Whatever you do, don't throw up.
Poppy Birmingham pressed a hand to her stomach. The truth
was, if her breakfast was destined to make a reappearance,
that hand was hardly going to make a difference. She let her
arm drop. She took a deep breath, then another.
A couple of people frowned at her as they pushed through the
double doors leading into the Melbourne Herald's
busy newsroom. She was acutely aware that they probably
recognized her and were, no doubt, wondering what one of
Australia's favorite sporting daughters was doing hovering
outside a newspaper office, looking as though she was going
to either wet her pants or hurl.
Time to go, Birmingham, the coach in her head said.
You signed up for this. Too late to back out now.
She squared her shoulders and sucked in one last, deep
breath. Then she pushed through the double doors.
Immediately she was surrounded by noise and low-level
excitement. Phones rang, people tapped away at keyboards or
talked into phones or across partitions. Printers whirred
and photocopiers flashed. In the background, huge windows
showcased the city of Melbourne, shiny and new in the
morning sunshine after being washed clean by rain overnight.
A few heads raised as she walked the main aisle, following
the directions she'd been given for the sports department.
She tried to look as though she belonged, as though she'd
been mixing it up with journalists all her life. As though
the new pants suit she was wearing didn't feel alien when
she was used to Lycra, and the smell of stale air and coffee
and hot plastic wasn't strange after years of chlorine and
sweat.
The rows of desks seemed to stretch on and on but finally
she spotted Leonard Jenkins's bald head bent over a keyboard
in a coveted corner office. As editor of the sports section
on Melbourne's highest circulating daily newspaper, Leonard
was the guy who assigned stories and had final say on edits
and headlines. He was also the man who'd approached her six
weeks ago and offered her a job as a columnist.
At the time she'd been thrown by the offer. Since she'd been
forced into retirement by a shoulder injury four months ago
she'd been approached to coach other swimmers, to work with
women's groups, to sponsor a charity. A chain of gyms wanted
her to be their spokesperson, someone else wanted her to
endorse their breakfast cereal. Only Leonard's offer opened
the door to new possibilities. For years she'd known nothing
but the black line of the swimming pool and the burn of her
muscles and her lungs. This was a new beginning.
Hence the urge to toss her cookies. She hadn't felt this
nervous since the last time world championships were in
Sydney—when she had thrown up spectacularly before
her first heat.
She stopped in front of Leonard's office and was about to
rap on the open door when he lifted his head. In his late
fifties, he was paunchy with heavy bags under his eyes and
fingers stained yellow from nicotine.
"Ah, Poppy. You found us okay. Great to see you," he said
with a smile.
"It's good to be here."
"Why don't I introduce you to the team first up and show you
your desk and all that crap," Leonard said. "We've got a
department meeting in an hour, so you'll have time to get
settled."
"Sounds good," she said, even though her palms were suddenly
sweaty. She was hopeless with names. No matter what she did,
no matter how hard she tried to concentrate on linking names
to faces, they seemed to slip through her mental fingers
like soap in the shower.
She wiped her right hand furtively down her trouser leg as
Leonard led her to the row of desks immediately outside his
office.
"Righteo. This is Johnno, Davo and Hilary," he said.
"Racing, golf and basketball."
Which she took to mean were their respective areas of
expertise. Johnno was old and pock-faced, Davo was
mid-thirties and very tanned, and Hilary was red-haired and
in her early thirties, Poppy's age. They all murmured
greetings and shook her hand, but she could tell they were
keen to get back to their work.
"This mob around here," Leonard said, leading her around the
partition, "keep an eye on motor sport. Meet our resident
gear heads, Macca and Jonesy."
"All right. Our very own golden girl," Jonesy said. He was
in his late twenties and already developing a paunch.
"Bet you get that all the time, huh?" Macca asked. He smiled
a little shyly and ran a hand over his thinning blond hair.
"Price of winning gold."
"There are worse things to be called," she said with a smile.
Leonard's hand landed in the middle of her back to steer her
toward the far corner.
"And last, but not least, our very own Jack Kerouac," he said.
Poppy's palms got sweaty all over again as she saw who he
was leading her toward.
Jake Stevens.
Oh, boy.
Her breath got stuck somewhere between her lungs and her
mouth as she stared at the back of his dark head.
