Always a Temp. Jeannie Watt

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      As he’d said, it wasn’t going to happen.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THANKFULLY, JOY WONG wasn’t at her desk when Callie left Nathan’s office, because, thick-skinned as she was, Callie didn’t think she could handle any more rejection today—not even a dismissive smile. Joy had been one of Grace’s friends, although Callie had never known her well, and it had been obvious from her politely distant demeanor at the memorial service that Joy was in the Callie-is-a-rotten-person camp.

      Callie quickly skirted the receptionist’s desk, crossed the foyer and escaped out of the building into the heat. The big glass door closed behind her with a muffled click.

      Safe.

      She couldn’t believe how off base she’d been about Nate.

      The plan had been simple when she’d entered the Wesley Star office. She would apologize to Nate for running scared, explain that she’d been overwhelmed by things she still didn’t fully understand. And then Nate, realizing that she’d been young and confused, and obviously had a reason for not contacting him, would forgive her. After all, twelve years had passed. Time heals all wounds and all of that. But two seconds into the reunion Callie knew she’d better come up with a different plan. The young Nate she’d jilted was nothing like the older Nate sitting behind the editor’s desk. Oh, they looked almost the same—dark-haired, blue-eyed, with glasses—but they weren’t the same guy. So she’d saved face and pretended she was interested in freelancing, which she was, never dreaming that Nate would reject her there, too.

      She felt like crap.

      Heat waves danced on the asphalt as Callie crossed the lot to her car. She didn’t even look at the man loading equipment into a minivan two spaces away from where she was parked. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she wasn’t going to submit herself to more rampant disapproval.

      Callie opened the car door with a little too much force, making the old hinges squeak, and climbed into the two-hundred-degree interior, cranking the windows down as soon as she shut the door. Since she rarely needed a car, unless she happened to be making a trip across the Nevada desert to a place with no airport, she didn’t own one. The Neon belonged to a friend of a friend in Berkeley, who’d had no qualms about lending it to Callie indefinitely in exchange for two hundred dollars—which was approximately twice the value of the cranky little car, as near as she could tell.

      Callie pulled the neck of her shirt away from her damp skin before she reached for the ignition. The no-frills Neon lacked AC, and she was getting a quick refresher course in just how hot Nevada could be in August. Even the high desert, where Wesley was located, had long stretches of days in the hundred-degree-plus range, and wasn’t she lucky that they were having one now?

      As she pulled away from the building, she glanced at Nate’s window. He was sitting there staring at his computer. It killed her how much he looked the same, yet how different he was. Of course, there were small changes that came with maturity. His face had become leaner, making his cheekbones more prominent, his chin more angular. And his body was harder, more muscular. Ironically, he’d been dressed almost exactly the same the last time she’d seen him, on graduation night, right down to the sleeves of his oxford shirt rolled up over his forearms and his shirt tucked into jeans rather than pants. He’d once told her that the only thing that stood between him and complete nerddom was that he refused to give up his Levi’s. She’d never thought of him as a nerd, but rather as the quiet brother sandwiched in between two hell-raisers. Safe, dependable, understanding Nate…Scratch understanding.

      Yeah, Nate had changed.

      A few minutes later she parked her car in front of Grace’s house, which, once the estate was settled, would be hers.

      Callie McCarran. Home owner.

      What a joke. Houses were for people who liked to put down roots, form relationships. Other people signed mortgages and long-term leases. Callie paid rent on a mouse-proof storage unit to store the few things she treasured and could not bring with her on her travels.

      A house would be wasted on her.

      CHIP ELROY POKED HIS shaved head into Nathan’s office. “Hey, was that Callie McCarran I saw leaving the building a while ago?” He had two cameras hanging around his neck and a large black lens bag in one hand.

      “In the flesh,” Nate muttered, looking back down.

      “Wow. I haven’t seen her since high school.” Chip gave a slight cough. “She, uh, filled out nicely, wouldn’t you say?”

      “Yes,” Nathan said in a conversation-stopping tone. “Do you have something you need to discuss?”

      “Nope,” Chip answered, emphasizing the p and taking the hint. “I’m heading out to take photos of the new bridge.” He pushed off from the door frame, his baggy pants dropping an inch as he did. He hiked them back up with his free hand.

      “Are you done with the BLM story?”

      “I will be by tomorrow morning.”

      “See to it.” Nathan shifted back to the piece he was editing. It would be so great if Chip had a clue when to use an apostrophe. At least he took decent photos.

      Two hours and one headache after Callie had left, Joy came into Nathan’s office carrying a cup of green tea. She insisted he drink one cup a day to help combat stress. Nathan actually thrived under pressure and hated green tea, which tasted like boiled lettuce, but he was wise enough not to mess with Joy. The office would implode without her.

      “Thanks,” he said absently as she set the cup on the one clear spot on his desk—the spot he kept clear for this purpose—close to the potted plant. He was beginning to think that there might be something to the purported medicinal properties of green tea, since the dieffenbachia had put on an amazing growth spurt.

      “You should have hired her to freelance,” Joy said. There was no doubt which “her” she meant, since with the exception of Millie, the advertising salesperson, there had been no other woman in the office that day.

      Nathan looked up. “You were listening?”

      “Not on purpose. You didn’t close the door and I was in the supply closet taking inventory. You should have given her some work.”

      “But I didn’t.”

      “It would have reduced the load here.”

      “She’s going to be gone in a few weeks, Joy.”

      “How do you know?” Joy challenged.

      Nathan moved his mouse, bringing his screen back up. “Trust me. I know.”

      “We’ll see,” she replied on her way out the door, which she closed behind her, leaving Nathan free to dispose of his tea and to wonder why she was defending Callie. Since Joy and Grace had been friends, he hadn’t expected that. And he hadn’t made a mistake.

      Vince Michaels, the owner of the Wesley Star and several other rural papers scattered throughout Nevada and western Utah, would not agree. He’d be totally pissed if he discovered that Nathan had refused to hire Callie, since she’d won a few awards and people knew her name.

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