a tactical error. Still, he had other options, and he planned to exercise them, starting now.
Christian opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet and sorted through a sequence of file folders, searching for the one that contained the applications he’d received the summer before. It took a while, but he eventually located what he needed, and without any help from Mariah.
With the precious folder clutched tightly in his hand, he walked over to his desk and sat down. Reading through the top three applications instantly lifted his spirits. Plenty of women had been interested in this position.
“Ramona Cummings,” he said aloud, remembering his interview with the dark-haired beauty. Gleefully he punched out the phone number.
Disconnected.
Christian flipped to the second application. “Rosey Stone.” A face didn’t immediately come to mind, but he’d probably remember her once he heard her voice. Once again he punched in the number and waited.
A soft, feminine voice answered.
“This is Christian O’Halloran from Hard Luck, Alaska. Is Rosey Stone there?”
“This is Rosey.” She sounded surprised and a little breathless. Good, Christian liked awed and breathless. This was a fine start, a fine start indeed.
“You applied for the position of secretary last year.”
“Yes...yes, I remember!” she said excitedly.
“We currently have a position available, and we’d like to offer it to you.” He felt smug at the thought that it would be so easy to replace Mariah.
“Are you still offering the same employment package you were a year ago?” Rosey asked.
“Ah...yes. There’s a cabin you could have. Actually it isn’t much,” he added with a twinge of conscience. “My father built it over thirty years ago, and there’s no electricity and no indoor plumbing.”
“You’re joking!”
Christian didn’t know what had possessed him to blurt that out. “The cabin lacks modern conveniences.” He smacked his forehead with one hand.
“What is this, some kind of sick joke?”
“No. The job’s available if you still want it.”
“No, thanks,” she informed him, and slammed the phone in his ear.
“I didn’t think you would,” he said into the drone of the disconnected line. Sighing, Christian hung up the receiver. He wanted