“Bailey?”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, suddenly aware that she’d allowed her thoughts to run unchecked for several minutes. “Did I miss something?”
“No. You had a...pained look and I was wondering if your salad was all right?”
“Yes. It’s wonderful. As fantastic as I remember.” She briefly relayed the story of her parents treating her to dinner at the Sandpiper. What she didn’t explain was that their trip south had been made for the express purpose of checking up on Bailey. Her parents were worried about her. They insisted she worked too hard, didn’t get out enough, didn’t socialize.
Bailey had listened politely to their concerns and then hugged them both, thanked them for their love and sent them back to Oregon.
Spotting her pad and pen lying beside her plate, Bailey sighed. She hadn’t questioned Parker once, which was the whole point of their meeting. Glancing at her watch, she groaned inwardly. She only had another fifteen minutes. It wasn’t worth the effort of getting started. Not when she’d just have to stop.
“I need to get back to the office,” she announced regretfully. She looked around for the waiter so she could ask for her check.
“It’s been taken care of.”
It took Bailey a moment to realize that Parker was talking about her meal. “I can’t let you do that,” she insisted, reaching for her purse.
“Please.”
If he’d argued with her, shoveled out some chauvinistic challenge, Bailey would never have allowed him to pay. But that one word, that one softly spoken word, was her undoing.
“All right,” she agreed, her own voice just as soft.
“You didn’t get a chance to ask your questions.”
“I know.” She found that frustrating, but had no one to blame but herself. “I got caught up talking about romance fiction and writing and—”
“Shall we try again? Another time?”
“It looks like we’ll have to.” She needed to be careful that lunch with Parker didn’t develop into a habit.
“I’m free tomorrow evening.”
“Evening?” Somehow that seemed far more threatening than meeting for lunch. “Uh... I generally reserve the hours after work for writing.”
“I see.”
Her heart reacted to the hint of disappointment in his voice. “I might be able to make an exception.” Bailey was horrified as soon as the words were out. She couldn’t believe she’d said that. For the entire hour, she’d been lecturing herself about the dangers of getting close to Parker. “No,” she said firmly. “It’s crucial that I maintain my writing schedule.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Parker took a business card from his coat pocket. He scribbled on the back and handed it to her. “This is my home number in case you change your mind.”
Bailey accepted the card and thrust it into her purse, together with her notepad and pen. “I really have to write... I mean, my writing schedule is important to me. I can’t be running out to dinner just because someone asks me.” She stood, scraping back her chair in her eagerness to escape.
“Consider it research.”
Bailey responded by shaking her head. “Thank you for lunch.”
“You’re most welcome. But I hope you’ll reconsider having dinner with me.”
She backed away from the table, her purse held tightly in both hands. “Dinner?” she echoed, still undecided.
“For the purposes of research,” he added.
“It wouldn’t be a date.” It was important to make that point clear. The only man she had time for was Michael. But Parker was supposed to help her with Michael, so maybe... “Not a date, just research,” she repeated in a more determined voice. “Agreed?”
He grinned, his eyes lighting mischievously. “What do you think?”
Five
Max was waiting at the door when Bailey got home from work that evening. His striped yellow tail pointed straight toward the ceiling as he twisted and turned between her legs. His not-so-subtle message was designed to remind her it was mealtime.
“Just a minute, Maxie,” she muttered. She leafed through the mail as she walked into the kitchen, pausing when she found a yellow slip.
“Meow.”
“Max, look,” she said, waving the note at him. “Mrs. Morgan’s holding a package for us.” The apartment manager was always kind enough to accept deliveries, saving Bailey more than one trip to the post office.
Leaving a disgruntled Max behind, Bailey hurried down the stairs to Mrs. Morgan’s first-floor apartment, where she was greeted with a warm smile. Mrs. Morgan was an older woman, a matronly widow who seemed especially protective of her younger tenants.
“Here you go, dear,” she said, handing Bailey a large manila envelope.
Bailey knew the instant she saw the package that this wasn’t an unexpected surprise from her parents. It was her manuscript—rejected.
“Thank you,” she said, struggling to disguise her disappointment. From the moment Bailey had read Jo Ann’s critique she’d realized Forever Yours would probably be rejected. What she hadn’t foreseen was this stomach-churning sensation, this feeling of total discouragement. Koppen Publishing had kept the manuscript for nearly four months. Jo Ann had insisted no news was no news, and so Bailey had begun to believe that the editor had held on to her book for so long because she’d seriously considered buying it.
Bailey had fully expected that she’d have to revise her manuscript; nonetheless, she’d hoped to be doing it with a contract in her pocket, riding high on success.
Once again Max was waiting by the door, more impatient this time. Without thinking, Bailey walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and dumped food into his bowl. It wasn’t until she straightened that she realized she’d given her greedy cat the dinner she was planning to cook for herself.
No fool, Max dug into the ground turkey, edging his way between her legs in his eagerness. Bailey shrugged. The way she was feeling, she didn’t have much of an appetite, anyway.
