Easy on the Eyes by Jane Porter Read Free Book Online Page A

anything if I could just make amends. I’d do anything to bring
     them back. And I’d do anything to have them know I love them and miss them with all my heart.
    Celia gestures at my face. “You’re uh, crying.”
    Frowning, I reach up, feel damp lashes. So I am. I had no idea. I force a smile, the smile that makes the world think I’m
     just so damn lucky and happy. “It’s the smog,” I say, nonchalantly wiping them dry. “I’ve had that problem all day.”
    The waiter appears at our table to take the order, and once he’s gone, Celia’s thoughts are in a different direction. “I confess
     I have an ulterior motive for meeting you tonight.” She looks at me, one black eyebrow arching. “I wouldn’t bring it up if
     I weren’t concerned.”
    “What is it?” I ask, wondering if this is about Trevor and the Paris stories.
    “It’s your girl Shelby. Rumor’s on the street that she’s taking over your anchor chair the first of the New Year.” Celia pauses
     to wave off the basket of bread the waiter has brought us. No point in having temptation sit on the table and stare you in
     the face. “Didn’t know if there was any truth behind the talk or not.”
    We both know there’s nearly always a kernel of truth behind gossip. Even if it’s a very small kernel, and in this case, it’s
     not so very small. “She wants it, that’s for sure.”
    “But it’s not hers?”
    “Not as long as I have any say.”
    “Do you have any say?”
    I flinch. I’ve known Celia too long to object to the question, but it’s a hard one, and it further undermines my increasingly
     shaky confidence. “I don’t see why I wouldn’t. I’m still the host. My contract’s not up until March.”
    Celia looks at me for a long moment and then shakes her head. “Shelby’s hungry.”
    “I know.”
    “Be proactive. Don’t wait for the other shoe to drop. It’ll only get worse if you do.”
    Dinner over, I drive home, park in the garage, and enter the house through the side door. I stand in the hallway off my kitchen,
     clutching my briefcase. It’s so quiet.
    It’s always so quiet.
    For a moment I droop, fatigue rushing over me in waves. I can feel the weight of my computer in my briefcase, the hard adobe
     tiles beneath my heels, the pinch of my thin, snug bra straps. Standing there, I can feel the quiet night like arms wrapping
     me, holding me, and it’s suffocating. Suffocating and lonely.
    Keith.
    For the first time in a long time, I miss him. Badly.
    If only he was here. He’d know the right thing to say. He’d give me a hug, and a kiss, and tell me that everything’s going
     to be fine. He’d remind me that I have to be a fighter, and strong. And then he’d give me another hug, and kiss me and offer
     to get me a glass of wine.
    I try to smile but can’t.
    I wish he was here. I could use some Keith Heaton advice. Keith was great at giving advice. Sometimes he gave a little too
     much advice, and sometimes his advice was a little too black and white, but in the end, it’s what attracted me and kept my
     respect. Keith knew what was right. And even though he was ambitious, he had this incredible inner moral compass. He was a
     man who couldn’t be bought, couldn’t be had, and that’s a rare find in our society.
    Throat aching, I walk slowly to the hall table and put down my briefcase and look around a house I bought for Keith and me.
     Of course he was dead already, but I knew he’d love this house. I could see us in this house.
    I kick off my heels, one and then the other, then shrug off my coat and drop it on the back of a living room chair. Even though
     it’s almost Thanksgiving it’s a warm night, and I head for the French doors and push them open. The potted Meyer lemon tree
     on the patio is in bloom, and the heady citrus scent perfumes the air.
    It doesn’t happen very often anymore, but sometimes at night I dream Keith’s still here, still with me, and then in the morning
     I wake and roll