Really Something Read Free

ready.”
    â€œThanks.”
    Duncan ignored the kid, smiling as he moved in closer, watching her inhale and exhale, and feeling a stir of desire that had long been silent. “I know one thing for sure. You’re already regretting choosing this”—he took the chips and Coke from her hands—“over Margie’s homemade meatloaf and me.”
    She took a step closer, so close he caught the light floral scent of her perfume, the soft vanilla of her shampoo, saw the flickers of gold in her raspberry lipstick. “I may have made a bad dietary choice”—she plucked back her soda and chips—“but at least I’ll be with company I know I’ll enjoy.”
    Then she spun on her heel, so close that her shoulder brushed his chest, sending a crazy surge of want through him. She tossed him a smile, her lips inches from his chin, then strode off, heels clicking on the tile. She dropped a couple bills on the counter before thanking the starstruck attendant and hopping back into her car.
    The kid tugged his hat back on his head, watching until the Taurus had disappeared back in the direction of town. “Holy shit. She sure ain’t from Tempest.”
    â€œWhat makes you say that?”
    â€œThey just don’t grow ’em like that out here. I don’t think we’re using the right fertilizer.”
    Duncan agreed. And yet, a tiny part of him had to wonder. Because something about that woman—and her throwing arm—had awakened a powerful sense of déjà vu.
    And a curiosity that he had thought died near this very same road five years ago.

Chapter 3
    Duncan stood in his office at WTMT-TV News, door shut, blinds drawn, still wearing the napkin tucked in his collar to keep the makeup from staining his suit, and picked up his sophisticated, state-of-the-art, all-purpose weather-predicting tool.
    A Magic 8 Ball.
    It had come to this. A fact that didn’t exactly fill him with pride, but Duncan was a desperate man—desperate enough to do anything to keep his job.
    â€œWill it rain tomorrow?” Duncan asked the ball. He closed his eyes, shook the ball for seven seconds—counting the right number of Mississippis in his head—then opened his eyes and looked at the words on the tiny white floating triangle: W ITHOUT A D OUBT .
    â€œDunk?” Two quick raps on his door. “You ready?”
    Duncan yanked open the bottom left drawer of his desk, tossed in the Magic 8 Ball, then shut the drawer again. The plastic sphere rattled inside the empty metal cavern, protesting its mistreatment. “Yeah, come on in, Steve.”
    The station manager opened the door and poked his balding head inside. “You’re on in five.”
    â€œLet me update the forecast and I’ll be right out.” With a few keystrokes, Duncan added, “Chance of Rain 90 Percent,” and sent the file over to the news desk. His intern, Wally, had already created the screen images and even written up a summary of the National Weather Service’s inch-thick stack of daily data. Wally, always eager to please, had been the one person who had saved Duncan’s butt in this job. Duncan took what Wally gave him, added the Magic 8 Ball touch—a predictor that had been right so often it was scary—then stood in front of the camera and regurgitated it all.
    His stomach rumbled, a reminder of the lunch he’d missed and the woman he’d met.
    The gas station attendant had been right. She clearly didn’t come from Tempest. She’d stuck out like a hothouse orchid in a field of thistles.
    And yet, there’d been something about her…something almost familiar, as though they’d met before.
    He shook off the feeling. To forget a woman like that he’d have to be senile and blind.
    Her rejection—swift, cold, and sure—had surprised him. Clearly, he’d grown too comfortable in his name. His place in this town.
    In the old