not she knew it or wanted it.
Chapter
Five
S age neared the Charles Street T station. With most commuters headed in the opposite direction at seven thirty in the morning, she should be waiting in the lobby of Boston Living magazine by eight thirty, when Eric Zellman arrived for work.
She hoped the busy editor didn’t have a meeting and would indulge her latest story pitch. Now she had the “personality” he’d wanted when she’d suggested the takemetonite.com story.
And what a personality it was.
Funny, dry, cocky. A heartthrob’s face, a Greek god’s chest, and a…Oh, God, don’t go down there. The man was built for every wicked pleasure.
Now all she had to do was persuade Zellman to let her do the story…and find Johnny. But she was resourceful; how hard could it be to find him again?
She jogged up the stairs to the train platform, pulling her scarf up against the chilly air. It might have been easier to grab a cab, but there was something comforting about the crowded, rumbling cars that snaked through the city, something about mindlessly staring out the darkened glass as they dipped underground, giving her time to zone out and think about last night.
Her body clutched at the memory of Johnny just seconds from losing it. The last thing she’d expected was to be so insanely excited by a guy who…She didn’t even want to think about where he’d dipped that wick. About how many women had received his de-luxe treatment. And she really didn’t want to think about the fact that she’d just have to settle for imagining what that treatment entailed.
She dug for her Charlie Ticket in the side pocket of her bag, slipping it into the turnstile before entering the platform. Someone bumped her from behind and she sent a look over her shoulder, but didn’t make eye contact.
A train had just left and there weren’t many people around, so she sat on the corner of a bench, near an older woman reading the Boston Herald .
They’d buy her takemetonite.com story, she thought bitterly.
Guaranteeing that her mother would roll over in her grave for loss of journalistic standards. But then, Mom had probably done a few 360s a week ago, when Sage had dropped in on Aunt Lucy.
After thirteen years, Lucy Sharpe was still the most mysterious, fascinating human on earth. Still the aunt who had moved in the shadows, showing up infrequently enough to make it an occasion when Sage was a young girl. The aunt who her father had turned away at her mother’s funeral. The aunt who had refused to help Sage when she needed it.
The aunt responsible for the first suicide victim Sage had ever known.
A man paused next to the bench, close enough to pull Sage from her thoughts. She almost moved nearer to the Herald reader to make room for him, then glanced up and caught the intensity of his blue eyes peering out from under a ubiquitous Red Sox baseball cap. He held the eye contact a second too long, then the beginnings of a smile started. Sage averted her eyes and pulled her iPod earbuds from her sweater pocket, being sure he saw her insert one in each ear to deliver the Leave Me Alone message without ambiguity.
Even though she’d hardly left any room on the bench, he sat and let his shoulder brush hers. Stifling exasperation, Sage pointedly slid to the right, forcing the Herald reader to glare at both of them.
Sage stood and reached into her pocket to give the impression that she was turning up her music, despite the fact that she’d left her iPod at home. When a crowd of commuters poured through the turnstiles and filled the platform, Sage stepped closer to the tracks and peered into the distance, hearing the rumble of the rails as the Red Line hauled in at breakneck speed.
Someone bumped her from behind and she whipped around and met ice-blue eyes.
“Anxious for your train, huh?” he said.
She touched her ears as if to say Can’t hear you, don’t want to.
Surprising her, he reached up and tugged the wire, pulling the
Chapter
Five
S age neared the Charles Street T station. With most commuters headed in the opposite direction at seven thirty in the morning, she should be waiting in the lobby of Boston Living magazine by eight thirty, when Eric Zellman arrived for work.
She hoped the busy editor didn’t have a meeting and would indulge her latest story pitch. Now she had the “personality” he’d wanted when she’d suggested the takemetonite.com story.
And what a personality it was.
Funny, dry, cocky. A heartthrob’s face, a Greek god’s chest, and a…Oh, God, don’t go down there. The man was built for every wicked pleasure.
Now all she had to do was persuade Zellman to let her do the story…and find Johnny. But she was resourceful; how hard could it be to find him again?
She jogged up the stairs to the train platform, pulling her scarf up against the chilly air. It might have been easier to grab a cab, but there was something comforting about the crowded, rumbling cars that snaked through the city, something about mindlessly staring out the darkened glass as they dipped underground, giving her time to zone out and think about last night.
Her body clutched at the memory of Johnny just seconds from losing it. The last thing she’d expected was to be so insanely excited by a guy who…She didn’t even want to think about where he’d dipped that wick. About how many women had received his de-luxe treatment. And she really didn’t want to think about the fact that she’d just have to settle for imagining what that treatment entailed.
She dug for her Charlie Ticket in the side pocket of her bag, slipping it into the turnstile before entering the platform. Someone bumped her from behind and she sent a look over her shoulder, but didn’t make eye contact.
A train had just left and there weren’t many people around, so she sat on the corner of a bench, near an older woman reading the Boston Herald .
They’d buy her takemetonite.com story, she thought bitterly.
Guaranteeing that her mother would roll over in her grave for loss of journalistic standards. But then, Mom had probably done a few 360s a week ago, when Sage had dropped in on Aunt Lucy.
After thirteen years, Lucy Sharpe was still the most mysterious, fascinating human on earth. Still the aunt who had moved in the shadows, showing up infrequently enough to make it an occasion when Sage was a young girl. The aunt who her father had turned away at her mother’s funeral. The aunt who had refused to help Sage when she needed it.
The aunt responsible for the first suicide victim Sage had ever known.
A man paused next to the bench, close enough to pull Sage from her thoughts. She almost moved nearer to the Herald reader to make room for him, then glanced up and caught the intensity of his blue eyes peering out from under a ubiquitous Red Sox baseball cap. He held the eye contact a second too long, then the beginnings of a smile started. Sage averted her eyes and pulled her iPod earbuds from her sweater pocket, being sure he saw her insert one in each ear to deliver the Leave Me Alone message without ambiguity.
Even though she’d hardly left any room on the bench, he sat and let his shoulder brush hers. Stifling exasperation, Sage pointedly slid to the right, forcing the Herald reader to glare at both of them.
Sage stood and reached into her pocket to give the impression that she was turning up her music, despite the fact that she’d left her iPod at home. When a crowd of commuters poured through the turnstiles and filled the platform, Sage stepped closer to the tracks and peered into the distance, hearing the rumble of the rails as the Red Line hauled in at breakneck speed.
Someone bumped her from behind and she whipped around and met ice-blue eyes.
“Anxious for your train, huh?” he said.
She touched her ears as if to say Can’t hear you, don’t want to.
Surprising her, he reached up and tugged the wire, pulling the
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