Cover Story by Rachel Bailey Read Free Book Online

a waste of time, whether you’re seven or fifty-seven. Case in point—the editor on the first newspaper I worked on. He didn’t play games—he asked me out to dinner, then at dinner he asked me to sleep with him. He continued asking for weeks until I agreed. I respected that—to the point, no mucking around, no misunderstandings.
    Shame I got bored with him.
    But when I did, I offered him the same courtesy—no games, no lies. I told him he bored me and dumped him. I think he appreciated it.
    Of course, he had organized for me to be transferred soon after, but he swore it was more of a promotion than anything.
    Looking back at Simon, however, I resisted the urge to spurn him. There was something real about him that was different from men I’d known. I wasn’t sure what that meant. Maybe that a snarky barb would actually hurt him? But also, that stepping into whatever he was offering with his flirting would be real. And good.
    I turned away and ignored his knight in shining armor offer—for purely professional reasons, of course.

Chapter 4
    After we ate the black bean burritos and a cherry pie Dot and Anna had made in my honor, Dot suggested Simon take me next door while she put Anna to bed.
    We walked across to the Sinclairs’ at number six, hoping to catch Martin. Beverley answered the door with her squishy-faced fake smile and asked us in for a cup of Highlands Herbs Tasmanian tea. Apparently there are protocols with tea variety and time of day. Who knew? Simon accepted and we walked through to the table in the kitchen, while Beverley went to find Martin.
    Martin arrived almost immediately, thinly veiled disdain marring his reasonably handsome face. He looked quite the businessman with the obligatory short gray hair and business shirt, albeit with his collar undone. But it was the expression in his eyes that told me the most. It was hard. Lacking something.
    “Good evening, Mr. Sinclair, my name is Tobi Fletcher and—”
    “I know who you are,” he interrupted. “Beverley told me earlier.” He sat down and laced his fingers behind his head, eyelids half lowered in obvious boredom. He was trying to intimidate me into leaving, but I paid no heed.
    I flipped open my spiral notebook. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    “About the gnomes?” He practically sneered.
    I dislike arrogant men—they bring out a similar urge in me that flirting men do: I get this almost irresistible urge to separate them from their testicles. But, being the professional I am, or maybe just exhausted, I restrained myself.
    “Yes, about the gnomes. Have you any idea what happened to them?”
    He looked me up and down. “So you’re the caliber of person drawing a wage from my subscription?” He shook his head. “Perhaps I need to rethink where my money goes.”
    I took a deep breath, determined not to rise to his bait, despite my fist clenched around my pencil. “You don’t have an opinion on the gnomes then?”
    He snorted a breath. “Are you honestly asking me to speculate about the fate of five-dollar garden gnomes?” He threw his arms in the air. “No wonder this country’s a mess, when the media takes this sort of nonsense seriously and ignores crucial economic and trade issues.”
    My blood steamed. Whether he was baiting me or not, I’d had enough, and the fact that I agreed with him in no way soothed my annoyance. “The gnome issue may not chart on the national political Richter scale, but it’s of relevance to some members of our readership and that’s ultimately what matters. At the Santa Fe Daily , we pride ourselves on representing our entire readership, not just the self-important buffoons who think they know more than everybody else.”
    His face turned an interesting shade of red and seemed to swell. “I think it’s time you left.”
    “I think you’re right.” I stood and walked to the door, not checking if Simon followed.
    He caught up with me on the sidewalk. I felt a twinge of guilt that