She didn't need Leonard to tell her that Jake Stevens wrote
about football, as well as covering every major sporting
event in the world. She'd read his column for years. She'd
watched him interview her colleagues but had somehow never
crossed paths with him herself. She knew he'd won almost
every Australian journalism award at least once. And she'd
read his debut novel so many times the spine had cracked on
her first copy and she was now onto her second.
He was wonderful—the kind of writer who made it look
effortless. The kind of journalist other journalists aspired
to be.
Including her, now that she'd joined their ranks.
"Heads up, Jake," Leonard said as they stopped beside the
other man's desk.
Not Jakey or some other diminutive, Poppy noted. His desk
was bigger, too, taking up twice as much space as those of
the other journalists.
Jake Stevens kept them waiting while he finished typing the
sentence he was working on. Not long enough to be rude, but
enough to make her feel even more self-conscious as she
hovered beside Leonard. Finally he swiveled his chair to
face them.
"Right. Our new celebrity columnist," he said,
stressing the last two words. He looked at her with lazy,
deep blue eyes and offered her his hand. "Welcome on board."
She slid her hand into his. She'd only ever seen photographs
of him before; he was much better looking in real life. The
realization only increased her nervousness.
"It's great to meet you, Mr. Stevens," she said. "I'm a big
admirer of your work—I've read your book so many times I can
practically recite it."
Jake's dark eyebrows rose. "Mr. Stevens? Wow, you
must really admire me."
The back of her neck prickled with embarrassment. She hadn't
meant to sound so stiff and formal. Her embarrassment only
increased when his gaze dropped to take in her businesslike
brown suit and sensibly heeled shoes, finally stopping on
her leather satchel. She felt like a schoolgirl having her
uniform inspected. She had a sudden sense that he knew
exactly how uncomfortable she was in her new clothes and her
new shoes and how out of place she felt in her new environment.
"I suppose you must have interviewed Poppy at some time, eh,
Jake?" Leonard asked.
"No. Never had the pleasure," Jake said.
He didn't sound very disappointed.
Leonard settled his shoulder against the wall. "Big weekend.
Great game between Port and the Swans."
"Yeah. Almost makes you look forward to the finals, doesn't
it?" Jake said.
The two men forgot about her for a moment as they talked
football. Poppy took the opportunity to study the man who'd
written one of her favorite novels.
Every time she read The Coolabah Tree she looked at
the photograph inside the back cover and wondered about the
man behind the cool, slightly cocky smile. He'd been younger
when the photo had been taken—twenty-eight or so—but his
strong, straight nose, intensely blue eyes and dark hair
were essentially unchanged. The seven years that had passed
were evident only in the fine lines around his mouth and eyes.
The photo had been a head shot yet for some reason she'd
always imagined he was a big, husky man. He wasn't. Tall,
yes, with broad shoulders, but his body was lean and rangy—
more a long-distance runner's physique than a footballer's.
He was wearing jeans and a wrinkled white shirt, and she
found herself staring at his thighs, the long, lean muscles
outlined by faded denim.
There was a pause in the conversation and she lifted her
gaze to find Jake watching her, a sardonic light in his
eyes. For the second time that morning she felt embarrassed
heat rush into her face.
"Well, Poppy, that's pretty much everyone," Leonard said,
pushing off from the wall. "A few odds and bods on
assignment, but you'll meet them later. Your desk is over here."
He headed off. She glanced at Jake one last time before
following, ready to say something polite and friendly in
parting, but he'd already returned to his work.
Well, okay.
She was frowning as Leonard showed her the desk she'd
occupy, wedged into a corner between a potted plant and a
pillar. It was obviously a make-do location, slightly
separate from the rest of the sports team. Pretty
basic—white laminate desk, multiline phone, a computer and a
bulletin board fixed to the partition in front of her.
"Have a bit of a look-around in the computer, familiarize
yourself with everything," Leonard said, checking his watch.
"I'll get Mary, our admin assistant, to fill you in on how
to file stories and all that hoopla later. Department
meeting's in forty minutes—in the big room near the
elevators. Any questions?"
Yes. Is it just my imagination, or is Jake Stevens an
arrogant smart-ass?