It took her another five minutes to find the courage to open the package. She carefully pried apart the seam. Why she was being so careful, she couldn’t even guess. She had no intention of reusing the envelope. Once the padding was separated, she removed the manuscript box. Inside was a short letter that she quickly read, swallowing down the emotion that clogged her throat. The fact that the letter was personal, and not simply a standard rejection letter, did little to relieve the crushing disappointment.
Reaching for the phone, Bailey punched out Jo Ann’s number. Her friend had experienced this more than once and was sure to have some words of wisdom to help Bailey through this moment. Jo Ann would understand how badly her confidence had been shaken.
After four rings, Bailey was connected to her friend’s answering machine. She listened to the message, but didn’t want to leave Jo Ann such a disheartening message, so she mumbled, “It’s Bailey,” and hung up.
Pacing the apartment in an effort to sort out her emotions didn’t seem to help. She eyed her computer, which was set up in a corner of her compact living room, but the desire to sit down and start writing was nil. Vanished. Destroyed.
Jo Ann had warned her. So had others in their writers’ group. Rejections hurt. She just hadn’t expected it to hurt so much.
Searching in her purse for a mint, she felt her fingers close around a business card. Parker’s business card. She slowly drew it out. He’d written down his phone number....
Should she call him? No, she decided, thrusting the card into her pocket. Why even entertain the notion? Talking to Parker now would be foolish. And risky. She was a big girl. She could take rejection. Anyone who became a writer had to learn how to handle rejection.
Rejections were rungs on the ladder of success. Someone had said that at a meeting once, and
Bailey had written it down and kept it posted on the bottom edge of her computer screen. Now was the time to act on that belief. Since this was only the first rung, she had a long way to climb, but the darn ladder was much steeper than she’d anticipated.
With a fumbling resolve, she returned to the kitchen and reread the letter from Paula Albright, the editor, who wrote that she was returning the manuscript “with regret.”
“Not as much regret as I feel,” Bailey informed Max, who was busy enjoying her dinner.
“She says I show promise.” But Bailey noted that she didn’t say promise of what.
The major difficulty, according to the editor, was Michael. This wasn’t exactly a surprise to Bailey. Ms. Albright had kindly mentioned several scenes that needed to be reworked with this problem in mind. She ended her letter by telling Bailey that if she revised the manuscript, the editorial department would be pleased to reevaluate it.
Funny, Bailey hadn’t even noticed that the first time she’d read the letter. If she reworked Michael, there was still a chance.
With sudden enthusiasm, Bailey grabbed the phone. She’d changed her mind—calling Parker now seemed like a good idea. A great idea. He might well be her one and only chance to straighten out poor misguided Michael.
Parker answered on the second ring, sounding distracted and mildly irritated at being interrupted.
“Parker,” Bailey said, desperately hoping she wasn’t making a first-class fool of herself, “this is Bailey York.”
“Hello.” His tone was a little less disgruntled.
Her mouth had gone completely dry, but she rushed ahead with the reason for her call. “I want you to know I’ve... I’ve been thinking about your dinner invitation. Could you possibly meet me tonight instead of tomorrow?” She wanted to start rehabilitating Michael as soon as possible.
“This is Bailey York?” He sounded as though he didn’t remember who she was.
“The writer from the subway,” she said pointedly, feeling like more of an idiot with every passing second. She should never have phoned him, but the impulse had been so powerful. She longed to put this rejection behind her and write a stronger romance, but she was going to need his help. Perhaps she should call him later. “Listen, if now is inconvenient, I could call another time.” She was about to hang up when Parker spoke.
“Now is fine. I’m sorry if I seem rattled, but I was working and I tend to get absorbed in a project.”
“I do that myself,” she said, reassured by his explanation. Drawing a deep breath, she explained the reason for her unexpected call. “Forever Yours was rejected today.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” His regret seemed genuine, and the soft fluttering sensation returned to her stomach at the sympathy he extended.
“I was sorry, too, but it didn’t come as a big shock. I guess I let my hopes build when the manuscript wasn’t immediately returned, which is something Jo Ann warned me about.” She shifted the receiver to her other ear, surprised by how much better she felt having someone to talk to.
“What happens when a publisher turns down a manuscript? Do they critique the book?”
“Heavens, no. Generally manuscripts are returned with a standard rejection letter. The fact that the editor took the time to personally write me about revising is sort of a compliment. Actually, it’s an excellent sign. Especially since she’s willing to look at Forever Yours again.” Bailey paused and inhaled shakily. “I was wondering if I could take you up on that offer for dinner. I realize this is rather sudden and I probably shouldn’t have phoned, but tonight would be best for me since...since I inadvertently gave Max my ground turkey and there’s really nothing else in the fridge, but if you can’t I understand....” The words had tumbled out in a nervous rush; once she’d started, she couldn’t seem to make herself stop.
“Do you want me to pick you up, or would you rather meet somewhere?”
“Ah...” Despite herself, Bailey was astounded. She hadn’t really expected Parker to agree. “The restaurant where you had lunch a couple of weeks ago looked good. Only, please, I insist on paying for my own meal this time.”
