put it in boldface type.
Wasnât Mr. Sanders livid with fury?
She couldnât stand the suspense. She grabbed her heavy wool coat and knitted green scarf off the hook by the door.
âHey, Jess,â Eli yelled. âWhere are ya...?â She blotted out his voice and sped down the frost-slick sidewalk.
Then her steps slowed. Drat. If Cole stopped at the Golden Partridge she couldnât follow him. No lady entered a saloon.
But he strode past the Golden Partridge and entered the restaurant nearby. Thank the Lord. She could unobtrusively steal inside, sit in one corner sipping a cup of tea and watch his face while he read her editorial.
She tiptoed inside the deserted restaurant, shed her coat and scarf and hung them on the maple coat tree in the corner. âHot tea, please, Rita,â she whispered.
Cole sat with his back to her, calmly sipping a mug of steaming coffee. But he wasnât reading her newspaper. He was gazing out the front window. And humming! She recognized the tune, âThe Blue-Tail Fly.â
Rita brought her a ceramic pot of tea, plunked it down and tipped her gray-bunned head toward the front table. âKinda odd, you two settinâ in the same room but not havinâ breakfast together.â
âOh, Mr. Sanders and I are not together.â
The waitress blinked. âNo? Shoot, I thoughtââ
âSure weâre together,â Cole said without turning around.
Jess jumped. The man must have ears like a foxhound.
âYou misspelled larcenous ,â he called.
âWhat? I thought you hadnât read my editorial yet.â
He maneuvered his chair around to face her. âOh, Iâve read it all right. Like I said, you misspelledââ
âI heard you the first time,â she retorted.
âNever figured you for a sloppy writer, Miss Lassiter.â
âI never figured you for a schoolmarm, Mr. Sanders.â
âPoint taken.â He rose and came across the room to her table. âScrambled eggs?â
âNo, thank you. I am having tea.â
âRita, scramble up some eggs for me and the lady. Add some bacon, too.â
Rita bobbed her head, hid a smile and disappeared into the kitchen.
âCold out this morning,â Cole said amiably.
âVery.â Jess fiddled with her napkin, refolded it into a square, then shook it out and folded it again. âVery well, how do you spell larcenous ?â
âHell, I donât know. Got your attention, though, didnât it?â
She bit her lip. âIt most certainly did. Are you always so underhanded?â
âNope. Hardly ever, in fact.â
âOnly with me, is that it?â
Cole leaned across the table toward her and lowered his voice. âJessamine, if you donât stop worrying your teeth into your lips like that, so help me Iâm going to kiss you right here in front of everybody.â
Her eyes rounded into two green moons. âI. Beg. Your. Pardon?â
âYou heard me. Stop biting your lips.â
She turned the color of strawberry jam. âWhat business is it of yours what I do with my lips?â
âNone at all. But Iâm only human, and Iâm male, so stop it.â
She tossed her napkin onto the table and started up, but he snaked out his hand and closed his fingers around her wrist.
âSit.â He gave a little tug and her knees gave way.
âNow,â he said in a businesslike tone. âWeâre gonna have a council of war, Miss Lassiter, so listen up.â
She opened her mouth, then closed it with a little click, and he proceeded.
âSome things are fair in journalistic jockeying, and some things are hitting below the belt. What you wrote about Conway Arbuckle is below the belt.â
âWhat things?â
He dragged her newspaper from inside his jacket pocket, spread it flat on the table and tapped his forefinger on her editorial. âThat heâs larcenous. And that