"No, it all looks good," she said.
It was a relief to be left to her own devices for a few
minutes. All those new faces and names, the new environment,
the—
Who was she kidding? She was relieved to have a chance to
pull herself together because Jake Stevens had rattled her
with his mocking eyes and his sarcasm. He'd been one of the
reasons she took the job in the first place—the chance to
work with him, to learn from the best. Out of all her
cowork-ers, he'd been the least friendly. In fact, he'd been
a jerk.
Disappointing.
But not the end of the world. So what if he wasn't the
intelligent, funny, insightful man she imagined when she
read his book and his articles? She'd probably hardly ever
see him. And it wasn't as though she could take his behavior
personally. He barely knew her, after all. He was probably a
jerk with everyone.
Except he wasn't.
Two hours and one department meeting later, Poppy was forced
to face the fact that the charming, witty man she'd imagined
Jake to be did exist—for everyone except her.
The first half of the meeting had been a work-in-progress
update. Everyone had multiple stories to file after the
weekend so there was a lot of discussion and banter amongst
her new colleagues. She didn't say anything since she had
nothing to contribute, just took notes and listened. Jake
was a different person as he mixed it up with the other
writers. He laughed, he teased, he good-naturedly accepted
ribbing when it came his way. He offered great ideas for
other people's stories, made astute comments about what
their competitors would be covering. He was like the coolest
kid in school—everyone wanted him to notice them, and
everyone wanted to sit next to him at the back of the bus.
The second half of the meeting consisted of brainstorming
future stories and features. With the Pan-Pacific Swimming
Championship trials coming up, there was a lot of discussion
around who would qualify. Naturally, everyone turned to her
for her opinion—everyone except Jake, that is.
He didn't so much as glance at her as she discussed the form
of the current crop of Australian swimmers, many of whom had
been her teammates and competitors until recently.
"Hey, this is like having our own secret weapon," Macca
said. "I love that stuff about what happens in the change
rooms before a race."
"Yeah. We should definitely do something on that when the
finals are closer. Sort of a diary-of-a-swimmer kind of
thing," Leonard said. "Really get inside their heads."
"There's plenty of stuff we could cover. Superstitions,
lucky charms, that kind of thing," she said.
"Yeah, yeah, great," Leonard said.
Her confidence grew. Maybe this wasn't going to be as
daunting as she'd first thought. Sure, she was a fish out of
water—literally—but everyone seemed nice and she understood
sport and the sporting world and the commitment top athletes
had to have to get anywhere. She had something to contribute.
Then she glanced at Jake and saw he was sitting back in his
chair, doodling on his pad, clearly bored out of his mind. A
small smile curved his mouth, as though he was enjoying a
private joke.
It was the same whenever she spoke during the meeting— the
same smile, the same doodling as though nothing she had to
say could possibly be of any interest.
By the time she returned to her desk, she knew she hadn't
imagined his attitude during their introduction. Jake
Stevens did not like her. For the life of her, she couldn't
understand why. They'd never met before. How could he
possibly not like her when he didn't even know her?
She'd barely settled in her chair when her cell phone
beeped. She checked it and saw Uncle Charlie had sent her a
message:
Good luck. Come out strong and you'll win the race.
She smiled, touched that he'd remembered this was her first
day. Of course, Uncle Charlie always remembered the
important things.
She composed a return message. She'd bought him a cell phone
a year ago so they could stay in touch when she was
competing internationally, but he'd never been one hundred
percent comfortable with the technology. She could imagine
how long it had taken him to key in his short message.
The sound of masculine laughter made her lift her head. Jake
was talking with Jonesy at the other man's desk, a cup of
coffee in hand. She watched as Jake dropped his head back
and laughed loudly.
She returned her attention to the phone, but she could still
see him out of the corner of her eye. He said something to
Jonesy, slapped the other man on the shoulder, then headed
to his own desk. Which meant he was about to walk past hers.
She kept her focus on her phone but was acutely conscious of
his approach. When he stopped beside her, her belly
tightened. Slowly she lifted her head.
He studied her desk, taking in the heavy reference books
she'd brought in with her: a thesaurus, a book on grammar
and the Macquarie Dictionary in two neat, chunky volumes.
After a short silence, he met her eyes.