“In Chinatown?”
“Yes. Would you meet me there?”
“Sure. Does an hour give you enough time?”
“Oh, yes. An hour’s plenty.” Once again Bailey found herself nearly tongue-tied with surprise—and pleasure.
Their conversation was over so fast that she was left staring at the phone, half wondering if it had really happened at all. She took a couple of deep breaths, then dashed into her bedroom to change, renew her makeup and brush her hair.
Bailey loved Chinese food, especially the spicy Szechuan dishes, but she wasn’t thinking about dinner as the taxi pulled up in front of the restaurant. She’d decided to indulge herself by taking a cab to Chinatown. It did mean she’d have to take the subway home, though.
Parker, who was standing outside the restaurant waiting for her, hurried forward to open the cab door. Bailey was terribly aware of his hand supporting her elbow as he helped her out.
“It’s good of you to meet me like this on such short notice,” she said, smiling up at Parker.
“No problem. Who’s Max?”
“My cat.”
Parker grinned and, clasping her elbow more firmly, led her into the restaurant. The first thing that caught Bailey’s attention was a gigantic, intricately carved chandelier made of dark polished wood. She’d barely had a chance to examine it, however, when they were escorted down a long hallway to a narrow room filled with wooden booths, high-backed and private, each almost a little room of its own.
“Oh, my, this is nice,” she breathed, sliding into their booth. She slipped the bag from her shoulder and withdrew the same pen and notepad she’d brought with her when they’d met for lunch.
The waiter appeared with a lovely ceramic teapot and a pair of tiny matching cups. The menus were tucked under his arm.
Bailey didn’t have nearly as easy a time making her choice as she had at the Sandpiper. Parker suggested they each order whatever they wished and then share. There were so many dishes offered, most of them sounding delectable and exciting, that it took Bailey a good ten minutes to make her selection—spicy shrimp noodles. Parker chose the less adventurous almond chicken stir-fry.
“All right,” Bailey said, pouring them each some tea. “Now let’s get down to business.”
“Sure.” Parker relaxed against the back of the booth, crossing his arms and stretching out his legs. “Ask away,” he said, motioning with his hand when she hesitated.
“Maybe I’d better start by giving you a brief outline of the story.”
“However you’d like to do this.”
“I want you to understand Michael,” she explained. “He’s a businessman, born on the wrong side of the tracks. He’s a little bitter, but he’s learned to forgive those who’ve hurt him through the years. Michael’s in his mid-thirties, and he’s never been married.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing he’s been too busy building his career.”
“As what?”
“He’s in the exporting business.”
“I see.”
“You’re frowning.” Bailey hadn’t asked a single one of her prepared questions yet, and already Parker was looking annoyed.
“It’s just that a man doesn’t generally reach the ripe old age of thirty-five without a relationship or two. If he’s never had any, then there’s a problem.”
“You’re thirty-something and you’re not married,” she felt obliged to point out. “What’s your excuse?”
Parker shrugged. “My college schedule was very heavy, which didn’t leave a lot of time for dating. Later I traveled extensively, which again didn’t offer much opportunity. Oh, there were relationships along the way, but nothing ever worked out. I guess you could say I
haven’t found the right woman. But that doesn’t mean I’m not interested in marrying and settling down some day.”
“Exactly. That’s how Michael feels, except he thinks getting married would only complicate his life. He’s ready to fall in love with Janice, but he doesn’t realize it.”
“I see,” Parker said with a nod, “go on. I shouldn’t have interrupted you.”
“Well, basically, Michael’s life is going smoothly until he meets Janice Hampton. Her father has retired and she’s taking over the operation of his manufacturing firm. A job she’s well qualified for, I might add.”
“What does she manufacture?”
“I was rather vague about that, but I let the reader assume it has something to do with computer parts. I tossed in a word here and there to give that suggestion.”
Parker nodded. “Continue. I’ll try not to butt in again.”
“That’s okay,” she said briskly. “Anyway, Janice’s father is a longtime admirer of Michael’s, and the old coot would like to get his daughter and Michael together. Neither one of them’s aware of it, of course. At least not right away.”
Parker reached for the teapot and refilled their cups. “That sounds good.”
Bailey smiled shyly. “Thanks. One of the first things that happens is Janice’s father maneuvers Michael and Janice under the mistletoe at a Christmas party. Everyone’s expecting them to kiss, but Michael is furious and he—”
“Just a minute.” Parker held up one hand, stopping her. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. This guy is standing under the mistletoe with a beautiful woman and he’s furious. What’s wrong with him?”
“What do you mean?”
“No man in his right mind is going to object to kissing a beautiful woman.”
Bailey picked up her teacup and leaned against the hard back of the wooden booth, considering. Parker was right. And Janice hadn’t been too happy about the situation herself. Was that any more believable? Imagine standing under the mistletoe with a man like Parker Davidson. Guiltily she shook off the thought and returned her attention to his words.
“Unless...” he was saying pensively.