“You’re looking awfully happy.”
“Why wouldn’t I be happy? I stole one of the most talented reporters I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with from one of the best papers in the country, I’m having a damned fine cheeseburger for lunch, and the paper is finally turning an actual profit.”
“A good thing, too, as I’d like to actually get paid.”
No sooner had Myles shoved the phone back into his pocket, than it beeped again, this time with an incoming text. He fished it out and read the message from his general Jill-of-All-Trades, Patty Hamilton, who he’d inherited when he bought The Wishful Observer.
Patty: Your investor’s attorney is here.
Myles frowned.
“Something wrong?” Simone asked.
“Not sure.” He texted Patty back. Did we have a meeting scheduled?
Patty: No. He won’t say what it’s about.
He? Not the usual woman?
Patty: No. Never seen this one. According to his card, he’s one of the partners from her firm in Atlanta.
That was…odd and more than a little disconcerting. What could he want?
Be there as soon as I finish up lunch.
Looked like he wouldn’t get the chance to swing by the clinic to see Piper after all.
Because he didn’t want to wait, he thumbed a quick text to Piper. Time’s up, Buttercup. When can I see you?
Like some lovestruck teenager, he stared at the phone, hoping to see the little gray bubble with dancing ellipses that would indicate an immediate reply. But there was nothing. And hell, the clinic could be under a rush with God knew what. They were smack dab in the middle of prime time sinus infection season. She wasn’t about to be texting when she was supposed to be taking blood pressure or temperatures or giving somebody a shot.
Calling himself an idiot, he put the phone away and finished inhaling his lunch. Simone got the rest of hers to go—which came complete with Omar’s number scrawled on the styrofoam box—and they hot-footed it across the town green and down then street to the humble offices of The Wishful Observer.
Myles didn’t let himself get uptight or worried. His investor probably just wanted another progress report or additional explanation of some of the expansions Myles wanted to make. The hot-shot lawyer out of Atlanta was probably just stopping by because he was on his way to somewhere else.
Right, because Wishful is so on the beaten path?
By the time he stepped through the doors, Myles was willing to concede he felt a little bit nervous about the drop-in meeting. Those infantile nerves turned into awkward tweenagers at the sight of Patty’s face.
“What?” he asked her.
“He’s in the conference room. Just sitting there like an extra in a Terminator movie.”
“Are we talking T-800 here or T-1000?”
“Tough call. I wasn’t brave enough to try to kosh him over the head to see if he liquefied to fix himself.”
Simone looked impressed. “You know Terminator?”
“Please. I have three sons. I don’t know what he wants, Myles, but be careful in there.”
Wanting to reassure her, he squeezed Patty’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine.”
Stepping into the small conference room, Myles thought perhaps this guy should’ve auditioned as an extra for The Matrix. He looked like a better dressed Agent Smith, and Myles half expected to see an earwig partially covered by the perfectly cut brown hair.
“Mr. Stewart.” When the words didn’t come out with the same measured tone as Mr. Anderson, Myles was almost disappointed. This guy had a cultured, country club Southern drawl—the kind of accent Myles could imagine him practicing in front of a bathroom mirror, while quoting Atticus Finch.
“That would be me. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir.”